Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb
Chapter Four
Finn
It’s still raining when he wakes up the next morning, as though the world is telling him to stay inside and practice. He checks out the front window and though he can’t remember what her vehicle looked like, there’s only his van parked out front. Either the woman upstairs has given up and left, or she’s out exploring one of the little towns at the foot of the mountain. Both options suit him fine.
He brews his coffee and pours a cup, topping it off with a splash of cream, and a teaspoon of sugar, (because life is short and he loves himself) while he looks over the sheet music he wrote last night. He barely slept, working long after he stopped drumming, figuring out the riffs on his old electric guitar, headphones in, obviously, so he didn’t disturb her. He isn’t a complete asshole.
“Looking good,” he whispers, smiling as the coffee touches his lips.
It’s already 7 a.m. If she’s gone for the day, he’d better get in as much practice as possible. Gleefully, he takes the silencing pads off the drums, frisbees them onto the couch and sets the cymbal mutes on the table behind him.
“Time to make some noise,” he grins, slipping the rubber tips off the end of his sticks.
Beth
A flurry of confusion which quickly boils over into rage propels her from bed. She’s barely even awake by the time she’s leaping down the stairs. Beast-mode activated. It’s time to kick some drummer-boy ass.
The rain is coming down in sheets, and a shallow river gushes down the side of the mountain, covering the gravel driveway. She doesn’t give a shit about the rain. Her fists ache as she thumps the door. “Are you fucking serious?”
He can’t hear her. Of course he can’t. If the mountain suddenly erupted, the noise coming from his floor would drown out the blast. She presses her face against the window, and a smidgen of her anger shifts into lust.
Power. That’s what it is. His muscular arms are shining, sweating and taught. His eyes are clamped shut, his brow furrowed, and lips parted as he lifts his head, back arching a little, his big body shaking with the rhythm. It must be what he looks like when he—
No. Stop. Don’t think that. He’s an ass.
But ugh. Fuck, I wish I was that drum kit.
She shakes away the ridiculous thoughts and bangs on the window, cringing a little at her own lack of self-control. It’s a wonder her fist doesn’t go straight through the glass.
He looks up with a start and damn near drops his sticks. “Oh fuck,” he mouths.
“Yeah, oh fuck. You bet your fucking ass oh fuck.”
The door rattles, and in an instant Finn’s body fills the frame, chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. “I thought you’d gone out.”
“I was asleep!” The threat of tears sting her eyes. The rain is soaking her through, and her hair clings to her face.
The scent of salt and pine, and heat of his body, wafts against her as he cranes his neck out the door, scanning the driveway. “Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh.” He pauses, and a smug little smile crosses his lips. "So where did you park your broomstick?”
Despite herself, she laughs. “Just around the corner, propped up beside the bridge I assume you usually live beneath.”
“Ouch.” His eyes trail from her shoulder to her eyes, leaving a scorching trail. He holds her gaze for a moment, before he chuckles and glances back down at the torrent of water gushing past the cabin. “That’s a lot of rain.”
“I don’t care about the rain. I just want to sleep and work in peace.”
His eyes pass over her as she folds her arms over her chest, suddenly all too aware that she came down in her white cotton pajamas, no bra, no shoes. Shit, he can probably see everything.
Finn
It’s hopeless. He can see everything, and his pants are growing uncomfortably tight. Her nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric of her pajamas. White pajamas, and little shorts, becoming more and more transparent by the second.
Don’t look. Do not look.
“Listen,” he says, staring above her head at the peaks of the mountains in the distance. “I have to work. If I don’t get these songs written—”
“I have to work too.”
They’re arguing in circles and it’s doing neither of them any good. If either of them are going to get anything meaningful done, they need to compromise, perhaps alternate between a noisy hour for him, and a quiet hour for her. It seems as fair as anything.
He’s about to suggest it when she pulls her phone out of the pocket in her shorts. Her brow furrows as she swipes away a notification. “What’s Vixen’s Wail.”
“My band…” He’s taken aback. Is she…did she look him up? “How did—”
She turns on her heel and heads back toward the stairs, her round ass looking thoroughly biteable in her little frilly shorts.
“Please just shut the fuck up,” she calls down as she climbs.
Confused, and uncomfortably turned on, he retreats inside, listening to her stomp on the floorboards above.