All of Me by Tiffany Patterson

Chapter 8

Lena

Two days after that dinner out with Micah, Jodi, and Gabe, I laid on the couch in my living room, staring at the ceiling.

Nothing was happening in my head. Absolutely nothing. That’s not entirely true. There was plenty happening up there, just not what I wanted.

I tossed one of the fluffy, gold and white decorative pillows in the air and caught it, ignoring the balls of crumpled papers scattered around me and on the floor. Even after closing in on three weeks in Harlington, not one single line of a song had come to me.

What had come to me, unfortunately, were thoughts of Gabriel Townsend. They’d bombarded my every waking thought since the night the four of us went out to dinner. The man had a way about him. I didn’t like it.

His words about wanting to know how soft my skin was ran on a loop in my head. I’d come damned close to inviting him to feel the skin hidden beneath my clothes, to see if it was just as soft as the skin of my neck.

A gush of air escaped my lips on a sigh when I thought about the way his finger trailed across my collarbone. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to remember if I’d ever felt that sort of rush of energy when Nate and I began dating.

I’d been a young twenty year old when we first dated. After four years in the business and a breakup with my first real boyfriend, I thought I knew what love was when Nate and I got together. He was fun. He talked big about taking over the world and taking me with him.

I couldn’t lie and say Nate hadn’t done anything for my career. Once he became my manager, my career picked up. Which was why I thought signing with his label was the intelligent thing to do.

All these years later, I wished I could go back in time and talk myself out of signing that contract. Now I was stuck. The one thing that would release me from the agreement was the one thing I couldn’t do.

Write a damn album.

“What?” I yelled when my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door.

I tossed the pillow down on the couch and sat up. A few more of the balls of paper tumbled to the floor. I kicked them out of my way as I padded barefoot toward the door, expecting the knock to be a box of my favorite toiletries that I’d ordered.

With a yank, I pulled the door open and stumbled back a couple of steps. “Gabriel.”

My voice sounded strangely high-pitched. Suddenly, I had the notion of running my hands down my wrinkled T-shirt to smooth it out and to fix my hair, but I didn’t.

With my hand still wrapped around the door handle, I asked, “What’s up?”

My breathing hitched when he slid his mirrored sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing that inescapable gaze. His eyes zeroed in on me, and Rayven’s words from before she left came to mind.

Too bad my cousin wasn’t with me. Because as much as I’d told her I would heed her advice, right then, staring up at Gabriel’s gaze, I wasn’t sure of my damn name. Let alone possess the common sense needed to slam the door in his face.

“Have you eaten dinner?” he asked as he leaned his long body against the doorframe.

My stomach muscles clenched. “Yes,” I said, happy that I could easily tell the truth.

“What’d you have?”

“Are you quizzing me?”

“Are you lying to me?” he countered.

“A bowl of soup with half of a chicken salad sandwich. Satisfied, or do you want to check the garbage can to make sure I’m not lying?”

He chuckled, and my goodness, the sound reminded me of the rolling thunder over the Texas hills. I could imagine that sound as the background for a song. But the moment was fleeting.

“Is that an invitation to come in?” he asked at the same time he entered.

“I guess it is,” I mumbled, closing the door behind him. “You know where the kitchen is if you want to check the trash can.”

“I don’t need to do that,” he said. “How’s the writing going?”

“Swell,” I said with enthusiasm. “It’s going great, actually.”

Gabe looked at me with a lifted brow before his gaze fell to the floor. I pinched my lips, hating myself for not cleaning up the crumpled papers.

I opened my mouth to defend the mess but thought better of it. The less I said, the better.

“Are you sure about that?” he finally asked.

“Sure about what?” I folded my arms across my chest.

“It looks to me as if you need a muse.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A muse. A force, or in this case a person …” Pausing, he pressed his hand to his chest. “Me, that you can use for inspiration.”

“I know the definition of muse,” I said tersely. “And I don’t need one.” I brushed past him and started picking up the balls of paper. “I just need to concentrate.”

“Which you’re having difficulty doing out here?” His voice followed me as I entered the kitchen.

I dumped the armful of paper into the wastebasket before answering his question.

“Yes.” But then I shook my head. “No, no. I’m not having any trouble at all.”

“We both know that’s some bullshit.”

Unwilling to let him win in this sparring match, I said, “I have two new songs ready to go.” For emphasis, I jutted my chin higher.

“Great.” He clapped and strolled out into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. “Let’s hear ’em.” Spreading a long arm over the back of the sofa, he made himself right at home.

He looked like a king, taking his place on his throne. The way his jeans stretched over his thighs and a slight amount of chest hair showing through the top of his V-neck were almost scandalous.

