Rock'n Tapestries (3 page)

“Asher.”
I nodded.  “I really appreciate what you did for me.  Now get the hell out.”

“What?
Why?”  He backed up a bit and stared at me.

 My
Asher-radar honed in on his mouth, then those sinfully gorgeous eyes.
Goddamnit.
 
I suddenly didn’t need the electric blankets anymore.  I was pretty sure my
core temp was near meltdown.  Everything about this man pulled me to him. My
moon, his planet.
Fuckfuckfuck…

“Stop
touching me. Stop it,” I hissed. I tried to struggle in my cocoon.  “Get the
hell out of my room!”

 Should
I press the button in my hand and have Cathy the nurse take care of him? 
Despite the kindness I saw in her face, I knew nurses had balls of steel.  She
probably had a black belt in something.  I wanted to see her split Asher’s nut
sack with the pointy toe of those white nurses’ shoes.

Asher
pressed his lips together and looked hurt.  “You still haven’t forgiven me,
have you?”

Of
all the things Asher Pratt could have said to guarantee a grade-A Chelsea
Whitaker tantrum, that was it. 

“Forgive
you?”  My eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of my head. I flailed
around on the bed like some pathetic inchworm. “I’ll never forgive you, you
son-of-a-bitch, whore-humping, fucking bastard!  Now get out and leave me
alone!  I never want to see you again!”

Asher
raised both hands up in front of himself and backed away.  “Okay!  All right. 
I’m leaving.”  He stopped for a second in the doorway and ran his hands through
that silky, light chocolate hair.  “I’m glad I found you.  I’m glad you didn’t
die.”

And
then he was gone, leaving the air in my room smelling like Paco Rabanne as a
final insult.

My
dad was still livid two days later when I got out of the hospital. Fortunately,
the owner of Tapestries, Bob Dreyfus, was equally appalled by what had
happened.  He agreed to rip out and replace the old freezer in the back with a
brand new one with better safety features if Dad agreed not to sue. 
Truthfully, I think Mr. Dreyfus would’ve done that anyway.  He was as shaken up
as everyone else about my near-death in such a senseless way.

I
was supposed to stay home for a few days after I got out of the hospital—and I
did—but I was itching to get back to work.  I was patient through the next
weekend, but I knew I’d be back waiting tables the week after that.

I
went back to work on a Tuesday, at the request of my mom. Tuesdays were light
days at Tapestries.  I think she was afraid I’d work myself into a relapse or
something.

I
suffered no ill effects from the time I spent in the freezer, except a little
frostbite on my ears.  Turns out plastic
is
a decent insulator.  I had
shoved my hands under my armpits at some point during my delirium, which
luckily preserved my fingers.   No harm, no foul, as far as I was concerned.

My
best friend, Willow Harper, was waiting for me at the door of Tapestries that
Tuesday with tears and hugs.  I sometimes wished I could marry Willow.  She was
amazing.  A high school classmate, she was the one who got me the job at
Tapestries in the first place. 

“Oh,
honey, I’m so glad you didn’t die,” she squealed in my ear for the fifth time
as she crushed me against her. “I’d miss you so much!”

“I’m
okay.  Really.” I smiled at Marybeth Catalino over Willow’s shoulder.  Marybeth
was the head bartender at Tapestries.  She was an older woman, but really cool,
like one of us. Divorced, former biker chick, tough as nails.  She mothered the
younger girls.  She was drying a glass, and I think she might’ve had tears in
her eyes as she smiled back at me. I was surprised that Marybeth Catalino even
had tear ducts.

I
felt really welcome that day, like everyone at Tapestries loved me. Mr. Dreyfus
took me back and showed me the work they were doing getting the new freezer
installed.  Everyone was all smiles except Scott Dreyfus, and no one gave a
fuck about him.

My
shift was over at 9:30 p.m., but by the time we cleaned up and whatnot, it was
after ten.  Cleanups are usually like a party, so I didn’t mind. 

I
said goodbye to everyone and slipped out the back door to the parking lot and
my gray Nissan Sentra.  I was just about to unlock the door when my eyes caught
something flapping under the passenger’s side windshield wiper.

I
had a bad feeling as I plucked it out from under the blade. I’m not psychic, but
there are some things you just
know
before you know you know them. 

I
set my purse on the hood, put my car keys down beside it, and opened the note
with shaking hands.  I could barely see the writing on it in the light thrown
by the street lamp at the back of the bar.

Talk
to me.  Love, A

I
crumpled the note in my hand and threw it on the ground. Then I clenched my
fists tightly at my side and shouted into the summer air, “No! Never!”

That
night when I got home I took a quick bath and got ready for bed.  I was just
about to drop between the sheets when the phone on my nightstand rang.

I
glanced at it. I had my very own phone number direct to my room, but it was
unlisted. The only person who ever called me on it was Willow.

I
picked it up, laughing.  “No Willow, I won’t help you stalk your current love
interest. Go to bed!”

“You’re
not very nice.”

I
went blank.  The caller was male.

“Asher?”

“The
one and only.”

“How
did you get this number?”

“Your
mom.”

I
pressed my lips together and snorted. I couldn’t believe my mother was such a
traitor.

“Lose
it.”

“Wanna
go for drinks? My treat.”

