Loud is How I Love You (5 page)

“I want you now. Please, now,” I said, and then reached down and felt him in my hand the first time, and oh holy God he was so long and thick and hard I thought he was going to break me. But that only made me want him more.

“Let me get a condom,” he said, his voice low and raspy.

“It’s all right, I’m on the pill.”

That was me being stupid and horny and carried away, but I have to be honest and say I meant it. I would have let him fuck me bare. I’d already come on his fingers, his tongue and all I wanted was to see his face when he came inside of me. And it wasn’t fair, either. He went still and groaned into my neck, swearing as he fought with himself. I wrapped my hand around him and guided him between my legs and brushed the tip of him against me to get it wet and I could see him agonizing over it but he finally said, “No, come on, let’s take care of each other.” I don’t know how he was able to be so levelheaded, because I sure wasn’t, but it’s very much like him to be the careful one. To be sensible when I cannot. It’s like his job or something.

He reached down to the floor and pulled his wallet out of his jeans. There was a Trojan in there. With spermicide. And I still try not to think about why, or who he intended it for, whether that might be Millie or any other girl in this town who wants him who isn’t me. I took it out of his hand and opened it with my teeth and with one hand rolled it down his cock, and as he leaned his head down to kiss me again and I felt his hair tickle my face, I was both terrified and elated because I had wondered about this very moment for a long, long time. And I worried,
What if it sucks? What if it’s not all that I imagined it would be? What if I’m not all he thinks I am?
I thought about how he looks at me when I’m singing when I sometimes glance over at him on stage—the look. The one he gave me just tonight before the end of our set. He stares at me, his mouth open, tongue between his teeth, sweat in his eyes and on his hands as they glide over the guitar strings and now those hands have been all over me, those beautiful hands just last weekend were nudging my legs apart so he could position himself in between them.

“Emmy,” he said, his voice hoarse because it was so late and things were so intense. The sound of my name when he said it then lodged itself in the happiest part of my mind and decided to settle down for good and it’s still there, vivid as it was a week ago. He slid his length over me where I was so, so wet and kissed this spot I never noticed before just under and behind my ear as I raked my nails over his back, urging him to keep going. “Are you ready?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, but my voice cracked because I was near giddy with the feel of his cock against me. “So ready.”

He took a breath, locked his eyes on mine and slid slowly into me, this very sweet and total occupation. Then he covered my mouth with a deep, heartfelt kiss.

And it wasn’t everything I ever fantasized about with him. It wasn’t my dream come true.

It was so much better than that.

It was a warm fire branding its light onto a cold darkness. It was an experience, is what I’m saying. I’m no virgin, I’ve
had sex before but somehow the feel of Travis inside of me was something I’ve never felt, something I never knew I could feel. I never knew anything could feel so good in so many ways at once.

We both made this sound together, somewhere between breathing and groaning, and then I said his name and he kissed me again, hard, and pushed again until he was finally all the way in. I shook with the feeling of it, there was so much feeling there and he tried so hard to be careful, to not move too fast or push too hard so he wouldn’t hurt me but I didn’t care if he hurt me, I just wanted him to move. I wanted him to lose it with me. I wanted him to fuck me, and I asked him—no, he’s right—I begged him.

“God, Travis, fuck me. Please, please fuck me,” I said and bit down on his shoulder and sucked a mark into it, digging my nails in his back. And then he did because I moved my hips and he couldn’t help it. He tried to go slow at first but as I moved beneath him, he started to really pound me and he was swearing, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Emmy, you feel so fucking good,” and I was so gone with the feel of him I wanted to disappear forever inside that moment. I wanted to keep him there with me and never come back.

“I’m going to go check on the gear,” Travis says, finishing his beer.

But I know he’s going to go find Millie. I know it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Go check on the gear.”

He gives me a hearty eye-roll, drops a few bucks on the bar to tip Greg, and then walks off without saying anything else.

Fucking hell God damn it.