“I-I don’t play new music for just anybody.”

“I’m not just anybody,” he responded.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who the hell was he then, but my mind answered the question for me when a flashback to Micah and Jodi’s wedding occurred. It was of Gabriel standing and introducing me to the rest of the guests as his future wife.

A ripple of some unknown emotion moved through my belly. Needing the support, I pressed my hand against the wall beside me.

“I don’t have any new songs,” I admitted.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His deep voice rumbled. He stood from the couch and moved closer.

Before I knew what he was doing, he took my chin with his hand, lifting my face toward his.

“You ate dinner, but there’s always room for dessert.”

I pursed my lips in confusion.

“There’s a place that sells the best deep-fried ice cream—"

“Let me guess,” I said, interrupting. “This side of the Mississippi.”

His laughter again had a short melody playing in my head, but it was fleeting.

“I was going to say, in the state of Texas, but we can go with that.”

“I’ve never had fried ice cream.”

“Good. This’ll be one of our many firsts together.” He took my hand in his and led me to the door.

“Wait,” I pulled back and glanced down at the ripped jeans and forest green off-the-shoulder T-shirt I'd been wearing all day, “I need to change.”

He ran his eyes up and down my body, pausing at my neckline. His eyes darkened.

“You’re perfect just like that.”

I hesitated, waiting for the backhand of that compliment to come around. When it never came, I released a breath, forcing myself to remember that Gabe wasn’t Nate. My ex always had a way of adding an insult to a supposed compliment. After nine years of that, you sort of expect it.

“Thanks,” I said, finally.

Minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of Gabe’s car as he backed out of the driveway.

“Where are we going tonight?” I asked. “And is it crowded?” I hadn’t had many people recognize me the few times I was out in Harlington, but I was afraid of getting too comfortable.

I still wasn’t ready for the media to know where I was.

“Place called The Rustic,” Gabe replied. “It’s a bar on the edge of town.”

“I thought you mentioned something about dessert.” I unabashedly pouted. I’d started to have my heart set on having something sweet.

He turned toward me with a grin playing on his lips. God, he has such a perfect smile. His bottom lip was slightly more plump than the top. Both were the perfect shade of pink. The beard that surrounded his mouth added to its allure.

He let out a deep chuckle. “She likes sweets,” he commented. “Noted. And we are. The Rustic sells the fried ice cream I told you about.”

With a frown and wrinkle in my forehead, I asked, “A bar that makes fried ice cream?”

“Trust me on this, Cinnamon. You’ll enjoy it.”

“Cinnamon?” I inquired.

He threw another smile my way. I adjusted myself in my seat, scooting closer to the passenger side door.

“For the color of your eyes.” He motioned with his head in my direction.

“It’s hot in here.” I pressed the button to roll down my window some and stared out of the window.

The breeze brushed across my face, tickling it and serving the purpose of lowering my temperature. The pink and deep orange hues of the sunset were fading away as dusk gave way to night. The lights of the homes and businesses that peppered the hills in the distance enlightened the area.

I hadn’t spent a lot of time in Texas over the years. Most of my performances had taken place in Houston, which, by contrast to this region of the state, was pretty flat.

“We’re only getting into spring,” Gabe said after a few minutes of silence. “Summertime in Texas is when things heat up.”

His comment was layered. Or maybe it was simply my putting more into something than was intended. I tended to do that sometimes as a writer.

I didn’t comment because I wasn’t sure how to reply. A few minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the bar. There were fewer than ten cars.

“This place doesn’t get a lot of traffic in the middle of the week,” Gabe said when he noticed me staring around the parking lot. “On the weekends, it’s almost impossible to get parking in the lot.”

He got out, and by then, I’d learned to wait for him to come around and open my door for me.

Again, when he took my hand to help me stand, that pulse of energy and tension cascaded through my limbs and enlivened something inside of me that I didn’t want awakened.

I removed my hand from his hold.

Gabe opened the door and allowed me to enter first. The darkness of the bar was a welcomed sight. I was struck by how much this place reminded me of those movie scenes in which the fish-out-of-water main character walks into an old, Southern bar and all the patrons stare at him.

There were a couple of pool tables toward the back of the bar, a few small, wooden tables and chairs in the front area, the bar to the left, and booths along the back left side. The difference between The Rustic and the bars in the movie scenes was that most of the patrons didn’t pay us any mind. They were too busy, talking amongst themselves or dancing.

I immediately recognized the sounds of Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” playing, which I found oddly comforting.

“Are you sure you brought me to the right place?” I asked, looking around.

Gabe retook my hand in his, which I allowed for the time being, and led me to the bar. “Certain,” he answered before turning to the bartender. “Toni, we need a menu.”