“When
hell freezes over!” I slammed the phone down then yanked the cord from the wall
for good measure. I didn’t get very much sleep that night.

The
next several weeks were uneventful.  Asher disappeared back into the woodwork,
where all cockroaches belong, and I went back to my boring, uninspiring life.

Late
July usually saw an uptick in the number of people who came to dances at
Tapestries, so we ran a full staff every weekend during that time.  Last hurrah
before going back to classes and all that. 

I
arrived at Tapestries at 1:00 p.m. on Saturday, put my apron on, and just
happened to glance up at the band chalkboard in the back room.  Bee Bop Baby had
been erased off the board, replaced by a hastily scribbled Dirty Turtles.

I
turned to Willow as I tied the apron behind my back.  “What the hell?  Dirty
Turtles tonight?  No one ever cancels a gig at Tapestries!”

“Yeah,
I guess the guitar player’s wife went into early labor with their baby, and
they had to cancel. Dirty Turtles was free tonight, so they took the job.”

I
snorted. “That’s just great.  I’m working the dining area tonight, right out
there in Asher Pratt’s sights.”

Willow
knew my history with Asher.  She was the one who had held my hair back when I
threw up from bawling my brains out over him.  She was the one who’d listened
to me when I asked repeatedly, “Why am I not enough for this man?” She was the
one who’d hugged me when I realized—after it finally penetrated through my
stupid, lovesick brain—that nothing was ever going to change with him. 

The
big sigh I got from her was a clue that she was tired of hearing about it.  “So
what?  Go out there and ignore the bastard. God, aren’t you tired of feeling
like shit over him? Put him in the garbage where he belongs.”

She
was right, of course.  And I wanted to—I really did.  What could I say?   It
had been five years, but I was still working on getting over Asher. 

Despite
shaking like a dog crapping razor blades, I think I did all right that night. 
If I had to serve drinks to a table that was near the stage, I turned my back
to the band.  If I felt as though I had to sneak a peek, I made sure I stood
back in the shadows where Asher couldn’t see me.

Halfway
through the night, with things going as well as could be expected, I started to
relax. 

Tapestries
isn’t a very big bar at all, but we were packed to the gills that night. At
least two hundred people had gotten in before they closed the doors, and there
was still a long line waiting outside.  When two or three people left, two or
three in the line were permitted to enter.

Scott
was grinning like an idiot as he worked the cash register.  The booze was
flowing one way and the cash was flowing the other. The noise was almost
unbearable, but it was the sound of money. I was making a small fortune in
tips, and it lifted my spirits.  I knew I’d be able to pay off my Sentra with
what I’d made so far, and then I‘d be able to get my own apartment.  I wasn’t making
enough money just then to do both.

Marybeth
was working a double shift behind the bar.  “Chelsea,” I heard her call over
the noise.  She held up a bottle of Rolling Rock and pointed at a table near
the stage off to the left, nearly in front of Asher.  By this time, we were so
busy that I was just focused on doing my job.

I
reached over the people three-deep at the bar, took the bottle, and delivered
it to the table.  The man paid me, and I turned to go back to the cash
register.  The Dirty Turtles finished a song at the same time.

I
had only taken a step or two when I heard Asher say into the mic, “I wrote this
song for a girl who means a lot to me, even if I can’t get her to talk to me.”

I
stopped short, and my spine stiffened. It felt like someone had poured a
pitcher of ice water down my back.  The crowd quieted, as though someone were
about to make a historic speech. I imagined every eye was on me.  I looked up
and locked gazes with Willow standing at the bar.  All I could see was her
round eyes and her mouth hanging open.

Oh
no, you’re not.

Asher
started a slow, gentle strum on his Fender Strat. I closed my eyes. 
Dear
God, not a power-ballad love song.

He
began to sing softly; it filled Tapestries with dulcet notes and me with
dread.  Asher has a great voice.  He used to croon
Feel Like Makin’ Love
in my ear when we rode the roller coasters at Kennywood just to calm me down. 

Goosebumps
rose all over me. 
Don’t do this, Asher.  Please.  Don’t
.  I would’ve
rather talked to him one on one than face this public humiliation. 

She’s
my fire, the air that I breathe.

My
heart stopped in my chest.

When
I wanna give up, she makes me believe.

I
shivered, though it wasn’t cold.

I
am ten feet tall with her by my side.

Lovin’
this girl is a wild ride.

I
was really struggling to breathe at this point.  How could he do this to me? 
He didn’t believe a single one of those words he was singing.  Not one.

Chelseeeaaa...
come back to me.

I
spun in slow motion, my gaze searching for him onstage.  I knew looking into
his eyes was a big mistake.  They were caramel and chocolate, two of my
favorite things, and I never could resist him when he captured me in a full-on
stare.

I
tightened my hands around the serving tray I was carrying. There was no way I
was going to let him play with me like this.  It was a game for him, but it
wasn’t for me. I had to find a way to fight back.  At that point, it felt as if
my life depended on it.

My
gaze fell on him. My jaw clenched as an electric charge sizzled across the
distance between us.  He was singing to me, only to me, watching me over the
crowd, his gaze full of carnal promise. 

I
flipped him the bird and mouthed,
Fuck off!