I look down the bar and Mickey is now talking to someone else, someone I don’t know. He lights a cigarette and looks up and sees me looking his way, so I smile and he winks and gives me the thumbs-up. I have no idea what that even means, so I just sit where I am and let this frat brother in a Flyers jersey breathe all over the side of my head as he’s yelling shit into my ear about Monster Magnet and Slayer and Long Branch. Greg puts a shot in front of me and I take it down without even wondering who it’s from or if it’s a good idea. As soon as I do I feel lightheaded and I know it wasn’t. I look back over to where Mickey is and he’s not looking my way. Travis, Joey, and Cole aren’t anywhere to be seen, so I head over to the gear lounge and Joey is arguing with Dan the drummer in Circle Time over something stupid like Zildjians versus Sabians. I stagger to the bathroom. I’m glad to find Millie in there putting lip gloss on, because that means she’s not making out with Travis somewhere. She, Hanna Octane, and our friend Julia, the bass player from Circle Time, are talking about who’s going to get tapped to open for Ween at Ag Field Day.

“Awesome set tonight, Emmy!” Julia says, raising her cocktail to me.

“Magnifico,” Hanna says with a faraway smile, but then Hanna always looks like her mind is being operated remotely by tiny space monkeys. Except when she’s playing—then she’s sharp as a tack.

“You guys nailed it tonight,” Millie says and wraps her arms around me in a drunk hug. “You were so fucking awesome, girl.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Hey,” Millie says. “I need to ask, are you and Travis Bean a thing?”

Oh shit.

How the hell am I supposed to answer this now? First of all, she’s using my nickname for him and she does not have permission to do that, does she? Not from me, she doesn’t. I want to tell her to keep her fucking hands off of him, but I’m in no position to do that. I’m of the mind here that what I need to be doing is backing as far out of this weird headspace with Travis as possible. Get things back to normal, as in, not fucking him and making out with him. So no, we’re definitely not a thing in that regard. We’re friends, bandmates, and nothing else. And I need to make sure everybody knows it, too.

“No,” I say. “We’re not a thing. Why would you even ask me that?”

“Because I don’t want it to be weird if I hook up with him.”

“Oh,” I say, but I feel like horking up every bit of alcohol I’ve consumed in the course of my college career onto her Doc Martens. I pull it together and say, “Well, it’s not like that with us.”

“Good,” she says and plants a strawberry-scented kiss on my cheek. “Chicks before dicks.”

I’m already most of the way to drunk, which isn’t helping that sick, angry feeling I have now, so what do I do? I march back out to the bar and ask Greg for another shot, which he pours for me on the house. I do it and oh shit. I push my way up front through the crowd where Red Five is killing it, really killing it. Ron, the singer, sees me up front and gives me the “what’s up, fellow musician” nod. Ron Red—all the local musicians get rechristened by Billy Broadband, the local music scene coordinator, if you will, with their band name as their last name, in the tradition of Dean and Gene Ween. Anyway, Ron has fucked every single female in this town except me (including Millie), and he never will as a matter of principle. I like Ron and he’s an awesome guitarist, but much like the rules about hooking up with guys in your own band, hooking up with guys in the scene is also a pretty bad idea. We play with Red Five at least once a month so it’s almost like being in the same band anyway. I’m not saying Ron wants me, by the way. I’m just saying he’s quite fuckable. Actually, all the guys in Red Five are fairly fuckable and only half of them have regular girlfriends.

I’m drunk-thinking all of this when the asshole in the Flyers jersey comes up alongside me and says, “Hey, do you like boys?”

You’d be surprised at how often drunk guys ask me stupid shit like this, and worse.

I turn and give him my best “what the fuck?” face.

“No,” I say to him. “I don’t like boys. I like
men
.”

He puffs his chest out and beats it like Tarzan, like he doesn’t even get that I’m trying to insult him, so I grab him by the shoulders and turn him to face Ron, Hank, Dominick, and Chad, who are ripping through “Hell Party” now, sweaty hair in their eyes, mouth-breathing from exertion from rocking so hard.

“You see these guys?” I yell, pointing at the stage. “They’re
men
, and they can fuck anybody they want.”

