Spencer Cohen Series, Book One (The Spencer Cohen Series 1) (13 page)

He cleared his throat. “Ah, are you alright there, making yourself at home?” He was staring at my shoes.

“Yes, thanks,” I said with a grin, not taking my eyes off the television. I was pretty sure if I looked at him, I’d grab him by the face and kiss him until he came.
Fuck
. Now I was thinking about that. I swallowed hard. Jesus, the air in the room was suddenly heady and I could feel how close he was without looking. “So, um,” I coughed and nodded toward the screen. “Which shots of this have you drawn?”

So as the movie played, Andrew told me about different scenes he’d done, what parts he liked, which were difficult, which were his favourite. But then something happened. In the movie. And it came from nowhere, and I wasn’t expecting it. I had no clue and no time to prepare myself. It was a kid’s movie for fuck’s sake.

The father died.

In the movie. The father died. And a wave of memories and emotions hit me, like being crash-tackled from the blindside. I certainly didn’t see it coming.

I took some deep, quiet breaths, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I stared at the wall and realised I was staring at drawings from this very movie, and that didn’t help at all. So then I stared at the top of the TV screen. There was writing about screen definition, and I stared so hard at it, trying to deliberately not watch the movie, that I must have stared too hard because my eyes started to water. I let out the slowest breath I could manage, but Andrew was too close, and he heard how shaky it was. He turned to me and started to laugh and was no doubt about to say something about crying in a kid’s movie.

But then he saw my face.

He sat up and fumbled with the remote before clicking the whole TV off. I shot up off the sofa and went into the kitchen to catch my breath.
Oh, fuck
. The burn in my chest was as vivid now as it was years ago.

Andrew was right behind me. He put his hand on my arm. “Spencer, I’m sorry. I should’ve known… I gathered something had happened. I didn’t even think about the dad.”

I shook my head and put the heel of my hand against my sternum to counter the pain there. “It’s okay. You weren’t to know.” I took another breath. “That just came from nowhere. I’m sorry.”

He had a hand on either arm, his face was etched with worry. “Don’t apologise. It’s me who should be apologizing. Your dad?”

I let my head fall back, and I let a shaky breath out at the ceiling. “My father…” Andrew moved his hands from my arms, but before he could take a step back, I snatched his t-shirt. I fisted the material, keeping him right where he was. I needed him to stay close. I wanted to tell him what happened. I wanted to tell him why the four blackbirds were tattooed on my arm, but I couldn’t. I never spoke about them. I wore those inked reminders like armour, but I couldn’t form the words.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently.

I shook my head.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s okay.”

He put his hand to my face, and I leaned into it. I fucking leaned. And like he knew what I needed—what my heart and soul craved—he pulled me against him.

I’d never felt anything so good in my life. He was warm and strong, he was safe and right. I buried my face into his neck, and I might have held on a little too tight. But he smelled so perfect and his arms went around me like they were meant to do just that.

I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to kiss his neck, I wanted to lift my face and kiss his lips. I wanted to know what he tasted like. I wanted him to hold me, and take me to bed, have his way with me.

And when I pulled back, he stayed right there. He looked into my eyes and licked his lips. He was going to kiss me…

Then my stupid hand was against his chest, keeping him at a safe non-kissing distance.
Fuck.
My head was swimming, my heart was hammering and aching, my stomach was in knots, and I was a fucking mess.

Then my stupid mouth said, “I should go.”

He blinked and shook his head, as if startled from some kind of stupor. “Yeah.” I stepped away, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Spencer?”

I looked at him, fighting every fibre in my body that wanted to fall back into his arms, to kiss him.

He looked torn apart. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”
Of course I’m okay. I’ve been okay for years
. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll come around four?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I turned and walked out as fast as my stupid feet would take me.

* * * *

Of course sleep didn’t come easy. Hell, it barely came at all. I finally managed about two hours shut eye after the sun made its way over the horizon. The sound of screeching tires on the street below woke me up, and so I didn’t lie around all day thinking about stuff I didn’t want to be thinking about, I put on some running clothes and hit the pavement.

I ran all the way down to Venice Beach. It was a warm Saturday morning, so it was packed. There were people walking dogs, roller blading, cycling, jogging. Some looked a million dollars, some looked like they were doing the walk of shame. But the crowd, the smells, and the noise was everything I needed to distract me. I loved this place. It was actually the first place I’d came to when I’d arrived in LA and, after doing the tourist thing of checking out Abbot Kinney Boulevard, I’d found myself looking through a tattoo shop window. I’d walked in and started chatting with the owner. He’d introduced himself as Emilio, and the rest is pretty much history.

It was Emilio who had done the four blackbird tattoos that now graced my right forearm. I’d come to America with just one shoulder inked. Emilio had helped me better than any therapist could have. There is something cathartic about having your scars inked into your skin.

Maybe that’s what I needed. Another tattoo. Some pain on the outside to ease the pain on the inside. Yes, that’s exactly what I needed.

With a new mission, I jogged back home. I hadn’t run that far in a long time and my legs and lungs burned. The pain was welcome. I considered not going up to my apartment and just going straight in to see Emilio, but I knew he was busy and probably wouldn’t have appreciated a sweaty me in his tattoo shop. As I made my way to the back stairs, Daniela and Lola were at the back door talking. It wasn’t uncommon for them to sneak out the back and have a laugh or a bitch session or whatever it was they talked about.

