Love to Love Her YAC
Read Love to Love Her YAC Online
Authors: Renae Kelleigh
Tags: #adult contemporary romance, #college romance, #new adult
(Silver State #1)
Renae Kelleigh
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2013 Renae Kelleigh
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Table of
Contents
Chapter 2 – Composed Young Women
Chapter 18 – Ollie’s Omelet House
Chapter 34 – Happy Thanksgiving
Sneak Preview: Silver State #2
Chapter 1 – Happy
Birthday
Saturday, September 8
Rhiannon – 8:00 PM
W
hen Ruthie and
Corinne first began probing me about how I’d like to celebrate my
birthday, I offered a few options, the majority of which included
some combination of a rented movie, pajamas, and ordering takeout
from Mr. Wong’s China Palace – getting hammered on your
twenty-first just seems overrated and cliché. Well, the day has
arrived, and knowing these two I can’t say I’m surprised to find
myself in the back of a cab speeding toward the center of town and
probably a night of debauchery instead.
Two hours ago both girls showed up at my
apartment laden with boxes and bags of makeup, curling irons,
hairspray, flat irons and enough dresses, corsets, skinny jeans and
miniskirts to make me wonder whether half a dozen other girls would
be joining us. In actuality, all the garb was culled from their
closets with the intention of subjecting me to an impromptu fashion
show. Turns out my two best friends had already powwowed and deemed
my own wardrobe both “too tame” and “insufficiently stimulating”
for our night of drunken revelry – also not a surprise. Forty-five
minutes and nine outfits into my display of exhibitionism they
finally settled on an ensemble that strikes the perfect cross
between slutty and licentious and consists of Corinne’s black faux
leather leggings and Ruthie’s too-small halter top in midnight blue
lace with the plunging V neckline. They compromised on the footwear
– I’ve been allowed to wear my own knee high boots with the stacked
heel.
Corinne has made dinner reservations at a
restaurant in downtown Carson City that serves Spanish tapas paired
with overpriced bottles of wine. I suspect this is chiefly to do
with the fact that Vince, her crush, works here as a part time
kitchen manager. Ruthie and I watch and pretend to gag as the two
of them exchange thinly veiled glances dripping with unbridled lust
until Vince inadvertently backs into a waiter and causes plates of
cheeses and toasted bread to go airborne.
Our next stop is a pretentious looking bar
called Gelo. I balk at the $15 cover until I realize it’s karaoke
night – these bitches know me so well. Ruthie turns back to me with
a sanguine grin and winks before leading the way to a high top
table near the bar.
“First drinks on me!” Corrine says as she
sheds her jacket to show off her bare shoulders. “What’ll it be,
birthday girl?”
My eyes sweep to the bar, behind which
resides an impressive array of liquors. Upon closer inspection, the
entire back wall is a manufactured waterfall that pours a sheet of
clear water backlit with several lamps that seamlessly shift color
from purple to yellow to red. I’m reminded of the colored lights in
a Barbie’s swimming pool.
I cursorily glance over the drink specials
written up on a board above the bartender’s head. It’s really more
of a formality – Corinne knows what my favorite drink is. “I’ll
have a grasshopper, please,” I tell her before turning back to take
in the stage ten yards away. The DJ is still setting up, but a few
coeds with enough alcohol already flowing through their veins are
consulting the tome that lists all of the available songs.
Ruthie and Corinne are well aware that
watching others sing karaoke is a favorite pastime of mine. What
they don’t know, though, is that as of this moment, my new intent
is to surprise them by partaking of the festivities myself. I may
be the kind of girl who needs a shot of liquid courage to dance
publicly or initiate a meaningful conversation with any decent
looking male, but singing is one thing I can do stone cold
sober.
A moment later a waitress arrives at our
table balancing a tray of drinks. She sets down my grasshopper,
Ruthie’s Blue Moon and Corinne’s amaretto sour before placing a
shot glass full of golden liquid in front of each of us. Corinne
smiles wickedly before raising her shot glass. Ruthie and I follow
suit.
“To Rhiannon!” Corinne cries. “Happy Birthday
to the sexiest lady at Winston Sierra!”
“Hear, hear!” seconds Ruthie.
I roll my eyes before gamely tossing back my
shot.
Tequila
. I can feel the fire scorching down my throat
and building a home in my chest and then my belly.
“You
bitch
!” sputters Ruthie. “You
know I hate tequila! Where’s my fucking lime?”
Corinne barks out an acerbic laugh before
remembering to have the decency to at least feign repentance.
Ruthie immediately starts guzzling her beer to stamp out the bitter
flavor of the 80 proof. I chuckle privately while sipping my own
minty mélange through the swizzle stick it came with.
Meanwhile, the first brave souls to take the
stage are a pair of Asian girls who can’t seem to stop giggling.
