Once Upon a Real Good Time Read online

  “I know that place. It’s so fun. Everything is orange and yellow and neon green.”

  “Wait. You’re a superstar at mini golf too?”

  I laugh. “I am better at trivia, but I can hold my own in miniature golf.”

  “It’d be fun to play with you sometime,” he says, a little naughty tone to his voice.

  “Why would it be fun?”

  His voice does that husky, sexy thing I like as he says, “I’m just picturing you swinging a golf club, and I’m thinking about how your ass would look. All nice and tight and just begging me to nibble on it.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Your mind lives in the gutter, Campbell. Literally lives there.”

  “I have never denied that. I am a complete gutter dweller when it comes to you, and when it comes to you coming.”

  “There you go again.”

  “I’m relentless. If we were in the same room, I’d be eating you out and making you come.”

  “Oh my God! You never stop.”

  “I know. It’s a sickness. The only thing that makes me stop is when your lips are on my cock.”

  I can’t stop laughing. “What am I supposed to do with you? Tell me what you’re up to tonight. What are you going to do when we get off the phone?”

  “Get off?”

  “You win. I throw in the towel.”

  “Fine. I was going to watch an episode of The Discovery Prism Show.”

  I sit up straighter. “Oh, I’ve heard of that. It’s all about hidden and off-the-beaten-path places to visit around the world.”

  “Yeah, it’s totally cool. I watched the ones on Vienna and Amsterdam. I figured I might tackle Stockholm tonight.”

  “I’ve been meaning to see it.”

  “It’s on Netflix.”

  I slide my laptop closer and log in to the site. “Hey, look at that! It’s on my Netflix too.”

  “Isn’t that the darnedest thing? Does your Netflix have the Stockholm one?”

  I click through the episodes, feigning shock. “Oh my God. What do you know? It does.”

  We watch it together. On the phone. Him in Murray Hill, me in the Village, us trying to be good.

  We learn about a hidden bathhouse in Stockholm, and a subway station that’s practically an art gallery. We check out the episodes on Prague, Tokyo, and also Beijing, commenting as we go, sharing our thoughts, talking about whether we’d visit those places or not.

  By the time the night ends, we’ve done exactly what we weren’t supposed to do. We’ve had a date.

  Chapter 15

  Mackenzie

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Campbell comes over for a lesson. We behave, and we don’t let on that we watched Netflix together on Saturday night. I don’t flirt with him. I definitely don’t make any naughty comments.

  When he leaves I walk him to the door, down the hall, and into the foyer where we’re alone since I don’t live in a doorman building.

  “Thank you. Sounded like it was a great lesson,” I say, as we near the mailboxes, our footsteps echoing across the tiles.

  He drags a hand through those soft, dark locks. “It was a great lesson. I’ve given Kyle a lot to work on, but he dives right into things. I love his attitude.”

  “He’s a hard worker. He’ll absolutely do what you tell him to.”

  “Good to know,” he says, stopping at the door. His eyes travel over my body as if he’s cataloging me from head to toe in my skinny jeans and the loose tank top that shows off my ink.

  I might have spent some extra time pre-lesson choosing a casual outfit that looks super-hot. The effect seems to be working. I’m such a bad influence on myself.

  “You better go,” I say, my voice a little throaty as I reach for the door handle.

  He nods wisely. “Because you want to jump me here in your foyer?”

  I laugh. “Exactly.”

  “It’s a completely mutual desire to engage in foyer-jumping.”

  “But a desire best left un-acted upon.”

  “As some desires go.”

  He takes off, and two days later he’s back again because they’re doing lessons twice a week.

  When I open the door, I brace myself for an onslaught of handsome.

  It’s really unfair this man has such an abundance of good looks. Surely, somewhere, some guy is begging to be whacked once with the pretty stick Campbell was smacked with more than a few times. Campbell Evans is a stunner, and he’s also literally the coolest-looking music teacher in all of Manhattan. Look at him. Those jeans that hug his legs . . . that shirt that shows off his tattoos . . . those motorcycle boots that make me want to hop on the back of a bike and ride away with him . . .

  “Do you actually have a motorcycle?” I ask, staring at his shoes before I raise my gaze to meet his eyes.

  “Of course,” he says, with a wink. “It’s a requirement of all musicians to have one.”

  I key in on the word have. “But do you use it?”

  He scoffs. “Hell no. If I use it, my teenager will think it’s okay to date a guy who rides a bike, and it is never, ever okay for my daughter to date someone who rides a bike.”

  “Clearly.”

  I let him into my home and excuse myself to the makeshift office area in my bedroom where I dive into my design work. During the hour-long lesson, I pick up on bits and pieces of their conversation. Kyle laughs, and they talk, discussing Beethoven and Mozart. Campbell tells a story about the first Beethoven piece he ever learned to play, and Kyle tells him he started with a rudimentary version of “Ode to Joy.”

