Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb
Chapter Seven
Finn
To say he feels guilty is an understatement. In a little over twenty-four hours, he’s kept her awake late, woken her early, jerked off thinking about her, pissed her off more times than he can count, and now he’s invading her space. It’s not even 9 a.m.
Her floor is bigger than his—taller, anyway, with a steep, pointed ceiling. He still feels massive and lumbering surrounded by all her things. Art supplies are expensive and he’s terrified of knocking over a pot of paint which is probably worth more than all his instruments combined.
She hasn’t even brought up the fact he returned pretty much empty handed the last time he went down to salvage his stuff. No clothes. They’re all soaked through, including the ones he’s wearing. In desperation, he’d grabbed his whisky and left everything else to fate.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks, unable to hide the annoyance in her voice.
He doesn’t blame her. A few moments ago, he was trying to burst her eardrums, and now she’s having to play hostess.
“Sure, we’re on vacation, after all.” He laughs bitterly and offers the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “Feel free… if you want some.”
“I’m good.” She takes the bottle and heads over to the kitchen, reaching up to take a glass from the cupboard. She selects one of the rounded brandy glasses, but he bites his tongue. “Ice?”
“Yeah, please. If you have any.”
She checks the freezer and throws in two cubes and then pours a generous measure of whisky over them. Maybe a little too generous.
As he reaches out to take the drink from her, his fingertip grazes against hers. It’s a fleeting touch, but almost enough to make him fumble the glass. Something tightens at the pit of his stomach, and his next breath escapes him broken. “Thanks.”
She withdraws her hand as though his fingers are barbed and puts both her hands behind her back. “What do we do?”
“Wait for the water to subside and then see if the road’s clear, I guess.”
“How long will that take?”
“Maybe tomorrow? Hopefully no longer. If we’re lucky.”
She cocks her head to the side and looks at him, with an accusatory scowl. “You’re so calm.”
He’s not. He doesn’t feel calm, but he won’t tell her that. “We’ll be okay,” he says, and hopes it isn’t a lie.
Her eyes rake over him, on his wet clothing which clings tight to his burly frame. “Don’t you want to get changed?”
“Ah.” He shifts uncomfortably. There’s no easy way around this. “All my clothes got wet. I was so caught up saving the drums and stuff.”
She raises her eyebrows briefly. “Priorities.”
“Yeah.” He laughs a little. “I mean, the drums alone cost, like… seven thousand, even without all the modifications and customizations, not to mention the extra…” He stops. She doesn’t care.
“Seven thousand!” Her eyes widen. “You know you can get drums for like fifty bucks online, right?”
He can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, but you may as well be smacking a margarine tub with a pencil in that case.”
“Even cheaper.” She holds out her hands, as though giving him the idea to keep. Her eyebrows crease a little. “You make all that money from playing music?”
“Oh.” Red heat flashes across his cheeks. “No. I wish. I teach music classes too. Like a tutor… kind of. Well, no not kind of. I am a tutor.”
“Cool.”
“So, if you ever want to take lessons, I’m your man.” He cringes at his weak sales pitch. Is he…flirting? Not by normal human standards, obviously, but he’s not usually this dorky. For a moment he wishes more than anything the flood water had washed him off the mountain.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she smiles. “But the clothes thing is an issue. I don’t think I have anything that would fit you.”
Of course she doesn’t. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it, at the sweetness of her suggestion. “Shame. I’d look cute in those pajama shorts.”
She presses her lips together as she turns a shade darker. “Yeah, probably.”
The air grows heavy between them as she stands there, backed against the kitchen counter, her knuckles bone white as she grips the edge of the sink. At last she turns, grabs a glass from the cupboard, and pours herself a double shot of whisky, grimacing as she takes the first sip. The betrayal in her eyes as she glares at the golden liquid is the look of someone who’s soul just died a little.
