I can’t.
All of a sudden she hops down from the stool and walks over toward my old record player. As I watch her, unable to take my eyes away from the curve of her back, she begins to leaf through my old albums, one by one.
‘You like the 80s?’ she says, looking back over her shoulder and grinning.
‘I love the 80s,’ I say, defensively.
‘Blue Hurricane?’ she asks, lifting one of the sleeves out with a puzzled look on her face.
‘I said I loved the 80s,’ I say slowly before taking another swig. ‘I never said I had good taste.’
‘The Chasers?’ she says, looking at me. ‘Barnstorm? I’ve never heard of half of these bands.’
‘Because you were born over a decade after they all broke up,’ I say.
She rounds on me, pointing another sleeve in my direction. ‘I grew up on 80s music,’ she snaps. ‘You know what every US military base in the world has in common? Bad music. I know my bad music.’
I laugh. Somehow she’s even cuter when she’s angry. Her accusatory stance crumbles at my stone-faced stare, and then her eye catches the cover of the record she’s holding and twinkles. She gasps, audibly.
‘Velvet City?’ she says. ‘I fucking love this album.’
‘Language,’ I say again, but she’s not listening, she’s already raising the needle and sliding the disc underneath. She spins the volume down to two and leans in, listening closely as the first few notes begin to filter through.
I can feel the excitement coming from her; can see the goosebumps spreading up her arms, and it’s refreshing. I stand involuntarily, and her head spins around, her eyes wide. ‘You want to dance?’ she says, grinning with disbelief.
‘No,’ I say, but I don’t know why I’m standing either, so I don’t say anything else.
Her eyes grow wide as I walk toward her, and then I reach out and take the sleeve from her hands, running my eyes over the artwork and smiling.
‘What is it?’ she says, still bent over and listening. ‘Reminiscing about buying it from the old record shop back in 86? How much was it? Four dollars?’
‘You’ll pay for that,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘Seven dollars, actually.’
‘Ouch,’ she laughs. ‘Must’ve been a lot of pocket money.’
‘I saved up,’ I say, sliding it back into the rack.
She gasps as they all fall forward, another band coming into view. ‘Stone Cupid? Oh my god.’
I bite my tongue. ‘Okay,’ I say, trying not to laugh.
‘What?’ she says.
‘Nothing,’ I say, but I can’t stop myself.
‘What are you laughing at?’ she says, reaching for the album without taking her eyes off me.
‘Nothing. Stone Cupid. Great band,’ I nod, but I can’t keep a straight face.
She shakes her head, her eyebrows raised. ‘You’re a child of the 80s, and you don’t appreciate Stone Cupid?’ she says, shaking her head as she lifts the needle and slides out Velvet City, replacing it quickly as the room fills with awful synth-pop.
Immediately Mackenzie begins to sway, throwing her hips from side to side as she dances around me, her hands raised in the air as she twirls and lets her ponytail fall down, her eyes spinning away as she moves her body like a professional dancer, gesturing for me to join her, but I don’t.
All I can do is watch, breathing deep as my dick hardens, trying to maintain control. There’s a battle raging inside of me, and I don’t like the way it’s going. I close my eyes and force down the instinct to pick her up, throw her down on the dining room table, pull down her white lace panties and fuck her right here and right now.
What I wouldn’t do…
She meets my eye and blushes, and for a moment I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking. Did my thoughts betray me? Is she thinking the same thing? That photograph of me flickers in my mind as I hold her gaze, and then my chest racks with guilt and I look up at Lucy’s portrait as Mackenzie follows my gaze.