Flyers’ eyes go wide and his mouth drops open and then he rushes the stage, and no shit, he pushes Ron out of the way and grabs the microphone away from him and starts singing “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Ron yells to me, “What the fuck did you say to this guy?” But I’m howling with laughter at what a ginormous asshole Flyers guy really is. Ron tries to take the mic back, but Flyers guy won’t let him have it and now the music has stopped. Dom is putting his bass down and it’s so totally on.

Before the bouncer has a chance to push his way through the crowd, there’s a massive crush towards the band and everyone is yelling, and I’d worry that Flyers is going to need a trip to the ER but this is indie-rock New Brunswick and we just don’t take our fighting that seriously here. Ron pushes Flyers towards Dom, and Dom is cursing at him and shoves him back and he falls into Hank’s drum set, and Hank is a little nuts so he leaps over it at the guy, fisting his jersey until it rips. This causes Flyers to Lose. His. Shit. He takes a swing at Hank, but Dom has grabbed him by the shoulders and thrown him off of him, which causes Flyers to come staggering back into the crowd where he bumps into me and sends both of us reeling towards the steel post in the middle of the floor. I clock my mouth on it and immediately taste blood. Great. I feel my teeth with my fingers and they don’t seem loose but I’m not sure because I’m really drunk and I’m certain my mouth should hurt more than it does. I’m staggering and calling Flyers a dumb motherfucker as I shove him off of me. I feel hands around my waist, pulling me. The room starts to spin and I don’t know if it’s the room or me that’s spinning, but now I’m facing Travis, who is lifting my chin so he can look into my face. He looks worried so I try to smile, no big deal, but I’m super queasy.

“Just how drunk are you?” he asks.

I answer by throwing up. Only partly on him. Mostly on the floor.

“Shit!” he yells as he rips his T-shirt off over his head and throws it to the floor where there’s a pile of my puke.
Millie seems pretty okay with all of this as she ogles him, all prairie white with sculpted shoulders and lean but pronounced, amp-carrying biceps. I stare openly myself, so I can’t exactly blame her. Travis isn’t the kind of guy to casually take his shirt off in public like, say, Hank is. He’s from Nebraska, not Old Bridge after all.

Finally, the bouncers break up the crowd and drag Flyers outside. Ron tosses Travis a Red Five T-shirt from the merchandise table, where Sonia and Cole are happily sitting, enjoying the spectacle of the whole shit show. Millie brings me some napkins and a bottle of Poland Spring from the bar. I dab my lip and I’m not bleeding anymore, luckily. A few sips of water get the barf-boozey taste out of my mouth. Ick. Greg comes over with the bucket and the mop and in five minutes, that spot on the floor with my barf becomes the cleanest square foot in the whole bar. Red Five crank the set back up and Travis looks at me and shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry,” I yell over the music, duly mortified.

“Are you all right?” Travis asks.

“Yeah. I am now.”

“Want to go sit in the van, get some fresh air? I’ll take you.”

I see Millie make a disappointed face over his shoulder, so I shake my head no, I’m all right. She smiles gratefully at me and Travis shrugs and walks off with her to . . . I don’t want to think about it. I actually really like Millie and I don’t want to hate her because she’s trying to get into my guitarist’s pants. I can’t blame her, really, and I remind myself that if they were to hook up, that would be for the best as far as Soft is concerned. But I’m scowling anyway.

The crowd fills back in and I get several back pats for being a true rock-and-roll champ, as Billy Broadband calls me. I look up in horror as I realize Mickey, Dean Ween, is standing right next to me. He grins and hands me a full beer, which is truly the last fucking thing I need right now, so I shake my head, no thanks. He nods and takes a long pull off it himself.

“You guys rocked it tonight,” he says. “Carl says you’re looking for the opening slot at our Ag Field Day gig.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We are.”

“It’s yours,” he says, and then we stand there together, watching as Red Five dedicates the next song to Philadelphia and then launches into “Trash City.”