  The violin starts up again, and—no. Two violins. Is Campbell playing too? The music soars, and the instrument weeps with happiness as the man I’m crushing on plays it. It’s like the violin knows someone who loves it madly is touching its strings, making poetry with a bow. I try to concentrate on my design work, but hearing the two of them attempt the basics of a duet is too distracting. The music they make is hauntingly beautiful—a mix of someone devastatingly talented with someone trying to rise up and reach that level.

  “You guys sounded great together. That was gorgeous,” I say when the lesson ends.

  “I like playing with him,” Kyle says earnestly, and I smile, glad he has the chance to learn from someone he admires.

  The next week Kyle is deep into the schoolwork of the fall semester, but he’s practically bouncing when Campbell arrives because he wants to show him what he’s been working on. When he plays a new piece, Campbell high-fives him then gives him a few pointers. Kyle plays the music again, a little better the second time.

  At the end of the lesson, I ask how it went, but I can’t get more than a one-word answer—good—because they’re debating how far the Yankees will go in the post-season. They’re discussing outfield prospects and how the manager is doing and if the bullpen can ever truly deliver when it counts.

  After that, Campbell hands Kyle some sheet music. “Why don’t you work on this Arcade Fire piece for next week?”

  Kyle’s big brown eyes widen. “They have the coolest violins in their music.”

  “They do. It’s rare to find a rock band that knows how to use the violin, but when you do find one, it’s epic.”

  “Only we don’t call it epic. We call it sick,” Kyle says with a glint in his eyes.

  Campbell shrugs. “I dunno, man. I might still call it epic when those guys go orchestra-style for a rock song.”

  “For you, I’ll make an exception, especially since my string quartet wants to play a mix of rock and classical for a concert we have next month.”

  “A concert? You’ve been holding out on me.”

  I chime in, still excited over Kyle’s news, “He just found out about it earlier in the week. His string quartet—he and his friends he plays with—was invited to perform at the community center near us.”

  Campbell holds a palm up to high-five. “That’s sick, and we will make sure you practice hard for it.”

  Kyle nods. “Tons of prac
tice.”

  As Campbell heads to the door, I tell Kyle he needs to get cracking on his math homework before he attempts Arcade Fire.

  Kyle groans. “I hate math.”

  “What kind of math are you working on?” Campbell asks.

  “We have a unit on geometry. It’s evil,” Kyle says with a hiss.

  “Need any help? I’m not too shabby at geometry.”

  “Really?” Kyle’s voice rises in excitement.

  Campbell looks at the clock above the stove. “Sam’s at soccer practice. I have an hour before I need to get her.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say softly.

  His eyes lock with mine, his irises kind when he says, “It’s okay. I want to.”

  “Let me at least make you something to eat.”

  “I don’t turn down good food.”

  Campbell sits at the kitchen table to help Kyle with the horror known as geometry, while I make fantastic chicken sandwiches with pesto, homemade artichoke dip, and some sun-dried tomatoes. I wrap them up in napkins and tuck them neatly in Tupperware. I hand them to Campbell in a paper shopping bag when he’s finished. “For you and Sam for dinner. As a thank you.”

  He smiles. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You didn’t have to help with math.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “I wanted to make sandwiches,” I say, and after he says goodbye to Kyle, I walk him to the foyer again.

  He pauses at the door.

  Don’t go.

  I want him to stay. I want him to make my body sing.

  Steering my thoughts from that dangerous territory, I focus on what I can ask—the things I can do to prolong his goodbye. “How did your song go? Did you ever finish writing it?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He arches a brow skeptically. “Did you really want to hear it?”

  “Absolutely.” Then I consider his question. “Is there a reason I wouldn’t want to hear it?”

  He smiles widely and shakes his head. “I’ll send it to you tonight.”

  Before he leaves, I reach out and set my hand on his firm arm. “By the way, I’m glad you’re his teacher, Campbell. And I’m glad we’ve figured out how to be friends,” I say, since for the last week we’ve exchanged a few texts, and we chat at the lessons, but we’ve been on our best behavior.

  He moves in closer and tucks a strand of my hair over my ear. “We might be friends, and you might be the mom of one of my students, but don’t think that changes for a second that I’m thinking about how I’d like to peel off those jeans, slide my tongue between your legs, and feel your sweet heat on my lips.”

  “Oh God,” I gasp. My knees wobble. Campbell darts out a hand and clasps my arm to steady me. “You’re terrible.”

  “Am I? Am I truly terrible?”

  I shake my head. “You can’t resist turning me on.”

  He whispers, “Are you turned on?”

  “So much.”

  “Good. Then text me when he’s asleep, and I’ll send you my song.”

  Five hours later, I send Campbell a text to tell him I’m ready.

  He replies with an MP3 file. I plug in my earbuds and hit play.

  The rasp of a guitar fills my ears. It’s a hot, sexy sound, like a late summer night, and after a few seconds, his voice joins in, sending a shiver up my spine with the first words he breathes in that growly rasp.

  He sings about wanting, about a woman he can’t have, about the way she feels soft and tender in his hands, hot against his lips. How she trembles when he whispers to her in the dark, how she moves under him, like water, like air.