They end up guffawing their way through a botched-up version of
Katie Perry’s “Firework.” We clap for them anyway, knowing it takes
balls to be the first ones up.
We sway and clap to a litany of songs ranging
from The Killers’ “Read My Mind” to Prodigy’s “Firestarter”
(notably not such a great choice for karaoke). Then, after an hour
of listening to other people’s singing, which has at times
progressed more into the realm of inebriated caterwauling, my own
best girls hustle up to the stage, pulling me along with them.
Corinne parks me in front of the platform
with a wink and a nod, then joins Ruthie behind the microphone. I
couldn’t be more shocked – as far as I’m aware, both ladies have
always been strictly spectators in the gruesome sport of
karaoke.
“This one goes out to the gorgeous blonde in
the front row!” hollers Ruthie. She gestures emphatically for me to
somehow identify myself to the crowd, and I offer an anemic wave in
response.
“Happy birthday, Rhiannon!” yells Corinne,
whose mouth is a touch too close to the microphone – her
proclamation sends a squall of high-volume feedback rifling through
the enclosed space.
The DJ pushes a button and the melodic first
notes of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” expels smoothly from the
speakers. I throw my head back in gleeful recognition before wildly
cheering on my two best friends as they belt out a drunken yet only
moderately off-key rendition of the song for which I was named.
Blake – 10:30 PM
N
ot long ago I would
have sworn that I’d never be caught dead in a karaoke bar. As my
roommate Adam is quick to point out, however, technically this is
not a karaoke bar – it’s simply a bar that happens to have karaoke
on the menu for this evening. Now that I’m here, I have to admit it
is pretty funny watching people stripped of their inhibitions
entertain illusions of grandeur as they croon versions of pop songs
with varying degrees of success.
A guy with a beard and backward baseball cap
has just finished a rather bawdy performance of “I Touch Myself”
while dry humping the microphone stand when Adam slides my fourth
Guinness in front of me and claps me on the back. “When are we
gonna see you up there, huh man? I know you’ve got what it takes,
I’ve heard you in the shower.”
“I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for
that,” I tell him. I glance back up at the stage in time to see a
tall redhead and a curvy Indian gal take the stage.
“This one goes out to the gorgeous blond in
the front row!” says the Indian girl. She gesticulates toward
another girl planted front and center before the stage, and said
honoree turns and flutters her long, tapered fingers at the crowd
pressed in around her. Holy shit – she’s a knockout. Chin length
strawberry blond hair that curls around her face, a lightly
freckled nose, creamy skin, a deep cut neckline that frames the
deep swell of her cleavage, and long, shapely legs that go all the
way up to an ass that is, arguably, perfect.
“Happy birthday, Rhiannon!” pipes the
redhead, and with that the music begins and the girls deliver a
passable rendition of the Fleetwood Mac song. All the while, I
can’t seem to peel my eyes off the girl in the front row. At first
she appears a tad rigid, as if she’s uncomfortable standing there
at the front amid all the sweaty, gyrating bodies. As her friends
continue their tribute, though, she appears to loosen up, and by
the end of the song she’s hopping up and down with her slender arms
raised, causing her boobs to bounce—it’s quite captivating. Her
fair skin blooms pink as she flushes from exertion, and the overall
effect is nothing short of breathtaking. I slide a glance back at
Adam, and it’s evident he is deriving just as much enjoyment from
her sidebar performance as I am.
The girls wrap up and file back off the
stage, where they’re greeted with open arms by the beauty in the
front row. The three of them squeeze each other enthusiastically in
a display which, from my perspective, can only be described as
intensely erotic.
Suddenly I want nothing more than to be up on
that stage, witnessing that girl (Rhiannon I guess?) jump and sway
to my words the way she had to the one before it. Emboldened by the
alcohol and my sudden jolt of yearning, I almost topple the
barstool I’ve been occupying in my determination to beat any other
aspiring performers to the stage.
I whisper my selection to the DJ and squint
back down at Rhiannon and her friends still gathered together close
to the stage. I shed any vestigial apprehension as I notice her
looking up at me, and just begin to sing. “Authority Song” is one
that typically carries well in my vocal register, my own voice a
somewhat less folksy version of Mellencamp’s baritone, but
truthfully I’m a bit put off by the sound of the warble in my voice
and disappointed by the fact the acoustics in this crowded room
can’t seem to measure up to my tiled shower at home.
Once I reach the first chorus things seem to
be flying a little more smoothly, and I chance a look out into the
audience. She’s still there at the foot of the stage, staring up at
me with big doe eyes the color of honeyed caramel and positively
beaming
at me. Quickly I blink away, wanting if at all
possible to avoid the embarrassment of becoming visibly aroused
while on stage.