Revenge(2)
I think he’s singing a song, but it sounds like a question.
I’m confused. I look down at my shoes, which are blue. Just a coincidence?
When I look up again, he’s grinning at me, looking as sly as a fox in the henhouse. His dark brown eyes captivate me. I shiver as his intensity shocks through me like a lightning strike.
The LA sun is high overhead, but I feel like I’ve stumbled into a thunderstorm. Electricity in the air gives me goosebumps.
He repeats the line, with different wording. “Pretty brunette girl, where did you buy those blue shoes?”
Someone nudges my elbow, and I jump, startled. It’s just an older couple who look like tourists in their matching green hoodies. They’ve also stopped to hear the musician play.
The gray-haired woman nudges me again.
“He’s asking you a question,” she says.
The hot guy keeps playing the melody. He shifts up a key and sings, “Blue shoes for your blue heart.”
His voice is gritty, yet gentle.
He sings, “Blue shoes to keep you cold at night.”
I cross my arms. I don’t like what he’s implying.
“My heart isn’t blue,” I say.
“Are you sure? Have you seen it?”
“And you’re not supposed to ask a girl where she buys her clothes. What if these shoes came from a thrift store?”
He misses a beat in the music, laughing at me.
More people gather around to listen. I can feel my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
The singer tips his head to the side, revealing a clean-shaven neck below a line of facial hair stubble. His neck tendons are beautiful, just like everything about him.
“Thrift store girl,” he sings, then hums a few bars without words.
I think he’s composing a song on the spot. The gathering crowd nods and smiles, enjoying the show.
He pauses, then starts over again. “Thrift store girl. I know about your blue shoes. You say you never do this, but we both know you do.”
My cheeks are blushing. His eyes are so flirty.
He sings, “Good guys don’t care about the means or the ends. Good guys don’t care how you get your revenge.”
I swallow hard and look down at my shoes. He’s still looking at me. The people crowding around us are, too. Someone points to my shoes.
Yes, they’re definitely blue. These blue shoes of mine.
His voice is really gritty and sexy. It’s a natural grit. He’s got talent, that’s for sure.
He hums through the next part of the song, dropping in the occasional phrase.
I only dare look up as high as his shoulders, avoiding his eyes.
Those forearms. Tendons flexing as he plays.
I’m blushing again. I’m blushing because I’m imagining his hands away from the guitar and on me. Just me.
He could sweep one arm around me and caress the small of my back with that beautiful, confident hand of his. His other hand could move up to my face, one long finger running along my jaw, tilting my head up by the chin. I would have to close my eyes, or risk fainting, and he’d bend down and bring his lips close to mine, and…
I cross my arms tighter across my front. I should get back to my plans for the day. My feet won’t move, and now I’m blocked in by the crowd. Is it normal for so many people to gather around a street busker, or is this guy someone famous?
Curious, I force myself to look up at his face. My eyes stop on his mouth, and the rest of the world disappears in a fog.
His lips are perfection, not too full or thin. He’s still singing about bad girls in blue shoes, but the words are jumbling with my thoughts about his arms around me.
My chest begins to ache with longing.
I try not to want things I can’t have, but I can’t make this feeling go away. When you tell yourself to stop wanting something, you just want it twice as bad.
I blame the music. A song can dig its way into your soul like no other thing. A few lines with the right notes, and your heart can soar, or shatter. Music can make you feel brave, or broken, or both at the same time.
This is why I’m here, in LA.
My love of music.
Music is the only form of magic in this world, except maybe for love. Not that I’d know much about love.
Now I’m standing on a sidewalk, staring at a stranger’s lips, feeling brave and broken at once. This must be what love feels like.
I uncross my arms and push my hands into my pockets. My fingertips connect with my wallet. I’m keeping it there in my pocket instead of in a purse, because I don’t know how safe this area is. Also, being a tomboy, I don’t exactly own a single purse.
He finishes the song, and the crowd that has gathered claps and cheers for another one.
He starts up again with a more upbeat tempo.
People push past me to get closer. They toss money into his open guitar case. In less than thirty seconds, he has more than twenty dollars piled up on the dark crushed velvet.