Smitten

I can barely breathe. But before I’ve figured out what to say in response to that amazingness, the waiter appears with our second round of drinks. We thank him, and when he leaves, I clink Alessandra’s water bottle with my beer.

“Cheers, Al-ess-andra the lion-ess. I’m damned glad to meet you.”

“Cheers, Fish. I’m damned glad to meet you, too. Or should I call you The Goat Called Fish who’s supposed to be a bull, but isn’t?”

“I dig it. Cool. Although . . . on second thought, if someone were to overhear that nickname, they might get the wrong idea about me. Maybe call me The Goat Called Fish Who’s Hung Like a Bull, instead?” I blush, thinking maybe I’ve made a misstep, and quickly add, “I’m not, actually. Hung like a bull. Not at all. But I think the nickname sounds way better like that, don’t you? You know, for branding purposes.”

She laughs uproariously, thank God. “Yeah, that’s so much more ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ that way.”

“Right?”

“Duly noted. The nickname has been hereby officially amended—you know, for branding purposes.”

“Thank you. Much appreciated.”

She giggles again. “Seriously, though, do you prefer I call you Fish or Matthew?”

I shrug. “It’s all the same to me. Maybe call me Matthew when it’s something particularly important, to make sure you get my full attention when it matters.”

She nods and blushes. “Okay.”

Butterflies. Seagulls. There’s flapping around inside me in full-force again. I say, “So, the chron order binge-listen thing. I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

“Oh, man, you need to do it! You put your favorite artists’ catalog in chronological order and listen from beginning to end in one long marathon. It’s the best way to truly understand and appreciate their musical journey. Their human journey.”

I’m in awe of her brain, her passion, her beauty—and I’m sure my face shows it. “Did you learn to do that in school?”

“Oh, no. I started doing that as a kid. But I’ve certainly learned all kinds of other cool things at school. And not just in classes. From other students and from talking to professors. It’s amazing to be at a school where everyone shares the same passion.”

“I bet. I’m on the road so much, my interactions with other musicians aren’t nearly as frequent as you’d think. I mean, yeah, I know amazing people in the industry. And I love going to parties or hanging out with them. But it’s not like what you’re doing.”

“Well, I think every student at Berklee would kill to trade places with you. What you’re doing is the dream.”

She’s right, of course, and I know it. But I also know the realities of this “dream” can be a bit more challenging than anyone on the outside understands. But there’s no need to tell her about that, when she’s looking at me like I walk on water. “So, humor me,” I say. “Do you have a favorite 22 Goats song? I know it’s the height of narcissism to ask that question, but I can’t resist. I’m putty in your hands, Alessandra the Lioness. Dying to hear whatever nugget of brilliance is going to come out of your mouth next.”

“My mouth? Are you crazy? I’m hanging on your every word!”

We share a huge smile. And, suddenly, I’m feeling fucking helicopters. But not only that, a weird kind of tightness in my chest, too. Tingles on my skin. She’s so damned pretty. And now I find out she’s got an awesome personality, too?

“I really couldn’t pick my favorite 22 Goats song,” she declares. “That’d be like a mother picking her favorite child.”

“My mother has no problem doing that.”

“Are you an only child?”

“I am.”

Alessandra laughs. “Me, too. My mother calls me her ‘favorite daughter’ all the time.” She shrugs. “Seriously, the best I could do, maybe, would be naming a ‘favorite’ off each of your four albums. But even that would be pure torture for me and come with the disclaimer that my ‘favorite’ could change at any minute.”

“The small print shall clearly state you can change your mind at any time.”

“No small print. Big, huge font.”

“Deal.”

“All right, then. I’ll torture myself.” She flashes me a smile that sends arousal straight into my cock, forcing me to cover my swim trunks with my forearm again. “I’ll have you know, though,” she says, batting her eyelashes. “I’d never, ever pick a favorite 22 Goats song—let alone one off each freaking album—for anyone in the whole, wide world but you, Fish.” She pauses. “Matthew.”

Five

Fish

Alessandra twists her mouth, considering which song to pick as her favorite off my band’s self-titled first album. And as she does, I can’t help staring at her plush lips. Wondering what it would be like to kiss them. They’re stained with the faintest hint of cherry red. It’s not a pinup girl red. More like she’s wearing cherry lip balm. If I kissed those full lips right now, would they taste sweet, like cherries?