realize that, right away?
I motion to the waiter for another round of drinks, and then return to Alessandra with a relaxed smile. “So, what kinds of songs do you write? Who are your biggest musical influences?”
She leans back onto her lounger with ease and confidence, before rattling off an eclectic, impressive list of bands and artists. “But I think my biggest influence is Laila Fitzgerald,” she says. “People often say I remind them of her.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“I agree. Laila is my idol. My songs have that same sort of jazz-infused quality to them, even though they’re foundationally ‘indie singer-songwriter.’”
“I’d be happy to introduce you to Laila tonight at the party, if you’d like.”
Alessandra’s bright blue eyes bug out. “Really?”
“Sure.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She gasps. “Thank you!” And then opens and closes her mouth in rapid succession, like she’s been rendered speechless. She reaches for my arm, like she’s going to grip it excitedly, but then jerks back suddenly. She palms her forehead. Puffs out her cheeks. And, finally, fans her bright-red face. “You know I wasn’t angling for an introduction to Laila when I mentioned her, right? I’d honestly forgotten who you are for a minute there. I’d hate for you to think—”
“I don’t.” I chuckle. “It’s all good. I swear. I only offered because Laila is a friend, and I know she’d love to meet you.” And also because I want any excuse to hang out with you at the party tonight.
“Thank you so much, Fish.”
“It’s nothing. I’m happy to do it.”
Alessandra physically shudders with excitement—a move that causes arousal to rocket into my dick. She takes a deep breath and visibly collects herself. “So, what about you?” she says. “Who are your biggest musical influences?”
I cover my growing hard-on with my forearm. “Uh. Musical influences for me, personally, or for my band?”
“Oh! I love that those are different things. For you, personally.”
I name several bands and artists, and Alessandra listens intently. She comments enthusiastically and asks multiple questions, never seeming shy or reserved in the slightest. And, again, it’s obvious: music is the key to this pretty girl’s kingdom.
“I know this is going to sound like I’m sucking up to you,” Alessandra says. She pauses for dramatic effect, leans in, and whispers, “One of my all-time favorite bands, ever, is 22 Goats.”
I scowl playfully. “One of your favorites? Not your top favorite, ever?” I point toward the far end of the patio. “Get the fuck outta here. For shame.”
She laughs heartily with me.
“Seriously, that’s a huge compliment,” I say. “Especially coming from you.”
“There you go again. Fish, I’m a student. You’re a world-famous musician.”
“You’re a music student at one of the most prestigious music conservatories in the world, and you’ve got seriously awesome taste in music. The fact that my band is even in your top twenty is a huge honor.”
“Top twenty? Try top four. And it’s a tie for first, by the way. 22 Goats isn’t fourth.”
“Seriously?”
She nods. “I love all your songs. Every album is a masterpiece.”
“Which 22 Goats album is your favorite?”
She waves at the air. “I couldn’t pick. You’ve evolved so much with each album. Each one is a whole new experience. The perfect soundtrack of whatever I was going through at the time. That’s what I love about your band the most. That you guys aren’t afraid to grow and take risks. As an aspiring artist, I find that incredibly inspirational. After the huge success of your debut album, you could have ‘stuck with what got ya there,’ forevermore. But you decided to stretch yourselves. Also, I love that every song on every album is top quality. Innovative. Heartfelt. Interesting. Even the simple love songs are produced with simplicity for impact, not because you were cutting corners or because the song was some kind of throwaway or filler.”
Damn. That was a lot of words from her, all at once. Not to mention, a lot of fucking awesome words. “Wow,” I say. “You really are a fan.”
Alessandra cringes. “Did I fangirl too hard?”
“Not at all.”
“I told you I’d talk your ear off if I got comfortable and felt passionately about a topic.”
“And I told you I’ve got two ears and only need one. I’m loving this conversation.”
Her blue eyes widen adorably. “Really?”
“Really.”
She picks at the label on her water bottle. “I’m sure everyone you meet says all these same things about your music, though. You’re probably sick to death of hearing it.”
“Uh, no. Nobody says what you just did. Honestly, I never get to have conversations like