painting your soul with the colors of my words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
luxken27fics) wrote2014-01-06 08:49 pm
luxken27fics) wrote2014-01-06 08:49 pm
Kids Inc | Oneshot: Miss Independent
Title: Miss Independent
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Post-canon
Genre: Romance
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, innuendo
Word Count: 3,915
Summary: He had many reasons to love her, and she just kept giving him more…
Further author's notes can be found here.
DISCLAIMER: The Kids Incorporated concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (i.e., I am writing about the characters, not the actors who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.
“I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten” lyrics © 1968 Clive Westlake
“Stay Awhile” lyrics © 1963 Ivor Raymonde / Mike Hawker
“Wishin’ and Hopin’” lyrics © 1963 Burt Bacharach / Hal David
“You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me” lyrics © 1965 Pino Donaggio Vito Pallavicini / Vicki Wickham / Simon Napier-Bell
~*~
It isn’t the way that you look
And it isn’t the way that you talk
It isn’t the things that you say or do
That make me want you so
Never before have I been so sure
You’re the someone I dreamed I would find…
~*~
There were many reasons for him to love her.
There was what everyone else saw: six feet of absolute glamour – her ocean-blue eyes framed by honey-blond hair; her long, lean, lithe body (with legs that went on for about five or six miles); her flawless makeup, stylish wardrobe, gorgeous jewelry – and the sort of supreme confidence to carry it all off. She was smart, successful, and kind, holding seats on the executive boards of just as many charities as she did fashion houses.
And then there was everything else.
He loved her because she was fiercely independent, because she’d traveled her own tough road in the equally fickle world of fashion, and because she was proud of her work. She was an artist in her own right, making magic with bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and reams of accessories.
He loved her because she’d pursued her own career instead of waiting for his.
He loved her for her honesty, her intelligence, her sense of humor. She was sharp-witted, but mercifully lacked the oft-accompanying acid tongue. Rare was the time she cut someone down, though she was willing to, as necessary. Behind her public persona, she had a reputation for being mean, but he suspected that was mostly because she was clever – and everybody knows that pretty blonde girls are only supposed to be dumb.
She’d never been unkind to him (not when he hadn’t deserved it, at least).
Indeed, she was all too willing to listen to him moan and complain, and he loved her for it. He loved her for all the times she’d ordered in and kept the alcohol flowing while he ranted about the temperamental artists he had to put up with, and the jackass record execs he had to please. He loved her because she trusted him enough to give him a key to her apartment, along with implicit permission to crash there anytime. She didn’t mind the ridiculous hours he kept (which were only partly his fault), or that he showed up at all hours of the night (or day). His own place was all the way across the city; it was comfortable and affordable, but inconvenient when someone got a bug up their ass about mixing, mastering, and delivery deadlines.
He loved her because her apartment was always filled with music – not his, but hers: her eclectic collection of old school hits, classic punk, alternative rock, modern pop, and soulful blues. He never knew what would be playing when he walked through her door, whether it would be something old and familiar, or new and interesting.
As long as it wasn’t silence, he didn’t care.
He loved it when she was at home when he dropped by, an increasingly rare treat these days. Her designs were in demand now, during the dead of winter, as she rushed to meet deadlines for next season’s spring/summer collections. As the weather warmed, her body would be in demand, too – as the perfect slate on which to model those designs – and she’d be off to London, Paris, Milan, Berlin or beyond, as her schedule dictated.
As much as he loved her, he didn’t love that – which was probably why they maintained separate apartments, why he’d made her living room sofa his crash pad, and why they hadn’t slept together since college.
He didn’t mind – much. He’d rather have a part of her than nothing at all. He cherished their friendship, still strong after almost twenty years. It had endured everything, from first kisses to broken hearts.
Many, many broken hearts.
