Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 4

  She grinned. “Please do. That actually sounds intriguing. What about the other ones?”

  “Well, my grandpa started giving me instruments to learn so I would stay out of trouble, and I became obsessed with them and taught myself. So, I learned ukulele, mandolin, harmonica, drums, and the bass guitar. Hoping to learn the banjo next.”

  “Wow, you’re practically a musical prodigy. It’s no wonder that you’re Joseph Bennett’s granddaughter. You inherited all his talent.”

  Who needed wine as a pick-me-up when I heard Reagan Moore relishing my music?

  “Oh, well, thank you. That means a lot.”

  “And where did you learn to loop?”

  “Honestly, I saw a street performer doing it in West Hollywood when I was a teenager. I stopped and asked him what he was doing, and he told me everything. I asked for a station for Christmas, and the rest is history.”

  We both took another liberal gulp, our eye contact never breaking, and because it never broke, my stomach did another backflip. Seriously. What was up with my stomach lately? Her stare drew me in to catch a closer look at the depths of her eyes. At one glance, I’d just catch a beautiful pair of blue eyes. But at a closer look, I almost caught a glimpse of a million stories she tucked way back in those depths. Stories of joy, sadness, hope, and heartbreak. I wanted to know them all.

  “You look like you’re in deep thought,” Reagan said with what looked to be curiosity forming a half smile.

  She caught me in deep thought about how beautiful her eyes were. I wasted a moment to think about what to say next.

  “Just thinking about how I need another glass of wine.”

  * * *

  From Denver to Santa Fe to Tampa to Miami, it was a lot of driving. A lot of music playing. A lot of fans singing back to us. A lot of fans we met and signed autographs for. The excitement of touring didn’t get old. We hosted a party in a different city and venue every night. Drank and socialized with Reagan’s dancers and crew after. I wondered if people ever got sick of touring because I didn’t think I would. No part was boring. Not even all the driving. The driving days, Miles and I drank beers while writing songs, recording demos, and purposely annoying Corbin because it was easy and fun to do. We hadn’t written in months due to my intense writer’s block from Gramps’s cancer and death, and though I still didn’t feel one hundred percent back in it, I felt as if I was on the right path.

  I was thankful when we reached Miami, a bustling city with a backdrop of tropical waters, beautiful people, and lots of booze and dancing. The bright blue waters were a wonderful sight after driving through the cornfields of Middle America for the past week.

  Miles and I were so ready for the beach…and to be anywhere besides a bus. I got the hint that everyone else on the tour felt the same way because every time we landed in our next destination, we spilled from our buses, formed our cliques, and went off to sightsee if we had even two hours to kill before we had to start getting ready for the show. Everyone except for Reagan, who went straight to her hotel room to do God only knew what until she emerged again at the arena.

  I hated that she never went out while all of us bonded, formed inside jokes, and took in the different sights of each city while she locked herself a hotel room, which I’m not sure was drastically different from her bus. She spent a lot of time being alone and cooped up. I don’t know how she did it.

  Miles made progress with the cute bearded guy during our adventures with the dancers and crew. Turned out, the bearded guy had a name. Ethan. A political science major who didn’t want to do anything political science related, so he joined Reagan Moore’s tour as a guitar tech. And when Miles, Corbin, and I decided to storm South Beach for some fun in the sun, he invited Ethan. Since Miles would be too busy flirting with a guy who might or might not be into him, I decided to take a risk by texting Reagan about our plans. I knew she would reject them given her history of all the other stops we made in the first week and a half. But even one of the most famous people in the world deserved to enjoy the fresh air, the fun, and to feel included on her own tour. It was worth a shot.

  So, I texted her. Miles, Corbin, and I are going to the beach at 11. Come join and have fun with us.

  She responded about a minute later. That does sound really fun. I wish I could join but I can’t.

  Me: Oh, come on. It’s beautiful out.

  Reagan: Last time I went to the beach I got chased off it. True story.

  Me: Wear a disguise. We can go find one of those fake mustaches to put on you.