“Look,” she says, setting her glass back on the counter. She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, sending flutters through his stomach. “I’m sorry, about before…”
Beth
Finn’s bicepsflex as he scrapes his fingers back through his hair, pushing it off his face. He pauses for a moment with his hands resting on the back of his head. “Yeah, me too. We were both kind of jerks. I’m sorry.”
She almost pounces on him there and then. The sweetest smile pulls at his lips, different from the smug little smirk he was flashing at her before. That was the musician, the showman. This is Finn.
“Your drums actually do sound good. I was just…”
“They’re loud,” he shrugs. “I get it.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got good rhythm.” Is that even the right thing to say? Her heart thrums, louder than any drum. The corner of his mouth picks up again a little. She’ll take it. “There are towels in the bathroom if you want to get out of your wet clothes. I could hang them somewhere and hopefully they’ll be dry enough to sleep in by tonight. If you need to you can sleep here…you know, on the couch.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He nods his head once before heading into the bathroom as though he’s lived there all his life.
Beth downs the whisky, coughing as the fiery liquid scorches the back of her throat. She takes one of the old sheets she uses to cover the floor while painting, and spreads it out. Carefully, she transfers instruments onto the sheet, giving them a wipe off with a dry dish towel and hoping—even though only minutes ago she was contemplating launching them down the mountainside—they’re salvageable.
“Seven thousand dollars,” she whispers, in disbelief.
She handles them cautiously, as though they might shatter in her hands. Sure, he was hurtling up the stairs with them through a torrential downpour, but it would be just her luck to cause irreparable damage to them now.
She’s so engrossed in the task, she doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right in front of her, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, which sits low at his hips. His top half is completely bare, and the sight of him sends heat flooding though her body. Those tattoos on his arms snake from wrist to shoulder, like black ink sleeves. He clutches his soggy clothes in a bundle in his hands.
His chest and soft, rounded stomach are dusted with dark, fuzzy hair. There’s just so much of him. She decides then and there that if he ever hugged her, she would never be able to let go.
“Everything okay?” He asks, seemingly completely at ease being around her in nothing but a towel.
“Yeah… I thought it would be better with something to absorb the water.”
“You’re probably right.” He balances the clothes in one hand and lazily scratches at his chest with the other, pulling her eyes back toward him. “Shit, I hope they’re okay.”
“Me too.”
He laughs, “Liar.”
As she stands, her legs are trembling. She tries very hard not to look at him, and fails pretty much instantly. But he isn’t looking at her.
He’s staring at the easel, at the rough sketch of him she has copied onto canvas and begun to paint while he was drumming loud enough to wake the dead.
A wide smile spreads across his face. “Is that me?”
“Oh...” Shit. The horns. The tusks. The vivid splashes of color bursting from his drums as he hits them; midnight blue, blood red, abyssal black. Cold fear washes over her. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d ever see it.”
“It’s fucking badass, Beth.” Her heart skips as he strides over to it, the grin never leaving his face as he takes a closer look. “Holy crap, this is awesome.”
She’s burning up. His praise, along with the sight of his broad back, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he stoops to look at her work, is enough to sway her from cautious perving to downright thirst. “Thanks.”
“I’m serious. Can I buy it?”
Buy? She could really use the money, but… “No. You can have it. As an apology for me being so moody.”
He shakes his head, rummages through the bundle in his arms, until he finds his wallet. He opens the brown leather bifold, pulls out a wad of notes, and starts flicking through them. “How much do you normally charge for commissions?”
“I… no, no it’s free. It’s an apology.”
“And this is my apology for playing so loud and invading your space.”
“I still need to finish it.”
“Alright.” He turns to her and smiles. “Tonight?”
“I was going to, but,” she gestures toward him, then darts her eyes away.
“Don’t let me stop you. I’ll serenade you, while you paint.”
She arches an eyebrow, hoping he can’t tell how much she’s melting inside. “On the drums?”
The quiet chuckle he gives warms her heart. That damned smile will be the death of her.
“No,” he says. “Not drums.”