Ryan sighed, cracking his eyes open only to meet the harsh rays of daylight. He groaned, turning his face into the pillow, and he willed his head to stop pounding. It had turned into a complete shitshow at the studio last night, the artist, his manager, and the album’s producer coming to blows over the rhythm track of this damn song that they’d been slaving over for the last week. Tempers had flared, fists had flown, and he’d only barely escaped the scuffle with a couple of glancing blows.
Fucking divas, he thought sourly, pushing the memory of the pulsating bass line firmly out of his mind. They all think they can write, like it’s that fucking easy or something. He’d long ago learned to stay out of artists’ ways when it came to their egos clashing with everyone else’s good ideas. He hadn’t made it ten years in this business by being stupid, after all. He wrote, he produced, and he kept his mouth shut – unless someone brought it to his door.
Last night’s session had been the worst he’d seen in a while. The whiny, demanding little jackass of a lead singer dared to argue with him over a rhythm track when he couldn’t even read the damn music he was complaining about. The band had been totally useless; their manager only made things worse; when the album’s producer got in on the fracas, all hell had broken loose.
Needless to say, he wasn’t looking forward to going back.
No, if he had his way, he’d lounge around all day in Stacy’s apartment, in his warm cocoon of blankets on her sofa, and just shut out the rest of the world. She was home, or at least she had been when he arrived last night; she’d bandaged his scrapes and stayed with him for a little while, slipping off to her own bed after he’d fallen asleep.
It was one of those nights when he’d wished that she hadn’t left; he sensed that she was under some serious stress herself, if only because of the way she (finally) relaxed into him while he held her in his arms. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel the tension in her shoulders as she lay against him, the stiffness of her frame slowly melting away as she curled her body into his. It had lulled him to sleep, but obviously not her.
He frowned at the memory, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. He waited for his blood to settle before pressing his fingertips gingerly against his temple. It was still tender beneath the gauze, and probably ready for a new bandage, but his thoughts had already wandered away from his lacerations. He and Stacy might not have been as close as they once were, but it had been rather obvious that something was weighing heavily on her mind last night, and it bothered him that she hadn’t told him about it.
It was probably none of his business – and he could respect that – but still, it bothered him.
He sighed again, running his hands through his hair as he contemplated his next move. Dimly, he became aware of the soft lilt of music drifting his way, and he smiled. It meant that she was still home – she always had something spinning in the background when she was around. Last night it had been Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she’d fallen in love with on her first trip to Stockholm ages ago.
He sat up a bit straighter, closing his eyes in order to concentrate on the music emanating into the room. It was full-bodied and bluesy, probably something from the sixties, but he couldn’t decipher much more than that. With one last, lingering look at his cocoon of blankets, he got up, picking up his hoodie from the floor and sliding it on as he followed the music down the hall.
Stacy’s apartment was luxurious by Manhattan standards – two bedrooms with a connecting bath, a full kitchen, a spacious living room, and her own washer/dryer nestled in the midst of a walk-in closet. Not her closet, of course, but the other one, which took up most of the second bedroom. Ryan wasn’t surprised when he found her (and the music) there.
Here was another reason why he loved her: she was comfortable enough with his presence to look like this, half-dressed with her hair hastily pulled back, elbow deep in her laundry.
He slumped against the doorframe of the bedroom, tucking his hands into his pockets as he gazed at her, standing inside the closet and folding towels. She wore a simple, three-quarter length fleece bathrobe, belted snugly at her waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was tied in a simple ponytail, the end of it curling naturally over her back. She was singing along with Dusty Springfield while she worked, swaying absently to the beat of the music.
“Show him that you care just for him / do the things he likes to do,” she crooned, pulling another towel from the dryer. “Wear your hair just for him, ’cause…” Her voice dropped into her sultry alto range, her hips dipping over the suggestive bridge: “You won’t get him / thinkin’ and a-prayin’ / wishin’ and a-hopin’…”
It amused him to listen to her sing such lyrics. She’d never done anything to change herself in order to attract his attention – she’d simply been her. Even when they were teenagers, her inner beauty shone through the veneer of awkward insecurity, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame. She was special, even if she couldn’t see it yet.