I wake up hungover on Saturday and I blame Travis. Why? Because instead of the long wind-down we always have after a night like that, where we talk and analyze and strategize until we’re sober, last night he just dropped me off and he didn’t even remind me to drink water and take three Advil. And I didn’t remember myself because I was too busy drunk-fuming over the fact that Millie weaseled a ride home with us and he decided to drop me off before her. Yes, I know I should be a big girl and realize that’s for the best, but I’m not. I’m just not that big.

What’s worse is that I wake up hungover and I’m still thinking about Travis. I’m thinking again about last weekend, specifically when we were doing it and he asked, “Emmy, are you close?”

“I don’t know if I can come again,” I admitted. I could have faked it—I’ve done it before and so have you, don’t lie—but with him it just didn’t feel right. He felt incredible, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I wasn’t loving every second of having him inside of me, but Jesus, Maria y José, I’d come two times already. Before that night, I was lucky to come once with a guy, and I’d never come twice in one night. I couldn’t come a third time, could I?

“Sure you can,” Travis whispered in my ear. “Come on, give me one more.”

That almost made me come right there, but when I edged closer and didn’t, he took my hand and sucked on my finger, swirled his tongue around it, and then put my hand down between us.

“Touch yourself, Emmy,” he said.

I almost came just from his words. I’d never tried touching myself during sex before, but I did while he was fucking me with these strong, steady strokes, and in just a few flicks I was there like a closed fist, coming hard, bucking under him, and crying his name over and over, but the sound was lost in the noise of him as he came with a low growl and there it was, the Travis face, flush and wild. I memorized that face so I could call that visual up anytime, and now here I am, once again, fixated on it. I fixate on that image several times a day since it happened. Okay, not several times a day. All day. All day, all night, some part of me is thinking about it. About Travis. About how he kissed me when it was all over, like even though we were exhausted and as spent as we’ve ever been, he wanted more. He acted like having me made him want me
more
. I think about how when it was over he held my hand, his thumb stroking the back of it and that was the last thing I remembered before falling asleep. I think about the note he left on my dresser, next to the box of forty-fives that he picked up and put away for me—in alphabetical order—that said
Call me when you get up. I’ll treat you to victory brunch at Neubies.

And I think about how I have probably fucked everything up and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know what
fixing it means. I just know that I can’t stop thinking about Travis, and the fact that right now, Millie could be curled up naked in his lap. And I just have to know.

I become obsessed with this image of him with her, so I pick up the phone and call him. He answers it after a couple of rings, so he’s home. That’s good. I tell him I’m thinking about going out to Sam Ash. Does he want to go?

“No thanks,” he says. “I don’t need anything at Sam Ash.”

I ask him if he’s planning to go out to see Drunk Snake tonight (a Whitesnake tribute band that covers all their songs as polkas, pretty brilliant, actually) at Olde Queens. He tells me it’s Rock and Roll Bowling tonight with Billy Broadband. Did I forget? Well, yeah, I guess I did.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asks.

“Who else is going?”

“I think Bailey and Millie and possibly Hanna Octane. Red Five are going. Fester will be there. Probably Circle Time, too.”

I notice how he slips Millie’s name in there like it’s all casual. Like she’s not in his room right now listening to him talk to me.

“Why don’t you come over before that so we can jam?”

“I’ve got a paper for International Political Economy due Monday. I need to get a draft done so I can go out tonight.”

“A paper, right. Sure.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, but Travis never says he’s too busy with schoolwork to play guitar. Never. Not once has he ever said that.

“No, what is it?” he says, and I can hear he’s bugged.

“Nothing,” I say again. “Is Millie helping you with your paper?”

“Why would Millie help me with a paper in International Political Economy? She’s a fine arts major.”

“Well, if she’s hanging out there, I thought maybe she’d be proofreading your paper or something.”

“Oh, what’s this now? Are you jealous? Worried that Millie’s over here getting that hot grammar action?”

“I just hope she doesn’t distract you too much.”

“Emmylou, get real,” he says.