  She texted me a smiley emoji, followed by, I would love to, but I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin your fun. Plus, I have a book I should finish.

  Me: No! You never come out with us. I refuse to let you be a grandma at 23.

  Reagan: Hey! There’s a reason for my madness. It’s called a stampede.

  Me: We want you to come out! You deserve to have fun. Try it for a little, and if it’s too much, then we head back. Promise. Enjoy the sunshine and the water. You know you want to.

  Reagan: I really do. It sounds wonderful.

  Me: Then join. Pretty, pretty please.

  I didn’t get a response until two hours later when I heard a knock on my hotel door. When I opened it, I found Reagan in the worst possible disguise. Celebrities and their disguises. Did they really lose all perception of concealing identity once they got their million-dollar check and Twitter verification? The top half of her face was swallowed by a white floppy hat and those oversized black sunglasses, and the rest of her body hid underneath an aqua cover-up dress.

  “Ready to hit the beach?” she said with a smile popping through her costume.

  “Wait, is that your disguise?”

  Her smile dropped. “What?”

  “I mean, you look wonderful. No one will ever know it’s you. You’re just a regular gal in Gucci glasses underneath a cloud, I mean, floppy hat,” I said and smacked the brim.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  I laughed because she was actually dead serious, as if she legitimately thought it was a good attempt to disguise herself.

  “No, why would I do that? It’s not like you made fun of me on your bus, so that would be so cruel and unfair. Now, let’s go. We’re missing prime sun time.”

  We made it to one of the last open spots on South Beach without anyone recognizing her. Walking from our hotel to that spot, it felt as if we were helping a prisoner sneak out of jail. But as we laid our towels down, we were still safe. Miraculously.

  “See, my disguise worked,” Reagan said and dropped her designer bag down in the sand.

  “Yeah, but how are you gonna get in the water with the hat?”

  “Why do you keep going after the hat?”

  “Um, because you went after my tattoo and alcohol choices.”

  I pulled out my sunscreen and attempted to apply it. Miles already was on it with Ethan. By the time I got my sleeve lathered up, he was rubbing sunscreen on Ethan’s back, the two in their own little world and poor Corbin the lone man out, just waiting for a bottle.

  “You need help with your back?” Reagan asked.

  Miles and Corbin exchanged amused looks and then roared with laughter. Both of them knew better than to offer to help me with sunscreen. It freaked me out when people massaged the lotion into my skin. I didn’t want their grimy hands touching every inch of my body the same way I’d use sensual oils to arouse my partner right before sex. Nope, it felt too intimate. I always did my own back. Also, if someone did your back, it was an unwritten rule that you did their back, and I really didn’t want to lather someone up with sunscreen. Nope, I didn’t want to touch their zits, hairy moles, or back hair. I kept my hands to myself, thank you.

  But all that changed when I turned around at the sound of Reagan’s question. There she stood in a white string bikini. My stare went right to her flat stomach and the lines that curved around her abs, probably from yoga and the dancing that was part of her set. And then my gaze fe
ll to her very small bottoms and her muscular legs and then wandered up to her chest. The curves of her breasts were even more perfect than when they appeared in the dip of her black, sparkly bodysuit.

  And there I stood, forgetting how to talk, frozen on South Beach on an early June day.

  “Huh?” I meant to say, but the sound ended up coming out as an inaudible noise.

  “Do. You. Need. Help. With. Your. Back?” Her question was filled with sass, but she eased it with her smirk.

  “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  I held out the sunscreen mechanically, as if my arm was controlled by an unknown force. That force being her white string bikini. She grabbed the bottle, eyeing me suspiciously, and I hoped that it wasn’t because she noticed my scanning every inch of her body. She squirted the lotion in her hand and motioned me to turn around. Right before she put her hands on me, she stopped before saying, “This is beautiful.”

  I sucked in my breath when her fingers touched the black dream catcher tattoo on the side of my ribs. As she traced along the feathers hanging down to the top of my obliques, this electricity hummed from my ribs straight down.

