What’s easier, too, is that I don’t have to wait to touch Declan.
When I slow at a light a block away, I reach for his hand, and our fingers thread together. Just like that, sparks jump all over my skin. “Jesus, man. Holding your hand turns me on,” I confess.
Declan rubs his thumb along my knuckles. “You’re not the only one. I’ve got shivers running up and down my back,” he says.
“This is going to be the longest ten minutes of my life.” The light changes and I let go of his hand so I can turn right.
“Where do you live?”
“Pacific Heights. On Jackson, near Alta Plaza Park.”
“So, an eternity when you’re horny.”
I laugh as I drive. “Exactly.”
I tap the screen on the dash, opening the music stations. “By the way, have you ever googled the lyrics to ‘November Rain?’”
“I have. Why?”
“That’s a sad song, dude. She dies in the video too.”
“Way to spoil the video for me, Grant.”
I roll my eyes. “The video’s from before I was even born, so I’m pretty sure it’s not a spoiler. Anyway, no wonder we were doomed back then. You picked the wrong song for us.”
Declan gestures to my dash. “Then you pick a new song for us, DJ.”
As I stop at another light, I wiggle my eyebrows, liking the sound of that. “I will,” I say, quickly finding just the right tune.
But before the song I have in mind can even start, his hand is on my face, cupping my jaw. “Can’t wait to kiss you again.”
Goose bumps cover my whole entire body. “I know. Trust me, I know. But not at the light. They change too fast,” I warn.
He slides his thumb along my jaw, then lets go. “I can wait, then, because I need it to last.”
“Me too,” I murmur but I’m not entirely sure my body is onboard with the delay. I swallow, trying to shake off the fine dusting of desire I’m coated in, then I hit play as the light changes.
An upbeat pop song fills my car.
As I drive, Declan furrows his brow, like he’s trying to place the music. But soon, he tosses his head back against the seat. “Jonas Brothers? You’re giving us a Jonas Brothers tune?”
“What A Man Gotta Do” fills the car.
I smile wickedly as I drive. “It’s a better omen than Axl Rose’s fictional wife dying in the music video of ‘November Rain.’ Which is a song about love not working out, man!” I point at the screen. “Admit it. This is a much better song for us.”
He’s quiet for a minute, listening to the lyrics about what a man has to do to get locked up by his lover. It’s a song about a guy saying I’m yours.
It’s cheesy and poppy and so goddamn boy-band-y that it’s kind of hurting my ears. But I won’t back down. “I am not returning to ‘November Rain.’ That song is done. It can be your favorite tune, but you cannot associate it with me.”
“Fine, I’ll admit this is a much better contender for all the reasons you laid out.” Declan laughs. “But I cannot believe you like the Jonas Brothers.”
“You can say it. I have excellent taste,” I say, preening.
He arches a dubious brow. “How about something from Pearl Jam?”
I scoff. “No. First of all, no one understands Pearl Jam lyrics. Everything has a double meaning. Second, you are not allowed to pick a song. You’re just not. My turn.”
He cracks up, shaking his head. “Just give us something other than Jonas Brothers.”
“Fine,” I say with a smile. I have something else in mind. Something that hearkens back to our early morning convos in Arizona about music and gay icons. With a quick glance at the screen, I flick over to Lady Gaga and play “Stupid Love.”
He listens intently, almost like he’s hearing it for the first time.
“You’re not into pop music, are you?”
Declan shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been a big dancer.”
I smell opportunity. “We’re going dancing sometime. My friends and I love to dance. Reese and Tia and Layla and the women I was friends with in college. We go clubbing and we tear up the dance floor. And I love pop music. And Lady Gaga. I just do. Also, she’s fucking awesome.”
“I will give you that. She is fucking awesome.” Declan sighs happily, then shifts his gaze to me. “We’ll go dancing. And yes, this is a good song. All about the one you’ve been waiting for.” He squeezes my thigh. “That’s you, babe.”
Time for a full-scale butterfly attack. I’m waving the white flag to all the butterflies in the world. They own me tonight.
When I turn on Jackson Street, I reach for his hand one more time, and we thread our fingers together. Once my house comes into view, I tip my forehead to the slate-gray modern building with the Scandinavian architecture feel and tall windows on each floor. “That’s mine,” I say of the swank three-story home wedged town-home style next to a city block full of some of the sweetest abodes in the city. “It’s athlete row here, as I like to say. Some of the Hawks and Renegades live around here too.”