Bar Crawl(16)

She was everything that scared me about myself. Everything I kept hidden. Still, I wanted more of her every second I was around her. She was far from a drug; there’d be no way to clear her from my system. And, I had to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with that.

Frankie turned us onto a dead end street that looked like it was plucked from a movie about suburban life. Bright green lawns wafting that freshly cut scent and a few kids playing basketball at the end of the cul-de-sac completed the modern fantasy. I was briefly lost in the material of it all, the hundred stories I could have started from that scene alone peppering my subconscious.

“Well, here we are.” Frankie led me up a stone walk to a two-story, grey cedar-sided home with soft yellow shutters. She tentatively let go of my hand in order to dig her key out of her bag.

“Nice place,” I commented. “I can’t imagine what it rents for.” I know it’s frowned upon to talk about money, but, the way I see it is how are any of us supposed to learn anything if we don’t talk about it?

Frankie shrugged. “I can’t either. I own it.”

I did little to hide my shock. My eyes opened wider than they had in days, since I’d been pulling a lot of late-night gigs, and my mouth fell open slightly. “Wow.”

“What?” She chuckled as she held the door open for me, welcoming me into the cozy space.

“I don’t know. Most people our age rent…don’t they?” My best friend, Georgia, owned her place in La Jolla, California, but she’d inherited it from her father when he’d passed away. I couldn’t think of anyone I knew in their mid-twenties who’d bought a house. Especially alone.

Frankie talked as she led us down a short hallway, lined with framed photos of what I gathered to be her family and friends. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve had a good job for several years and I love the area, so why give someone else the money?”

“Don’t, like, married people buy houses?” I bristled at the word. I typically worked very hard to avoid using the M word in any context around a woman. Relevant or not.

“Some of them do. Does my real estate intimidate you?” She pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek, seeming to try to block a smile.

Yes, it does.

I shook my head definitively. “No, not at all. Congratulations, really. I have so many friends that bounce around from job to job; I can’t imagine it would be easy for them to get a home loan if they’d tried. The rest are starving artists, and, well, that’s kind of self-explanatory.”

“Want something to drink? I have seltzer, water, juice, beer.”

Beer.

“Water’s good, thanks.” My eyes settled on Frankie’s shoulder blades as they moved against her skin, bare from the black sleeveless shirt she was wearing. As she reached for a glass on the top shelf of the cabinet next to the fridge, a sliver of the skin on her lower back made an appearance. And made me thankful that I’d requested water.

I can’t explain what’s so sexy about the small of a woman’s back, but whatever it was, Frankie had it in spades.

She poured the water from her filtered tap, and turned around with a soft smile. “So, are you starving?”

I ran my hand down the front of my shirt. “Not really starving. I housed a cinnamon bun before you got to the coffee—”

“No,” Frankie laughed as she fought to keep herself from spitting out water, “I mean are you a starving artist. Like the friends you mentioned. I mean, I know you have money from that social media share thing you mentioned, but…from your music. How does that go? Since we’re talking about money.” She settled herself on a stool around a granite-topped island in the center of her kitchen, and I followed suit, sitting across from her and planting my elbows on the cool stone.

I took a deep breath. “It’s hard to say. If I didn’t have the money in the bank that I do, it’d be hard to justify what I’m doing with the drums, unless I started charging a lot more per gig.”

“You don’t make a lot? You’re awesome, though!”

I fought the grin. I knew she meant it because she certainly had no reason to puff up my ego. And she’d seen me play more than once, which is more than I can say for most of the other girls I’d ever found myself in conversation with in their kitchens.

“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s kind of a double-edged sword. I don’t need the money, so since we’re kind of a cheap band—price wise—we get a shitload of gigs all over the damn place. That means I get to play more. Which makes me happy. The other guys I play with have nine-to-fives. We’re ridiculously lucky to have the talent we do. There’s no time to practice anyway.” I chuckled and ran my thumb up and down the sweating glass. Normally I loved talking about myself. In Frankie’s house, though, I felt like I was bragging.

“So if you charged more, you wouldn’t get as many gigs.”

I nodded. “It’s hard to say. We have a reputation by now, and most bar managers tell us we’re under-charging, but…I don’t know. I left that f*cking internet place because of the egos and the money and all of that. I don’t want that shit tainting the music, you know?”

“I get it. That’s why I volunteer at the library.” Frankie set her glass down and folded her arms across the cool stone.