  I suddenly needed to guzzle the water bottle I brought in my bag.

  “Thank you. Second tattoo.”

  “Out of how many?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I lost count when I got this done.” I wiggled my right arm.

  That was when her hands landed on my shoulders, shocking me with the cold lotion and the wonderful, gentle touch of her hands massaging that stuff into my skin. Slowly, gently, and methodically. It was almost as if she was purposely trying to make skin care sensual. And it worked because I inhaled from each touch, closing my eyes and basking in her hands wandering all over my back.

  “Oh, so Reagan’s allowed to put lotion on you, but you get creeped out when anyone else offers?” Miles whined.

  I opened my eyes and found Miles standing there with crossed arms. Sunscreen painted his shoulders that hadn’t been rubbed in by Ethan yet. He was also staring with a crooked grin.

  “Okay, Miles.” I tried to shut his trap, knowing the next words to follow.

  Reagan laughed behind me as she squirted another round on my arm. Yup, there was no saliva left in my mouth when her boobs leaned into my back as her arms wrapped around me. “You don’t let people help you with sunscreen?” she asked, and her question tickled the back of my neck.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Corbin added and was too dumb to notice me shooting daggers right at his flapping mouth. “She thinks it’s too sexual.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “Last summer, when we went to Huntington Beach,” Miles continued, “you refused to let us help you with sunscreen. You even turned down Alanna when she offered—her girlfriend, for the record,” he informed Ethan and Reagan, “and then you got that giant-ass burn on your back that had you bedridden for four days. Remember that?”

  “Wow, you really don’t like sunscreen, do you?” Ethan said as he returned the sunscreen application to Miles, whose smug smirk grew even wider when Ethan resumed.

  “She doesn’t,” Miles said. “And then she begged her ex-girlfriend to put aloe all over her back after that.”

  “Remind me to kick sand in your face when she’s done, okay?” I said.

  Reagan playfully slapped my shoulders. “All done, SoCo girl. I’m honored to have been allowed to help you prevent skin cancer. Now, do you mind returning the favor? Or is that too weird?”

  “She won’t do it,” Corbin said. “It’s another part of the reason why she hates people putting lotion on her back. She doesn’t want to rub anyone’s skin—”

  I snatched the bottle out of Reagan’s hands before Corbin could finish. “I got this. Nice try, though.”

  Reagan welcomed my lotion-covered hands by lifting her beach-curled hair. I applied the sunscreen on her back the same way she did mine. Slowly kneaded it in her skin, making sure the neck that collected all her stress really got protected from the UV rays. Her skin was so soft, and feeling each curve of her upper back created a low burn in my stomach that radiated down to underneath my bikini bottoms.

  “I think Blair has a crush on Reagan,” Corbin chanted not so quietly to Miles and Ethan, who rewarded him with teasing laughter.

  “I think we’re past the ‘like’ level,” Miles said. “I’ve known her since we were fourteen, and not once have I ever seen her allow people to rub sunscreen on her. It has to be love.”

  I lowered the bottle and glared at all three of them. “Stop making this weird. Seriously.”

  And I could see the tug of Reagan’s lips from her ears, only encouraging their banter. “Yeah, guys,” Reagan said. “I’m getting a great massage out of it. Plus, I really believe in exposure therapy, so shut up.”

  I ignored their banter because the woman who basically owned the radio and the music charts needed to be protected from the strong Florida rays, or she would be too sunburned to perform, leaving thousands of people devastated and their whole summers ruined. So, basically, I was doing the world justice by touching her skin.

  Slowly, my oily hands slid down her back, making a pit stop halfway down where her bikini top tied together. I glided my hands underneath the knot and then to the side, sweeping down the curve of her stomach, then to the small of her back. She leaned her head to the side, and I could have sworn she let out a heavy sigh. A similar sigh to the one that escaped her when she tried my lemon bars.

  When I was all finished with the best task ever given to me, she let her hair down and faced me, revealing a satisfied smile. “Well, that was probably the best sunscreen application I’ve ever received.”

