Thursday Throw Out

Well, it has been an odd week. I spent last weekend watching my favorite 90's television show. And every moment since thinking about Jared Leto. I am a sad sad girl. So in order to (hopefully) get it out of my system I wrote a short story about it...Sorry you have to be subjected to my psychosis...here is a little reminder of the reason I am so obsessed at the moment. P.s. this was written based on a dream and not edited at all...but you want to read, and this is what I wrote this week...k-bye

JORDAN’S EYES

What am I doing here? I mean seriously, how do I let myself be talked into these crazy situations? Who am I kidding, Emily is the best damn bull-shitter there is. She comes up with a crazy plan and I just go along with it, because I love her. Since high school, it has been the same way. Oh well, our adventures always make for great stories.

I lean against the wall outside the green room. The bouncer just let her stride right in there. Which does not surprise me, Emily is gorgeous. Her curvy petite frame, big brown doe eyes, and huge rack open doors wherever she goes. As of today, that includes the green room, backstage at the 60 Minutes In Space concert. We were in like Flynn, the door held wide open for us. At least, it was, until I dropped my purse just outside the door. I bent down to pick it up, and stood just in time to see the door slam in my face.

Perfect.

I would just leave, but Em has the keys to my car. Instead, I get to stand here, looking like a groupie reject. I should just be happy I am backstage at all. I should, but I am not. This is just pathetic, sad, and pathetic.

I push off the wall and walk toward the loading dock. The roadies are feverishly loading the bands equipment into the tractor-trailer emblazoned with the bands logo. Just beyond them is the tour bus with the same decals. Skirting the edge of the entire area are crowd control gates with at least a hundred fans pressed up against them. The concert has been over for almost two hours, you have to admire their persistence.

I pull a clove cigarette out of my purse, a rare treat I only afford myself when I go to an event like this.  The roadies grunt at me as I step just outside the door and light up. My kid would kill me is she saw me smoking right now.

 My kid. I am worried what a nine year old would say if she saw me right now.  I am so old.

The door swings open again. I take another step away from the door to make room for my new smoking companion. I do not look up. Whoever it is, is not going to be interested in a frumpy, overweight, thirty something mom from Minnesota. I take another drag, savoring the sweet tobacco and black licorice flavor. 

“Holy shit, is that a Clove?” A sultry sweet voice questions me. I freeze, cigarette halfway to my lips. It cannot be, no freaking way. I am too afraid to look up for fear I will be disappointed.

“You wouldn’t have to have another one of those would you? I don’t think I have had a clove since the nineties.“  The voice continues. I focus on my purse at my hip, rifling through it for the clove tin. I see a set of bare feet poking out from under a pair of loose hanging jeans. I dare to trail my eyes up a little further. A well-worn flannel shirt hangs open, at the waistline of the faded, low-slung jeans, the telltale tattoo of the lead singer of 60 Minutes in Space.

Oh. My. Gawd. Breathe Star, just breathe.

I look up as I extend the hand with the cigarette towards him. A lump forms deep in my throat, and a garbled, choking sound passes my lips as I stare, up-close and personal, with the man I have been in love with since I was sixteen years old. Jordan Catilano.

He smiles and places the cigarette between his lips, leaning close to block the breeze as he lights it. I stiffen as a piece of his hair brushes against my cheek. He smells of tea-tree oil and amber, and I feel a little light headed from the intoxicating effect of it.

Leaning back against the wall, he takes another drag. I am pretty sure I have never seen anyone look that cool smoking a cigarette before.  His eyebrows knit together and he cocks his head to the side. The questioning look he is giving me makes me realize I am still standing here, mouth agape, staring at him unabashed. I slam it shut, painfully clacking my teeth together in the process. Embarrassed, I throw my hand over my face, letting out a huff of breath as I slouch against the wall.

A hand extends into my peripheral vision and I peek out from under my fingers, hoping it’s too dark for him to see the redness on my cheeks.

“Hi I’m Jordan.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yea, I guess you would.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He laughs. A sound I commit to memory.

“Nothing, I just meant that you are here, so you probably know who I am.”

“Oh.” My face heats again.

“So what’s your name?”

My throat tightens again, and I forget my name for a second. “Oh, umm, Star, Star Kava.”

Jordan glances down toward his hand, still extended in my direction. I stare at it blankly for a second, and then extend my own. Sliding my hand in his I squeeze, then give a firm professional handshake. He looks at me amused as I release his hand, but he continues to hold on to my fingers. I don’t try to pull away. Why would I.

“So, Star Kava, why are you not in the green room partying with the others?” He studies me curiously.

My brain is still focused on the fact that he is touching me, voluntarily. To distract myself, I force myself to look him in the eye. A trick I learned in business school to exude confidence during job interviews. Only this time, it is a huge mistake.