“It’s just that Soft has a lot going on right now and we don’t need the distraction. We’ve got to think about Ag Field Day. It’ll be here before you know it.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Of course it does,” I say, pacing back and forth in my bedroom. “We’ve got to get more stickers printed up, go flyering, talk to Billy Broadband about promotion. There’s a lot to do.”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that? In an insane sort of way.”

I hang up and think maybe he’s right, maybe I’m nuts but whatever. He never did come out and say, “Nothing happened last night between me and Millie, of course she’s not here,” did he? No, he did not.

Fine. If he has a paper due, I’ll just drop by and offer to look it over for him. And then if Millie is there, I’ll know. There won’t be anything I can do about it, but at least I won’t have to fucking sit here and wonder if Millie has his dick in her mouth right now while I’m home on the couch eating Cup o’ Noodles.

I throw on a Rutgers hoodie that Travis let me borrow six months ago after I had my jacket stolen at the Khyber Pass. I walk out into a gray March day, sort of cool but not cold. Spring is near and I start to fantasize about how awesome Ag Field Day is going to be this year. Last year it was mobbed for Green Day. The Seahorses opened for them and were signed to Kill Rock Stars within a year. You play a big show with a national act like that, and things start to happen for you. And that’s what I’m working so hard for—things to happen for Soft.

So then, why am I going to see Travis right now? And why, specifically, am I wearing a Pixies tank top that makes my boobs look twice their normal size? I can only blame Travis’s penis.

Down the hill to Lincoln Avenue I walk. I stand in front of his house for a while and it’s Saturday afternoon, so that means George is out running practice for the rugby team before Fester rehearsal. But aside from Travis, I don’t know who else is here. That’s what I’m about to find out.

I go to the porch. This time I just ring the bell like I’m a Goddamned adult. I listen and wait. I don’t hear anything. I wait some more. I imagine Travis jumping out of the shower with a towel around himself, with Millie right behind, borrowing his robe. God damn it. I give myself a cramp thinking about it. I’m about to bang on the door like a psycho—I can hear
The Shining
soundtrack in my head—when I hear footsteps on the stairs inside, and then the door opens and there’s Travis, looking amused. Amused! He ushers me right inside, smirking.

“What’s up, Emmylou?” he says. “What brings you here on this fine day?”

I’m listening for a shuffle, footsteps on the ceiling where I imagine Millie is sequestered in his room, but she must be really good at stealth because I don’t hear a thing. Very sneaky, that Millie.

“You never gave me that Archers of Loaf tape,” I say. Quick on my feet, that’s me.

He turns around, picks a cassette off the end table next to the couch and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

Great. Now what?

“Are you busy?” I ask.

“I’m working on a paper. Recall? The phone conversation we had fifteen minutes ago?”

I glance up at a clock in the hall, and then back at his smart-ass mouth.

“It was twenty minutes ago.”

“I need coffee,” he says, and why is he being such an adorable dick, still smiling at me like that? “Want to walk up to Dunkin’ Donuts?”

“What about Millie?” I say.

“What about her?”

“Does she want any?”

“Should we call her and ask?”

“Isn’t she upstairs?”

“How hard did you hit your head last night?”

Well, now I’m pink in the cheeks and I guess
I’m
the asshole because nobody is here but us. Travis grabs his jacket and we go back out the door and walk up the hill to Dunkin’ Donuts. He’s talking about this paper he’s writing about Bob Marley and he’s acting fairly normal and I’m so glad because things, for the first time since sexageddon, aren’t feeling all that weird. I hate when it’s weird with Bean because aside from Sonia, he’s my best friend, and by definition a best friend is someone you never have to feel weird around. I start to think, yeah, maybe I haven’t fucked all of this up between us. We can be—hell,
we
are
being adults. We’re adults! We had sex, fine, and it was incredible, yeah, but it’s just sex. We can still be normal. It doesn’t change anything. Not changing anything is good, because things are really pretty great right exactly how they are.