He’d always love that about her – that she’d trusted him, and let him help her discover the poise and pride in the very center of her being.
“’Cause wishin’ / and hopin’ / and thinkin’ / and prayin’ / plannin’ / and dreamin’ / his kisses will start,” she sang, placing another folded towel on the stack, “that won’t get you into his heart…”
Nope: the path to his heart had been carved by her voice. He’d always loved her voice. She’d really come into her own during their final few years with Kids Incorporated – it was confident and strong, her range was impressive, and she had the sort of stage presence most of his current artists would kill for. He’d been surprised when she gave it all up after high school – he remembered the countless hours he’d spent trying to convince her to change her mind. She was too good to not pursue her music, he’d argued, even if only semi-professionally.
She’d refused. Fashion was her future, she’d declared – and, he had to admit, she’d been right.
Still. After he’d landed his first substantial gig with bit of extra studio time, he’d begged her to come in and record a track, just for fun and old times’ sake. It had backfired, big time – she broke up with him that afternoon – but that request was never far from his mind. More than once he’d sat at a sound board, wishing it was her sweet voice tunneling through the wires and into his ears, instead of the high-pitched squeals of some token pretty-girl lead singer.
“So if you’re thinking of how great true love is,” she continued, her voice rising along with Dusty’s, “all you gotta do is / hold him / and kiss him / and squeeze him / and love him / yeah, just do it, and after you do / you will be his…” She curled her arms around herself, her shoulders swaying in time with the music, a small smile rising to her lips.
Or you could just serenade me, he considered as he pushed himself upright once more. Warmth and longing spiraled through his abdomen as he crossed the room towards her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She was facing away from him by the time he reached her, having pulled the last of the towels from the dryer. He wrapped his arms around her waist as the song came to an end, startling her, though not enough to stop her from singing: “You will be his…”
He smiled, drawing her close and offering, “He will be yours,” instead, directing his words into the shell of her ear.
She brushed her fingers over his where he held her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I didn’t mind waking up,” he replied, tightening the brace of his arms around her.
She sighed, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. Companionable silence fell over them as they stood there and listened to Dusty’s soulful voice fill the air around them.
He closed his eyes, relishing the way it felt to hold her in his arms. Her warmth seeped into him, the brush of her robe soft against his skin. He could feel the rhythm of her breathing, smooth and soothing, the subtle rise and fall of her ribcage, just inside his elbows, intoxicating him. It was enough to lull him – with security, with serenity.
If he tried hard enough, he could forget the ache of longing that filled him whenever he held her; forget the distance that drove them apart; forget how much – and how ardently – he loved her.
She shifted against him with a sigh, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking her head into his chest. It was enough to break his dreamy reverie, to bring him spiralling back down to reality as Dusty’s soaring vocals proclaimed, “You don’t have to say you love me / just be close at hand…”
He sensed her melancholy in the way she held him, the way her arms closed tightly around his waist, and in the way she held herself – the tension coiled like a knot between her shoulders, the tautness of her frame. He furrowed his brow, resting his head on hers, lifting one hand to clasp her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “Are you okay, Stacy?” he asked softly.
She didn’t respond for a long moment, long enough to make him wonder if she’d even heard the question.
“It’s the way you make me feel / the moment I am close to you,” she sang, softly, quietly, her words reverberating into his chest, making him aware of the music again. “Makes today seem so unreal / somehow I can’t believe it’s true…”
She looked up and him, the intensity of her gaze instantly arresting him. “Tomorrow, will you still be here? / Tomorrow will come, but I fear…” She touched his face. “That what is happening to me / is only a dream…”
“Stacy,” he whispered, taking hold of her hand, surprise and need and longing welling up inside him. “I – ”
“Move in with me,” she broke in.
His heart stopped, and then started to throb painfully against his ribs. “What?” he sputtered, not completely sure that he’d heard her correctly.
