Lexi Cocker - Faleena Hopkins Page 0,9
who puts songs together?” Gage stares ahead without a sign he understood or even heard me, his relaxed face momentarily lit by one of the antique street-lamps I love so much. “He arranges the vocal and instrumental tracks, has a vision for where the song should go and creates that for the vocal and musical artists.”
“Don’t know much about music, Cherry.”
“Huh.”
We pass a man climbing out of his Lexus who straightens to admire the Bronco lazily drifting by him at a respectable pace for sleeping residents. I watch the guy drinking in its pristine exterior. He nods to himself and walks up his driveway.
Smiling, I twist back to face front, prop my right boot-heel on the black glovebox, leg bent but not spread. “What do you know about, Gage?”
He cuts an unhappy glance to my boot, and I carefully pull my leg back so as not to scratch his precious truck, sitting upright again, clasping my hands in my lap like a kid caught fucking up.
Can’t blame him.
I wasn’t thinking.
Must’ve been countless hours of work making it look this good. Perfect restoration, slick, detailed, shiny, clean. Probably should’ve thought twice before throwing a foot up on it.
But I like riding that way, and I was starting to feel comfortable. Not comfy now.
“Sorry.”
“All good, Cherry.”
We slow to turn left off of my old street, and right onto the next.
I’ve walked this two-lane road hundreds of times, and it’s equally peaceful with just as many oak tree roots pushing through asphalt and making the sidewalk impossible for skateboarding.
“So… what do you know about?”
“You said he puts songs together?”
“Yes.”
“I put things together.”
I’m admiring the pride in Gage’s expression, the cut of his shoulders, and his steady and sharp Adam’s apple. My voice is quieter as I ask, “Like what?”
“Things.”
“Wanna be more specific?”
“Can’t be.”
“What?”
“I put together things.”
“Yes,” I smile, “Got that.”
“Cool.”
I frown and face forward, unwilling to press further.
With all the Cocker men that are forever in my life — uncles, brothers, cousins and don't forget Grandpa, I’m used to short answers and silence when they don’t want to explain any further.
Not from my dad though. He’s always willing to talk things through.
But his twin? Uncle Justin can zip his lip better than anyone.
Except maybe Uncle Jaxson.
No, wait.
Ben has them beat.
I feel Gage looking at me, so I lock eyes with him. “Hi.”
He smiles, “Hey,” and focuses on turning into the driveway of a two-story craftsman home of twilight blue with white trim and three steps leading up.
Quick as a lightning bug I take note of its screened-in porch, two large windows on the first floor, three medium-sized on the second, and one tiny window in a tower that may or may not be a small attic. Which would make it a three-story.
Four, if there’s a basement.
I always think that counts.
No lights on here either.
Roommates not home?
Good.
I wait for Gage to jump out, come around the car to open my door — don’t even go for my handle — and when he does, I hold out my hand. Our fingers slide together and I’m pleasantly surprised to be taken into his arms for another, “Hey,” this time throatier.
I whisper, staring at his parted lips, “Hi there.”
He licks them as I watch, and inspires an ache between my upper thighs that pulls them together.
What’s he gonna do?
Kiss me?
I’m waiting to see.
Not breathing again.
His eyes are so intense.
I get lost.
Gage’s warm fingers apply more pressure into my back like they did before, when we kissed. There’s no moon out, only an antique streetlamp in the distance lighting our skin as we gaze at each other.
Watching him think is hypnotizing me. How his crocodiles flicker, eyelashes pitch black. How his cheekbones tighten. I count three tiny moles, two of them close to the sharp line where his jaw meets his neck on the right side, one by his eyebrow on the other.
My breath hitches as I’m lifted up, his hands wrapping my legs around him.
He carries me up the driveway, turning on a small path lined with darkened solar lanterns that must have their batteries out, keys jingling.
Gage rasps, “Hang on to me,” giving me a quick, rough kiss before reaching to swiftly unlock the deadbolt.
I tighten my legs, gripping onto his hard body, arms clasped around his neck, burrowing in to kiss his throbbing jugular vein as we walk inside.
He kicks the door closed, locks it while locking lips with me.
We go absolutely nuts, making out with me wrapped around him like a spider monkey, grinding