The good-looking bartender smiled. “What’s up, boss?” he asked with a nod. “Coming up.”

I turned to Gabe. “Boss?”

He gave me a shrug. I didn’t know whether to read that as Gabe was his boss or Toni called everyone that.

“I recommend the cookie dough ice cream, but the cookies n’ cream is pretty good, too,” Gabe said as he handed me the menu.

I rubbed my lips together as I stared down at the menu. There was an array of selections to choose from. They had everything from butter pecan and mint chocolate chip to regular vanilla.

“How exactly does fried ice cream work?” I finally asked, unable to decide. I heard of it before but never tried it for myself. I was fuzzy on how you could fry ice cream.

“The ice cream is rolled inside of a dough which is then deep fried.”

“Ohh.” I nodded and pointed at the butter pecan option. “This one.”

“Done,” Gabe said as he showed the bartender which one I selected. “Add cookie dough for me.”

I spun around to face the rest of the bar and laughed when Tamia’s “Sandwich and a Soda” started playing. “Interesting musical selection in this place. Is it always R&B?”

Gabe jutted his head toward the booths of the bar. “There’s a jukebox in the back,” he said. “Patrons can choose what they want. Some nights it’s more rock, others a lot of the sappy love sh—" He stopped and turned, looking down at me.

I smirked. “Sappy love shit?” I folded my arms over my chest.

He shrugged. “It’s not typically my type of music.”

“And yet, you want to be my muse,” I commented, reminding him of what he’d said before we left my house.

“I am your muse,” he responded with his chest protruding. “You simply haven’t accepted it yet, Cin.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was only to stifle the smile that threatened to expose my true feelings on the nickname he’d given me.

Our fried ice cream came out, and Gabe patiently waited while I examined the two fried balls with chocolate sauce and powdered sugar drizzled over them. I reached for the plastic spoon that came with the dish, but Gabe’s hand covered mine.

“Unh, unh,” he said. “These babies are to be eaten with your hands only.”

With a sigh, I pulled my hand from underneath his much larger one, picked up one of the fried balls, and took a bite. The outside was the right combination of crunchy and buttery. A second later, the coldness of the ice cream burst through, revealing the sweet nuttiness of the butter pecan.

I held back a moan, but just barely. I covered my mouth with my free hand, freeing me to lick the corners of my mouth, catching the powdered sugar and biscuit crumbs that got stuck on their way into my mouth.

“What have I been doing my whole life?” I asked after swallowing that first bite.

With wide eyes, I looked up at Gabe, who wore a satisfied expression. Those eyes that didn’t know if they wanted to be hazel, green, or blue twinkled with mischief. He reached out and lowered my hand when I tried to cover my mouth again for my second bite.

“Don’t hide.” While his voice wasn’t loud or forceful, it was commanding. “I like watching you enjoy your food.”

I dropped my hand. As much as I wanted to remain demure, I ended up devouring the rest of that first fried ice cream ball and had even less restraint with the second one.

“Want a bite?” he asked, holding out one of his fried ice cream doughs.

“No way.” I patted my stomach. “That’s enough dairy for me.”

He took the last bite of his. “I’ve been thinking of putting some non-dairy options into the menu.”

“So, you are the owner of this place? Toni wasn’t just calling you boss because it’s a cool nickname?”

“Partial owner. I have a few business partners. I’m mostly behind the scenes here, though. A silent partner.”

“A silent partner who makes recommendations to change the menu,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“Something like that.” He handed Toni our empty plates before turning back to me. “You play pool?”

“I know a little something,” I said cockily.

“Show me.” He took my hand, leading us toward the pool table that a couple of guys had just vacated.

He started handing me one of the pool cues but stopped short. “What’s this one?”

Instantly knowing what he was referring to, I paused to listen to hear the music floating through the overhead speakers.

“Too easy. ‘Number’ by Nick Jonas, featuring Angel Haze. Released 2014 off his album entitled, wait for it,” I paused for dramatic effect before snapping my fingers, “Nick Jonas.”

Gabe frowned. “Hang on.” He held up a finger before heading toward the jukebox in the back. He came back with a grin on his face. “You’re right.”

“I know.” I blew on my fingernails and brushed them against my shoulder.

Gabriel tossed his head back and laughed, squeezing my insides without laying a finger on me.

“I like it when you’re confident,” he said, finally handing me my cue. “Rack ’em.”

I racked the balls before stopping and peering over my shoulder when he moved behind me. “Are you sure you want to get your ego crushed tonight?”

He moved closer, brushing his frontside along the back of my body.

I pulled my lower lip between my teeth, willing the strange emotion in my body to stop before I started thinking crazy thoughts.