“Move in with me,” she said again, her fingers drifting through his hair. “You practically live here already…why not make it official?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes falling closed. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked him. He’d never been able to say yes, because living with her without being with her would be absolute torture, and he wasn’t that good of a man.
He could only live with temptation for so long.
Still – with her hands in his hair, and her body leaning into his, he was finding it a little difficult to refuse this time.
He worked hard to quell the hope and excitement that flared in his chest. “Where is this coming from, all of a sudden?” he ventured.
She sighed again, her eyes roving over his disheveled hair and traveling down the lines of his face. “It isn’t ‘all of a sudden,’” she replied, brushing her fingers over the bandage on his temple. “It’s just… When you showed up on my doorstep last night, beaten and bloody…it scared me.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know this hardly ever happens,” he assured her gently. “It was one asshole artist with a temper, determined to take out his frustration on everyone else. I mean – I write music for a living, it’s not like I deal cocaine.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she returned, shaking her head, curling her hands around his neck and lowering his forehead to rest against hers. “I hate the thought of anyone hurting you – and that – made me realize….”
Her eyes searched his for an achingly long moment; he felt his breath shutter in his lungs, his chest constricting over the frantic beating of his heart, and he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to hear her say it, words he’d be longing to hear from her for years, words he was fairly sure he’d never hear again, after the last time…
Being her friend is enough, he reminded himself – only to realize that it wasn’t.
He loved her, so much, to the point of physical pain. Maybe he’d just been kidding himself for all of these years, clinging to some tiny hope that she felt even half the love he had for her. She was beautiful, successful, intensely independent – she could have any man she wanted.
And he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it to be him.
It felt like an eternity passing before she spoke again.
“It made me realize how much I love you,” she finally said, closing her arms over his shoulders, oblivious to the wave of relief that flooded through him, “and how much I want you here, with me.”
“Stacy, I – ” he began.
“I know it’s not fair,” she barreled on, “but I’m tired of trying to be fair. I can’t help it – I love you, and I don’t want to lose you. Not again.” She shifted slightly, hugging him close. “Last night was a wakeup call.”
It took a moment for his mind to slow down, for her words to sink in. He accepted her embrace, warmth and eagerness cascading over him as he closed his arms around her and thought about the night before. She hadn’t fallen to pieces when she opened the door; she’d simply looked at him, assessed his scrapes and bruises, and led him to the kitchen, where she kept her first aid kit. She was calm and comforting as she cleaned and bandaged his wounds – just as she always was, whenever he needed it.
If the experience had shaken her, she’d hidden it well, in the moment.
“Last night – ” he started, only to have her cut him off at the pass.
“ – was temptation at its worst,” she confessed, loosening her hold on him. She shook her head before pressing it to his again. “I wanted to stay with you.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he breathed, smoothing his hands up the planes of her back, drawing her body achingly close to his own.
“I couldn’t,” she whispered, her breath warm on his lips, her mouth torturously, dangerously near. “I didn’t want to make you think it was only out of sympathy.”
“When have you ever done anything solely ‘out of sympathy’?” he mused teasingly, brushing his lips over hers.
That simple little gesture was enough – she surged forward, into him, capturing his mouth with her own, twining her fingers through his hair as she kissed him, long and slow and deep. It was enough – to bring back memories, thoughts, feelings, desires – to make his chest ache as his heart shattered and reformed, brimming over with his love for her – to push him forward, beyond, unable to counter the tidal wave of emotion that crashed over him: love, and lust, and need, and want, joy and relief and the surge of confidence that came with understanding exactly what she meant: about wanting to stay, wanting to be there, with her.
It was wondrous and glorious and slightly overwhelming. As much as he’d wanted this, he never actually thought it would happen. Their history was long and tumultuous, filled with love and laughter, but also bitterness and heartbreak. Through it all, they’d somehow managed to remain friends – and he’d spent years loving her from afar, holding her hand and soothing her, supporting her and comforting her, letting her go when he wanted nothing more than to pull her close instead.
