Page 29 of Love on the Tracks
“Oh.” Yes, oh. Or more like oh my god, Zane Rivera’s going to teach me how to play guitar. Even cooler, unless he’s got a spare lying around for when fangirls beg him for this kind of favor, I get to touch the one he’s using to compose his solo songs. Holy shitballs.Be cool. Be cool.
Apparently, my cool face needs some work because Zane is smirking at me, that mouth pulling up on one side and his dimples showing through his scruff. “Do you need to go in the other room to fangirl freak or something? You can have a minute if you need it.”
My face becomes so hot, I’m glad I’m not on my sled because I would no doubt soften the ice and slow my run. Not since the first time I hardcore wiped out on the luge track in front of one of my heroes have I been so embarrassed. “Nooo, I was going to text Kate so I could squee privately. In silence. Can I do that?”
He laughs, and some of my mortification dissolves. “Sure. I’ll grab my guitar, be right back. Squee away.”
It would be nice if I could hate Zane, or not like him so goddamn much, because this is just a game we’re playing and he’s a nice enough guy to humor me, but I do. Really like him. I text Kate to tell her I’ll be back later because Zane’s giving me a guitar lesson, to which of course she replies,Is that some kind of euphemism?With about a dozen winky faces. If Kate never meets Zane, it will be too soon.
Then he’s there, holding his guitar like it’s an extension of his body. They go together, and it makes me relax. If this beat-up and unpretentious thing is the guitar Zane loves, then maybe there’s hope he actually could like me as more than a fake girlfriend and fuck buddy yet.
“Ready for your lesson?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Zane
An hour later, we’re sitting on the couch and it’s abundantly clear Rowan shouldn’t quit her day job.
“No. Your middle finger needs to go here.”
Rowan scowls while I adjust her hand. “I have a different idea of what I could do with my middle finger.”
I drop my mouth wide open in a face of overblown disbelief. “Rowan Andrews, I would’ve never thought America’s favorite SIG athlete would be so crass.”
“Bite me.”
After I finish laughing, I have an idea. Not at all motivated by my sudden flood of desire to get my hands and my mouth on her. Nope, not one bit.
“Okay. Clearly this isn’t working. Let’s try something else.”
I pull the pillows out from behind her on the couch, and wedge myself between her body and the hard back. It’s not the most comfortable, but having Rowan’s spine pressed against my chest, with the smell of her hair drifting into my nose—and yeah, her phenomenal ass backed up into my crotch—is worth it.
I slip my arms under hers, and hold the guitar. It’s awkward, but I think this will work. If it doesn’t, it’ll be fun to try. “Put your hands over mine.”
She does as I’ve directed, and I like the feel of her callused hands resting on the backs of mine. Even wearing those spiky gloves, she’s still got the evidence of all her hard work rising from her skin, much as I do mine.
I find C, and strum a few times, Rowan’s fingers moving like a second skin or maybe a strange puppet. “I’m sure it’s probably the same for athletes, but when you’re learning to play an instrument, muscle memory is helpful.”
Switching to a different chord, I keep strumming and hook my chin over her shoulder to talk in her ear. Low and quiet, because I want to give her a thrill. Girl deserves that. Even if her runs don’t go well and she doesn’t place, I want her to remember these two weeks at the SIGs forever.
“If you practice enough, your body will remember how the note feels. Not how it sounds, and not the painful placing of every finger on the correct string, and the right fret. You’ll just feel it.”
With her back against me, I can feel Rowan’s breathing, and it gives me a kick that it’s sped up, gotten shallower. Yes, I think she’s enjoying herself.
“Does it work that way for you sometimes? On your sled?”
I switch chords again, her fingers following, and she takes a deeper breath. “Yeah. On tracks I know really well—like the one at home—I could probably do runs there with my eyes closed. That would be stupid, but I bet I could do it. After going down so many times, I know all the turns, know the angles of the banks, exactly how long I’m in the straightaways, how I have to shift my body to take advantage.”
“Exactly.” On the next switch of the chord, I tilt my head and kiss her under her ear. There’s the possibility I’ll get an elbow to my ribs for distracting her—because if there’s one thing Rowan is, it’s focused—but that’s not what happens. Oh no. She rests her head on my shoulder, giving me more access to that graceful column of smooth skin.
If I were smart, I’d take a selfie of us to post on social media, because this is the kind of thing that would set the world on fire. Somehow that feels wrong to me, though. I want this to be a moment Rowan can have to herself. Not for the cameras, not for the press, and not for her sponsors.
I switch from basic chords to playing one of LtG’s hits, and I feel her laugh before I can hear her. It vibrates through my whole body, and it’s transmitted through the fine muscles of her neck and into my mouth, my tongue. Being like this with her . . . I’m getting hard.
She probably wouldn’t argue if I asked to have her right now. But I want to make her Jell-O, have this crazy strong woman turned into a boneless puddle by my voice in her ear, her fingers on mine. Yes, it’s fun she’s a fan, but it’s more than that. How much more and in what way, I haven’t quite nailed down.
So I sing to her, and play, and at some point, her hands fall away from mine. I could scold her for not finishing her lesson, but I don’t care. Not with her resting against me like this, and especially not when she strokes the outsides of my thighs. If I was half-hard before, I’m rock hard now.