His eyes. I was drawn to them in 1994, and now that they are less than two feet from me. I find myself like a moth to a flame. His huge beautiful pools of heavenly blue are like a sirens call. He looks like an angel, a young man. I know he is older than I am, but he looks like he is still in his twenties. I have had entire fantasy dream sequences about this man. I shake myself out of my inner monologue and focus on our conversation, however one sided it has been so far.

“Oh, umm, I couldn’t get in. I didn’t fit the profile.” I motion to my whole body as if the answer is obvious.

He looks confused. “So what is the profile?”

“I don’t know. Not me.” I relight the clove I have been crushing between my fingers. He continues to eye me curiously.

“What is wrong with you?” Jordan asks, pulling a hood over his head, as some drunken groupies spill out the door beside us. We stand in silence watching the girls drape themselves over a roadie promising them a tour of the bus in the distance. Once they are out of earshot, he turns his attention back to me. “So?” He questions.

“The last thing a famous band wants is a 36 year old mom standing awkwardly in the corner of the green room. I mean, I saw the other girls in there. Just look at me.”

“I am.”

My stomach does a somersault. He was looking at me. He was looking straight in my eyes, and directly through my soul. I suck in a sharp breath and clear my throat.

“Wow, you are good.”

“Thanks. I think?” He replies.

I shake my head and lean back against the wall again.

“Do you want to go see the bus?” He asks, pushing himself away from his position next to me. My entire body feels his absence.

“Is that a line? Because I am NOT sleeping with you.”  What am I saying... I would sleep with him in a second. God, I am desperate.

“No, it’s a question. If you want to stand out here all by yourself, that is your choice. I am going to make sure that roadie isn’t banging those chicks in my bed.”

I take all of two seconds to trot after him toward the bus. A chorus of flashbulbs and questions start flying at us as we approach. Jordan throws an arm over my shoulder and stops to pose for a couple pictures for the media. When one of the tabloid reports asks who I am, he shouts back. “This is Star Kava, my new girlfriend.” I laugh aloud at the comment; I know he is just toying with them.

Jordan opens a beer from the buses full bar and hands it to me. “Wait here. I am going to go find Joe and those groupies and get them off my bus.” I nod, and he takes off toward the back of the bus.  I start inspecting the lavish interior. The room I am in has a full bar and two couches that run the length of the walls.  There are guitars and keyboards and even an electronic drum set hanging precariously between the deeply tinted windows. Sporadically around the room, framed pictures of the band with other famous people and political figures are placed within view.

I hear yelling coming from above my head, but try to ignore it. Drinking the remainder of my beer, I toss it into a trash bin behind the bar. Seconds later a dejected looking Joe crosses through the room with the two drunken groupies. One visibly crying. I smile at them triumphantly as the first gives me a bitchy look. “I love you Jordan!” the crier yells as Joe pulls them both off the bus.

I cannot help the giggle that explodes from me at the desperate look on her face. I feel Jordan enter before I see him. His lean figure slinks behind the bar grabbing two more beers and handing one to me. I open it and slam it, drinking half before setting it down on the bar. I need a little liquid courage to get me through this extremely awkward situation.

Jordan smiles at me, nodding toward the rear of the bus. “You want that tour?”

“Sure.” I grab my beer and follow him through a narrow hallway.

“The bar and entertaining area, is the room you were just in.” He makes a right turn, and heads up the stairs to the second level. Another long stretch of hallway looms ahead of us as she points out the sleeping quarters of his band mates. He stops at the last door, swinging it open. “This is my room. “ I glance inside and it is surprisingly tidy. He raises an eyebrow giving me a sexy as hell, suggestive grin.

“Nope.” I brush past him toward the next flight of stairs. He follows me up and I cringe at the thought of my giant ass, level with that beautiful face.  We reach the next level and I gasp. The roof is see through and  also retractable.  On the far end is another bar, several deck chairs are spread throughout the area and directly in the middle is a large hot tub big enough to fit ten people.

“Holy shit.”

I whistle through my teeth and walk to the railing glancing over the edge facing the  stadium.  I didn’t realize the bus was this tall  when we walked over.  Jordan walks to the opposite side and the crowd outside the gates screams. He waves then crosses to the rail next to me.  I take him in again, it almost hurts to look at him.  He looks down at me, dividing his focus between my eyes and my lips.  Stepping close he leans  his back against the rail, facing me.  His disturbingly inviting lips are now level with mine.  He leans toward me, his breath hot on my face. I place my hand on his cheek and then….

BEEP BEEEP BEEP BEEP………….

Stupid alarm.

Best.  Dream.  Ever.

 *****

Yep. Sorry, not sorry. See you next week.