She was her own woman, standing in the middle of her own laundry room on a random Saturday afternoon, and with one kiss, she’d made him the happiest man on earth. She had the world at her feet, and what she wanted was him: a struggling musician who still had to deal with volatile artists and egomaniacal managers in order to have precious studio time, who occasionally had to fight – literally – to keep his integrity intact.
“Stay awhile / let me hold you,” she murmured between kisses, raking her hands through his hair, bringing him back to the surface of his thoughts. Dimly, he became aware of the music that permeated their air around them, and the way she smiled against his lips as she sang along. “Stay awhile / ’til I’ve told you / of the love that I feel for you…”
He broke away from her, just far enough to gaze into her eyes, a warm flush of adrenaline coursing through his veins when he saw her love and desire reflecting back at him. “Do you serenade all of your boyfriends with Dusty Springfield lyrics?” he teased, sliding his thumb over the crest of her cheek.
She shook her head, the end of her ponytail curling over her shoulder as she smiled at him. “No,” she returned cheekily, “the other ones get Madonna, or Aretha if I really like them.”
He pouted. “You wound me,” he cried dramatically, clutching his hands over his heart.
She rolled her eyes as she moved away from him, opening the top of the washing machine and throwing the wet clothes into the dryer beside it. She turned back, eyeing each of the piles on the floor, as if trying to decide which one was next.
“You look like you’re washing the entire contents of your closet,” Ryan observed, stepping out of her way as she passed, apparently in search of something in particular. “Is this normal? Do I need plan for this?”
She shot him a wry look as she bent down to pick up a huge pile of dark-colored garments. “I have a business meeting in LA next week,” she informed him, taking her load over to the washing machine and slowly feeding it in. “Fall/winter concepts – and trying to pry out of Pantone what the next color of the year will be.”
He couldn’t quite hide his disappointment. “You’re leaving already?” he murmured, trailing after her. “But what will I do while you’re away?”
“What you already do,” she replied archly. “Come here at all hours of the day or night, eat everything in my fridge, freak out my neighbors, and then sack out on the sofa. Although,” she mused, sending a coy look at him over her shoulder, “it might be nice to come home and find you in my bed, instead.”
“Really,” he contended, draping his arm over her shoulders as she measured the detergent and poured it into the basin of the machine. He drew her close as she lowered the lid. “You know,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek, just beside her ear, “there are a lot of reasons why I love you, but that one has to be my favorite.”
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Post-canon
Genre: Romance
Rating: T
Warnings: Language, innuendo
Word Count: 3,915
Summary: He had many reasons to love her, and she just kept giving him more…
Further author's notes can be found here.
DISCLAIMER: The Kids Incorporated concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (i.e., I am writing about the characters, not the actors who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.
“I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten” lyrics © 1968 Clive Westlake
“Stay Awhile” lyrics © 1963 Ivor Raymonde / Mike Hawker
“Wishin’ and Hopin’” lyrics © 1963 Burt Bacharach / Hal David
“You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me” lyrics © 1965 Pino Donaggio Vito Pallavicini / Vicki Wickham / Simon Napier-Bell
It isn’t the way that you look
And it isn’t the way that you talk
It isn’t the things that you say or do
That make me want you so
Never before have I been so sure
You’re the someone I dreamed I would find…
~*~
There were many reasons for him to love her.
There was what everyone else saw: six feet of absolute glamour – her ocean-blue eyes framed by honey-blond hair; her long, lean, lithe body (with legs that went on for about five or six miles); her flawless makeup, stylish wardrobe, gorgeous jewelry – and the sort of supreme confidence to carry it all off. She was smart, successful, and kind, holding seats on the executive boards of just as many charities as she did fashion houses.
And then there was everything else.
He loved her because she was fiercely independent, because she’d traveled her own tough road in the equally fickle world of fashion, and because she was proud of her work. She was an artist in her own right, making magic with bolts of fabric, spools of thread, and reams of accessories.
He loved her because she’d pursued her own career instead of waiting for his.