“Don’t worry yourself about my ego, cin,” he whispered in my ear.

He went from teasing laughter to taunting flirting in a matter of seconds, and I didn’t know which I liked more.

“Why don’t we make this game worth our while?”

I lifted an eyebrow, silently asking what he had in mind. Though, it was against my better judgment. My gut instinct was to run as far away from Gabe as I could get. But the much less rational side of me kept me in place.

“We’ll play for me to be your muse.”

“My muse,” I repeated.

“Yeah. You need a muse, whether you care to admit it or not.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m offering myself as your sacrificial lamb.”

I snorted. Lamb, this guy was not.

“But you’re reluctant,” he continued.

“Because it’s not a real thing.”

“So you say,” he quickly replied. “Either way, I’m showing up for the job. We’re playing for it. Let’s go.”

He left no room for added discussion.

I shook my head, but then thought about it. Maybe if I won this game, that would be an opportunity to get him to back off. If I won, I could refuse his silly idea of being my inspiration for writing, maintain distance between us, and write my album in peace.

That was my hope anyway. I wouldn’t get into the details about how I hadn’t written a new line in months.

“Wait,” I said with my hand raised. “If you win, then you get to be my muse.” I rolled my eyes. “But when I win, you have to promise to back off.”

He tilted his head to the side and stared.

“Seriously. I need to focus on work right now. Not …” I gestured up and down the length of his body. “So, I need you to stop popping up at my door and being all …”

He stepped closer, leaning down until his face hovered a mere few inches above mine. “All what?”

“All you.” I sounded flustered.

He was silent, but his eyes squinted and darkened, and a slow, dark smile crossed his lips.

My heart kicked against my ribcage, and I got the deepest, sneaking suspicion that I’d just let the wolf into the hen house.

“You’re that confident you can beat me?”

Despite my doubt, I looked him in the eyes and nodded.

“Okay, then.” He nodded. “It’s a deal.”

I exhaled. “All right, let’s do this,” I said like I had all the confidence in the world.

What Gabriel didn’t know about me was that I grew up playing pool. My parents had me singing in lounges and bars since I was ten. In between sets, I was often exposed to the games played at the bar, pool being one of the most popular.

“Ladies first,” he said, holding his hand out.

“Is that the Southern hospitality that I hear so much about?”

“That, and I want to stand behind you as you bend over to make your first shot.”

His honesty and the deep rumble in his voice sent me off kilter. My confidence in winning this game waned.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood there frowning as the ball Gabe had aimed at went into the corner pocket.

My stomach plummeted.

“Lucky shot,” I murmured.

“Just like the last three, huh?”

I waved his comment off.

“What’s this one?” he quickly asked.

I paused before lining up for my next shot to listen to the new song that someone had put on. I frowned.

“Elvis Presley, ‘Anyway You Want Me’. Recorded in 1956,” I said, but wishing the song would quickly end.

“Not a fan of The King?”

“Elvis?” I asked. “He’s good enough, I suppose. Though there’s the complicated history of him stealing moves and music from lesser known Black artists,” I explained. “But I digress.

“It’s not him so much. It’s the song. It’s supposed to be a love song, but his voice.” I paused to listen. I swayed a little to the melody. “It’s so haunting.”

I felt heat cloud my backside. Gabe moved in closer. He swayed in time with my body, his hands going to my hips.

“Then there’re the words,” I continued, trying to explain my feelings for this particular song.

“What about them?”

His breath brushed over the back of my shoulder, feathering the tiny hairs at the back of my neck.

I let out a sigh.

“Any way you want me, he says. He says all of the ways he’ll contort himself.” I took a minute, feeling a soreness in my chest that I thought I’d successfully suppressed months earlier.

“You shouldn’t have to bend yourself so much to be acceptable. Not for someone who loves you.” I hated not only that I’d said those words out loud but at how heavy they felt. “Real love is accepting someone for who they are. All of them.”

The song ended, and it was right on time. I stepped out of Gabe’s hold and inhaled, forcing myself to pull it together.

“I need to take my next shot.”

He stood back, granting me enough space to aim my cue. I was already behind, and the shakiness of my hands wasn’t helping my chances any. On a wing and a prayer, I took my shot and missed.

Gabe didn’t gloat. He didn’t yelp or laugh. He stared me in the eyes and, in that deep bravado of his, said, “You’ve got yourself a muse, Cin.”

A muse.

I didn’t believe in them. I’d never needed someone or something special in my life before to be able to write. I’d tried my best throughout this game to win, and yet, I’d lost.

I could go back on my word and tell Gabe to screw off anyway. But when I tried, the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. The only thing left was to see where this venture took me.