As I’m watching Travis pay for my iced hazelnut coffee (and I don’t know if this is a Nebraska manners thing, but he never lets me pay for anything, unless it’s guitar gear, because that shit’s expensive), the only problem I’m having now is that I can’t seem to take my eyes off his mouth. His lips, in particular, and his tongue when he darts it out to lick the wayward icing from his lips after he takes a bite of his coffee roll. I want to lick those lips myself, see if I can taste the sugar left on them. By the time we walk back down the hill and he’s got his key in the door, that’s all I can think about. I’ve already sucked down half a large coffee, thinking about how much I want to suck on every part of him.

“Do you want me to take a look at your paper?” I say.

“I’m only halfway done with it,” he says. “I was going to ask you to proof it tomorrow while I’m at work.”

“Oh.” Well, then.

I don’t go, even though I know I should since things are so nice and normal again, and he’s got work to do. Instead I linger there as Travis puts his jacket on the coatrack. He turns around and studies me for a minute.

“Come on upstairs,” he says. “You can read what I’ve got so far and let me know if it makes any sense.”

This is a terrible idea. A terrible, wonderful idea, because we just got things back to normal, and if I go upstairs with him now, something is very likely going to happen here that falls well outside the realm of normal and inside the world of awesome, but that awesome world, let’s be real here, is a little bit too much for me. It’s like winning a rocket trip to a different star system and I forgot my space helmet.

I go upstairs anyway.

Travis is one of these rare guys who’s not a slob. He’s not exactly a neat freak, but he’s organized. We’re in his room and his bed is made. (Seriously, what twenty-two-year-old guy makes his bed?) There are no dirty clothes anywhere except a few things in a laundry basket sitting on the floor of his closet. The closet door is open and his shoes, of which he has exactly three additional pairs (a pair of black Converse high-tops, a pair of black dress shoes, and a pair of Adidas running shoes), are all lined up on the floor. His guitar sits out in its stand in the corner, like it’s watching me. Judging.
Stop that, Les Paul. Cut it right out.

There are books on the desk—actual books about international political economy. They’re stacked up with Post-it notes sticking out where he’s marked passages. He’s actually
read
these books. There are also well-notated photocopied articles and a handwritten outline for his paper and his father’s old Apple PowerBook with a blinking cursor right in the middle of
an unfinished sentence, and holy shit—he really was writing a paper. I’m so happy right now I could jump him.

“I was wondering where that sweatshirt was,” he says.

“I have to wash it,” I answer.

He points to the chair in front of the laptop, one of those black, spinny, armless office chairs. I sit down and he’s on the edge of the bed and it’s a small room, so he’s basically right behind me, his knees straddling either side of me on the chair. I’m paging the cursor down, trying to read this paragraph about Bob Marley and the song “Buffalo Soldier,” and I guess it’s interesting but I can’t really tell you because the proximity of Travis is driving me crazy, and I mean that in a purely sexual way. His adorable boy face is right here, over my shoulder like a devil whispering, “Let’s fuck,” in my ear. He’s not actually saying that. But I can feel his breath on the back of my ear, I can hear those quiet little mouth sounds he makes. He clicks his tongue softly and it makes me shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asks, at the same exact time I say, “Is it warm in here?”

I laugh and pull my (fine, his) sweatshirt off over my head, totally conscious of how my tank top rises up over my back and I quickly tug it down. I get up and hang the hoodie on the hook behind the door and when I turn back around he’s sitting in the desk chair, leaning back with his arms crossed in front of his chest. And he’s glaring at me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, honestly confused.

“You did not come over here in that tank top with no bra on expecting to leave in once piece, did you?”

Well, no, not really. I fold my arms across my chest though, because fuck him for declaring the obvious.

“Emmylou.”

“What?”

“Come here,” he says. “Or else go. Because if you don’t want anything to happen, this is pretty much your last chance.”

“Are you saying you
do
want something to happen?”

“Do I have a dick? I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Well, what if I’m still undecided?”

He rolls his eyes and spins back around to the laptop.

“You have five minutes to make up your mind before I jump you,” he says. “It’s 1:23, so at 1:28, it’s on. You’ve been warned.”