He loved her for her honesty, her intelligence, her sense of humor. She was sharp-witted, but mercifully lacked the oft-accompanying acid tongue. Rare was the time she cut someone down, though she was willing to, as necessary. Behind her public persona, she had a reputation for being mean, but he suspected that was mostly because she was clever – and everybody knows that pretty blonde girls are only supposed to be dumb.
She’d never been unkind to him (not when he hadn’t deserved it, at least).
Indeed, she was all too willing to listen to him moan and complain, and he loved her for it. He loved her for all the times she’d ordered in and kept the alcohol flowing while he ranted about the temperamental artists he had to put up with, and the jackass record execs he had to please. He loved her because she trusted him enough to give him a key to her apartment, along with implicit permission to crash there anytime. She didn’t mind the ridiculous hours he kept (which were only partly his fault), or that he showed up at all hours of the night (or day). His own place was all the way across the city; it was comfortable and affordable, but inconvenient when someone got a bug up their ass about mixing, mastering, and delivery deadlines.
He loved her because her apartment was always filled with music – not his, but hers: her eclectic collection of old school hits, classic punk, alternative rock, modern pop, and soulful blues. He never knew what would be playing when he walked through her door, whether it would be something old and familiar, or new and interesting.
As long as it wasn’t silence, he didn’t care.
He loved it when she was at home when he dropped by, an increasingly rare treat these days. Her designs were in demand now, during the dead of winter, as she rushed to meet deadlines for next season’s spring/summer collections. As the weather warmed, her body would be in demand, too – as the perfect slate on which to model those designs – and she’d be off to London, Paris, Milan, Berlin or beyond, as her schedule dictated.
As much as he loved her, he didn’t love that – which was probably why they maintained separate apartments, why he’d made her living room sofa his crash pad, and why they hadn’t slept together since college.
He didn’t mind – much. He’d rather have a part of her than nothing at all. He cherished their friendship, still strong after almost twenty years. It had endured everything, from first kisses to broken hearts.
Many, many broken hearts.
Ryan sighed, cracking his eyes open only to meet the harsh rays of daylight. He groaned, turning his face into the pillow, and he willed his head to stop pounding. It had turned into a complete shitshow at the studio last night, the artist, his manager, and the album’s producer coming to blows over the rhythm track of this damn song that they’d been slaving over for the last week. Tempers had flared, fists had flown, and he’d only barely escaped the scuffle with a couple of glancing blows.
Fucking divas, he thought sourly, pushing the memory of the pulsating bass line firmly out of his mind. They all think they can write, like it’s that fucking easy or something. He’d long ago learned to stay out of artists’ ways when it came to their egos clashing with everyone else’s good ideas. He hadn’t made it ten years in this business by being stupid, after all. He wrote, he produced, and he kept his mouth shut – unless someone brought it to his door.
Last night’s session had been the worst he’d seen in a while. The whiny, demanding little jackass of a lead singer dared to argue with him over a rhythm track when he couldn’t even read the damn music he was complaining about. The band had been totally useless; their manager only made things worse; when the album’s producer got in on the fracas, all hell had broken loose.
Needless to say, he wasn’t looking forward to going back.
No, if he had his way, he’d lounge around all day in Stacy’s apartment, in his warm cocoon of blankets on her sofa, and just shut out the rest of the world. She was home, or at least she had been when he arrived last night; she’d bandaged his scrapes and stayed with him for a little while, slipping off to her own bed after he’d fallen asleep.
It was one of those nights when he’d wished that she hadn’t left; he sensed that she was under some serious stress herself, if only because of the way she (finally) relaxed into him while he held her in his arms. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could still feel the tension in her shoulders as she lay against him, the stiffness of her frame slowly melting away as she curled her body into his. It had lulled him to sleep, but obviously not her.