  “Had to make sure your skin was thoroughly protected.”

  “Oh, it’s thoroughly protected. Thanks for the massage,” she said and placed a hand on my shoulder for a brief second.

  After that low-key, arousing moment, I made it my mission to be by her and her string bikini for the rest of the time on the beach.

  I couldn’t believe her floppy hat and Gucci glasses worked like DEET to mosquitoes, but it did. The five of us spent an hour making a crappy excuse for a sandcastle without having any buckets. Miles and Ethan worked on the moat while Corbin, Reagan, and I sculpted the castle. During the whole sandcastle building, no one spotted her. Granted, she still wore her floppy hat and sunglasses, so it was pretty difficult to make out her face, but Reagan even made a comment how wonderful it felt to go unnoticed and do something as simple as building a sandcastle on the beach.

  “You know the last time I did something normal like this in public?” she asked. “Two years ago, I stuck my hair up in a beanie and wore a baggy shirt and sweatpants and no makeup and saw a movie. Those two hours were wonderful. I got a large buttered popcorn. A fountain soda. Sat in the darkest corner like a creep. No one bothered me.”

  I started to feel bad for her. Part of me didn’t because everything she had going for her in her career was something I’d dreamed of having ever since I successfully played the treble clef part of “Heart and Soul” on the piano with Gramps when I was five. But the other part of me couldn’t fully understand what it was like worrying about going to the beach or the movies or the convenience store down the street. I still had that luxury.

  “So, you’re glad you risked it and came out?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks for dragging me out. It’s nice being invisible for once all while getting tan.” She winked.

  But by the end of our art sculpting, the five of us took a step back to admire our mediocre work with sweat dripping down our faces. It was a hot day in Miami, with only a few clouds shielding us from the sun. When we finished our sandcastle, we were ready to take a refreshing dip in the bright blue water. The only one who was hesitant was Reagan, knowing she would have to leave her invisibility behind when she removed her floppy hat and sunglasses.

  “Remember what I told you,” I said. “We can leave anytime. I’ll kick sand at anyone who tries to bother you.”


  That pulled a smile from her. She tossed the hat on the towels and joined Miles, Ethan, and me in frolicking to the water like little kids, while Corbin volunteered to stay behind to watch our stuff. Miles and I fully committed by diving into the crashing waves, allowing the water to wash away the sweat from our faces and bodies. Reagan stayed behind with Ethan waist deep, while Miles and I spent the next few minutes challenging the waves each time they curled forward.

  Something about getting tossed around by the ocean waves was thrilling to me.

  After I popped my head back up after a few dives and blew the salt water out of my nose, I searched for Ethan and Reagan only to find them back where our towels were with Corbin. A group of teenage girls huddled around Reagan with phones extended in their arms. Despite warning me how she couldn’t go out because of this very reason and despite her subtle complaints about always being noticed, she still bent down to appease her fans, wrapping her arms around them. Ethan and Corbin did nothing but take pictures.

  Being invisible only lasted so long for her.

  “Oh shit,” I said and trudged through the water.

  The snickering high school girls spread the word, and by the time we got back to our towels, the sandcastle had been trampled over by at least a dozen fans asking Reagan for her picture. She entertained most of them by taking selfies, but I caught her eyeing other people nearby on the beach, doing a crappy job at hiding their phones sneaking a picture.

  “Hey, let’s head out,” I said to her, tugging her arm before the next round of fans stumbled over.

  This time, we didn’t make it to the hotel unnoticed. Even with the floppy hat, bathing suit cover-up, and sunglasses, the fans from South Beach had chased us all the way onto the path toward our hotel.

  “Reagan! Reagan! Just one picture, please!” the crowd said.

  Without permission, people lurched forward to snap a selfie, immediately looked at how it turned out, and if they didn’t like it, they tried it again. They acted as if she was a zoo animal who they could constantly take pictures of until they got it perfect enough for an Instagram filter.