I glanced down at my groin. “Oh, love, you don’t want to know. I’ve been in a state over you for weeks.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do these lines work on anyone? Ever?”
“I don’t normally have to use lines. I just sing. Maybe I should just sing you your song.”
“My—what?”
“Your song,” I said matter-of-factly. “I wrote it for you. Because you’ve put me in an extreme state of sexual denial.”
When she just stared at me, I started to hum “For You.” She wouldn’t know it, since she hadn’t been at the show. So, I launched into the first verse, dropping my head back as I let my voice lift.
A bit drunkenly, sure, but I still sounded good.
Probably.
The door shut in my face.
At least I’d moved my foot first.
I sighed and leaned my back against the door, still singing. Loudly. Off-key. Not really caring.
If she wasn’t going to let me in, I’d just sit her
e and keep singing all night.
Her across-the-hall neighbor came out and I held up a hand in apology. He glared until I mouthed “my girlfriend is mad at me,” and then he nodded in understanding and went back into his flat.
All men had experienced the scourge of an inflexible woman at one time or another.
I’d sung most of that night’s setlist, my eyelids getting disturbingly heavy as I progressed, when the door creaked behind me. It swung open and I fell on my back in the doorway, lying on the floor and staring blurrily up at Zoe.
Then my guitar case toppled over on me and nearly rendered me sterile.
My howl was pure animal agony.
“My God, you’re going to get me in trouble, you drunk lunatic.” She grabbed me under the arms and dragged me into her flat. I helped a little, but not as much as I should have, considering I was an able-bodied man.
Mostly.
“My guitar,” I mumbled as she pointed toward her sofa.
It was like climbing to the highest peak, but I grabbed hold of the arm of the couch and heaved myself up onto it. Thereby knocking over her mobile, which I bent to retrieve—and immediately glimpsed a picture of my hand scrawling my name on that woman’s tits.
Not even my full name. I’d written Kagan #1.
I started to laugh.
Zoe snatched the phone out of my hand.
“You were reading up on me.” My laughter subsided as I thought about the scene from her point of view. I wasn’t used to doing that often. Especially when it came to women. “I didn’t do anything with her.”
Zoe swiped across her phone screen and it went black. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“No, I do.” Suddenly, it was vitally important she understand. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it, but she didn’t look my way. “I wouldn’t do that, I swear. If I’d wanted her or any of them, I wouldn’t be here singing to the wallpaper in your hall.”
“I’m a challenge to you. I get it. But you might as well not bother.”
“Though you’re not a lesbian,” I said carefully, only to have her snatch her hand away. I sighed. “Just making sure.”