“Hey,” I said in greeting.

They both looked me up and down. Lola spoke first. “You okay, Spence?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Um, you’re running,” Daniela answered.

“Needed to clear my head,” I said, taking the stairs on shaky legs. I got to the top and turned around. They were both watching me. “You don’t know if Emilio’s got a free session today?”

Daniela shook her head. “I can find out for you. Who wants some work done?”

“Me.”

They both just stood there, looking up at me. Neither said a word.

I opened my door. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“What time are you meeting Andrew?” Lola asked.

“Four.”

She looked at her watch. “Um…”

“What time is it?”

“Just after three.”

“Shit. Where did today go?” I raced inside and went straight for a shower. By the time I was dressed and ready, I found Lola at the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

She looked me up and down. “Jesus, looking good Spence.”

I flashed her a smile. “Thanks.”

“Come on,” she nodded to the car park. “I’ll drive you.”

I knew it was coming. I was actually surprised it took her three blocks. “Tonight’s the big night, huh?”

“Yep.”

“You okay?”

“Fine. Why?”

She looked at me for a beat too long. “Spence.”

“I’m fine, Lolz,” I said, knowing that name would stop her. She hated it. She pulled a face, and I pointed up ahead at where Lola needed to turn and gave a few directions. I used the break to change subjects. “How’s Gabe’s nipple piercing going?”

Her eyes sparked with mischief. “Oh, he likes it.”

“He likes it, or you like it?”

“I like what it does to him.”

That made me laugh. “That good, huh?”

“You should get one,” she said, swerving in and out of lanes. “Actually, I’m surprised you don’t have any piercings.”

I gripped onto the dash, trying to sound like her driving didn’t scare the bejeezus outta me. “Something I could work on, you reckon?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “You’ll be surprised at how good they feel.” Then she said, “You’re thinking of getting more ink?”

“Yep. Just need to find the right piece.”

“Cool.” I knew she wanted to say more, but thankfully, she let it go.

“Just up here,” I said, pointing to Andrew’s place.

“Nice,” she replied.

It really was. “Yeah.”

“Look, Spencer,” she said, pulling the car up to the kerb. “I know you’ve got a job to do here tonight, but I think if you talked to Andrew beforehand—”

“Lola, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the lift.”

And with that, I got out of Cindy Crawford and made my way up the path. I waved her off, pretending not to see the sadness on her face and pressed Andrew’s intercom button. He opened the door and gave me a smile that made my heart trip over. Though he eyed me cautiously. “Hey,” he said, letting me in. “You look great.”

I had put on my best pants, a blue waistcoat that matched my shoes, and my white sleeves were rolled to my elbows. My hair was styled up, my beard trimmed, and I’d even put on some cologne because, well, smelling good was a man’s secret weapon.

I didn’t want him to feel bad about my freak out last night. Hell, I didn’t even want him to mention it. “Get your laundry done today?”

He chuckled. “I did.”

“And the gym?”

“Yep,” he said, walking into the living room. “Am I that predictable?”

“No, not at all,” I replied. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Okay, so maybe just a little.”

His smile slid away, and he put his hand through his hair. I waited for it. He was going to say something like ‘Look, about last night,’ and it was the last thing I wanted to talk about, so I changed subjects completely. “Can you teach me to play something on your piano?”

My request stopped him, and he spun to look at his piano. “Oh. Um.” He exhaled loudly. “Sure. I guess.”

I walked over to the piano and sat on one end of the bench seat. It really was a beautiful piece of furniture, instrument, whatever. Not that I was any kind of expert in grand pianos or anything, but it really was special.

Andrew sat beside me, our thighs and arms pressed together, and he lifted the lid. “Have you played anything before?”

“On the piano? No. God, I struggled with the triangle.”

He smiled at that. “That surprises me. I would have thought with how musically inclined you are, that you could play
some
thing.”

“I can,” I said proudly. “I can play records.”

Andrew chuckled and put his fingers to the keys. He explained the chords and octaves, but lost me when he added in the black keys, and if I was being truly honest, I started thinking about how long and elegant his fingers were and how they’d feel on my skin… Damn, I bet he could play me like a song.

“Spencer?”

“Oh. Sorry. Got side tracked by your fingers.”

He chuckled. “Put your fingers like this, right index on F.”

I did that, then he lifted my hands and moved them down a few keys. “Oh,
that
F.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed, and he taught me which keys were which, and we were soon playing the most masterful
Chopsticks
ever played. Well, to me it was. Andrew probably last played it when he was four.

I gave up in the end, declaring myself
pianocally
challenged.

“That is not a word.”

“Yes it is.” I grinned. “Play me something.”

“What?”

“Play me something. Anything. Your favourite,” I said. “
Moonlight Sonata
or whatever it was called.”

He looked back at the keys, then to me. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

So he did. And oh my God. I’ve never heard anything so beautiful. Ever. He closed his eyes and he lost himself in each note. He didn’t need sheet music to read from; he knew it by heart. It was perfection.

The last note hung in the air like some ethereal entity. His hands fell to his lap, and he finally looked at me, all vulnerable, like he’d shown a part of himself to me not many people ever got to see.

I should have given him some intelligent accolade, but all I could manage was, “Wow.”

He let out a nervous breath, his lips curled into a smile. “You liked it?”

“Loved it. Now play me one of your jazz-funk songs.” Then remembering my manners, I tacked on, “Please.”