  Holy shit.

  This song is sex.

  This song is me.

  This song is everything he wants to do to me. I play it again, and again, as I write back.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Wow. This song is WHITE HOT.

  * * *

  Campbell: It’s about you.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Yeah?

  * * *

  Campbell: Could you tell?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: I was hoping it would be about me.

  * * *

  Campbell: I was hoping it’d turn you on.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: I haven’t really been turned off since you left. But I’m turned on higher now.

  * * *

  Campbell: Are you in bed?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Yes.

  * * *

  Campbell: Where are your hands?

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Where do you want them to be?

  * * *

  Campbell: Inside your panties. Between your legs. Flying across your wetness. If I can’t touch you, you ought to touch yourself and imagine it’s me fucking you, fingering you, licking you after writing a song about you.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: God, I’m dying. That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

  * * *

  Two minutes later, I write back.

  * * *

  Mackenzie: Mmmmm . . . you’re amazing in my fantasy.

  * * *

  Campbell: Same here.

  * * *

  I go a second time, picturing that man across town with his hand in his briefs, his fist around his cock, getting off to me.

  Chapter 16

  Campbell

  * * *

  I play Mackenzie’s song the next night at a new spot in Soho. The crowd likes it, judging from the number of people trying to sing along. Of course, that’s a tall order since the tune is new. But they try valiantly to guess at the words and mouth them as we sing, and that’s the best sign of all. That’s how you know you have a hit on your hands—when the audience does everything possible to sing it right back to you.

  When we finish, I wrap my hands tight around the mic. “You guys rock. Thank you so much for coming out on a Thursday night. May your dreams be filled with rock ’n’ roll and dirty thoughts, and everything good in the world.”

  I high-five JJ, while Cade gives me a thumbs-up as we head offstage.

  We pack up, riffing on what went well with the show.

  “We’re starting to draw regular audiences,” Cade says. “If you look at our Instagram, we’re growing, and people are commenting they’re coming to our gigs. Before you know it, they’re gonna figure out who you are.”

  I laugh it off as I set my guitar in its case. “I won’t be the first guy who’s ever moonlighted.”

  Cade grabs my shoulder. “And one day you’re going to come out, and it’ll be astonishingly magnificent. I can’t wait to witness that moment.”

  I roll my eyes as I shrug him off. I look at both of them, shifting gears. “Hey, guys. You know how Miller is talking about trying to get back together?”

  JJ laughs. “When is Miller not talking about getting back together?”

  “True. It’s pretty much his favorite thing to discuss in the entire universe. But I was thinking, remember that band that opened for us a few weeks ago when we played at the Lucky Spot? Female lead singer with jet-black hair and pipes for days?”

  JJ nods salaciously. “Oh yeah. Rebecca Crimson, hot as fuck.”

  “Whatever. It’s her voice I’m talking about. It hit me the other night—she had one of those husky, sexy, bourbon voices that could pair perfectly with Miller’s.”

  JJ scratches his bearded jaw. “Yeah, maybe. But if Miller wants to be a Heartbreaker, how is a woman going to help?”

  “He’s not going to be a Heartbreaker. But this is the one thing he’s never really tried before—singing with a woman. He could be fantastic paired up with that smoky, Joss Stone-type sound.”

  JJ whistles. “Rebecca does sound like Joss. And incidentally, Joss Stone has the hottest voice I’ve ever heard. If you could fuck a voice, hers would be the one I’d want to bang.”

  Cade jumps in as he packs up his bass. “Fucking a voice would be like fucking a ghost, I bet.”

  I stare at him as if
he’s grown five noses. “Fucking a ghost?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, his expression intently serious. “Did you see that chick on Facebook recently who married a ghost pirate? She was talking about the best positions to have sex with him.”

  I crease my brow, trying to rein in the laughter. “And what are the best positions for sexual relations with a ghost pirate?”

  “Obviously, the ghost has to be on top,” Cade says matter-of-factly.

  “Because otherwise you’ll crush it?” JJ asks.

  Cade shrugs. “Probably. Sad, huh?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, ghost-sex isn’t a thing. And screwing a voice isn’t a thing either. Sorry to break it to you, J-Man,” I say.

  “That’s okay. Sometimes I just pretend I’m getting it on with Joss Stone.”

  “And is your wife okay with that?” I ask.

  “You think she isn’t pretending I’m Justin Timberlake?”

  I cackle as I shut my guitar case. “That’s her go-to? Of all the singers, you picked him for her hall pass?”

  “She picked him!” JJ says indignantly. “That’s her choice. She picked JT over Adam Levine and Jared Leto.”

  Cade drags his hand through his blond surfer locks. “If I were a chick with a hall pass, I’d totally pick Jared Leto.”

  I hold up my hands. “Why do I even bother having serious conversations with the two of you?”

  JJ claps me on the back. “Men are pigs, Campbell. And I bet your bro will have a hard time singing with Rebecca Crimson once he sees how hot she is.”