He frowned at the memory, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position. He waited for his blood to settle before pressing his fingertips gingerly against his temple. It was still tender beneath the gauze, and probably ready for a new bandage, but his thoughts had already wandered away from his lacerations. He and Stacy might not have been as close as they once were, but it had been rather obvious that something was weighing heavily on her mind last night, and it bothered him that she hadn’t told him about it.
It was probably none of his business – and he could respect that – but still, it bothered him.
He sighed again, running his hands through his hair as he contemplated his next move. Dimly, he became aware of the soft lilt of music drifting his way, and he smiled. It meant that she was still home – she always had something spinning in the background when she was around. Last night it had been Kent, a rock band from Sweden that she’d fallen in love with on her first trip to Stockholm ages ago.
He sat up a bit straighter, closing his eyes in order to concentrate on the music emanating into the room. It was full-bodied and bluesy, probably something from the sixties, but he couldn’t decipher much more than that. With one last, lingering look at his cocoon of blankets, he got up, picking up his hoodie from the floor and sliding it on as he followed the music down the hall.
Stacy’s apartment was luxurious by Manhattan standards – two bedrooms with a connecting bath, a full kitchen, a spacious living room, and her own washer/dryer nestled in the midst of a walk-in closet. Not her closet, of course, but the other one, which took up most of the second bedroom. Ryan wasn’t surprised when he found her (and the music) there.
Here was another reason why he loved her: she was comfortable enough with his presence to look like this, half-dressed with her hair hastily pulled back, elbow deep in her laundry.
He slumped against the doorframe of the bedroom, tucking his hands into his pockets as he gazed at her, standing inside the closet and folding towels. She wore a simple, three-quarter length fleece bathrobe, belted snugly at her waist, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was tied in a simple ponytail, the end of it curling naturally over her back. She was singing along with Dusty Springfield while she worked, swaying absently to the beat of the music.
“Show him that you care just for him / do the things he likes to do,” she crooned, pulling another towel from the dryer. “Wear your hair just for him, ’cause…” Her voice dropped into her sultry alto range, her hips dipping over the suggestive bridge: “You won’t get him / thinkin’ and a-prayin’ / wishin’ and a-hopin’…”
It amused him to listen to her sing such lyrics. She’d never done anything to change herself in order to attract his attention – she’d simply been her. Even when they were teenagers, her inner beauty shone through the veneer of awkward insecurity, drawing him to her like a moth to a flame. She was special, even if she couldn’t see it yet.
He’d always love that about her – that she’d trusted him, and let him help her discover the poise and pride in the very center of her being.
“’Cause wishin’ / and hopin’ / and thinkin’ / and prayin’ / plannin’ / and dreamin’ / his kisses will start,” she sang, placing another folded towel on the stack, “that won’t get you into his heart…”
Nope: the path to his heart had been carved by her voice. He’d always loved her voice. She’d really come into her own during their final few years with Kids Incorporated – it was confident and strong, her range was impressive, and she had the sort of stage presence most of his current artists would kill for. He’d been surprised when she gave it all up after high school – he remembered the countless hours he’d spent trying to convince her to change her mind. She was too good to not pursue her music, he’d argued, even if only semi-professionally.
She’d refused. Fashion was her future, she’d declared – and, he had to admit, she’d been right.
Still. After he’d landed his first substantial gig with bit of extra studio time, he’d begged her to come in and record a track, just for fun and old times’ sake. It had backfired, big time – she broke up with him that afternoon – but that request was never far from his mind. More than once he’d sat at a sound board, wishing it was her sweet voice tunneling through the wires and into his ears, instead of the high-pitched squeals of some token pretty-girl lead singer.
“So if you’re thinking of how great true love is,” she continued, her voice rising along with Dusty’s, “all you gotta do is / hold him / and kiss him / and squeeze him / and love him / yeah, just do it, and after you do / you will be his…” She curled her arms around herself, her shoulders swaying in time with the music, a small smile rising to her lips.
Or you could just serenade me, he considered as he pushed himself upright once more. Warmth and longing spiraled through his abdomen as he crossed the room towards her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She was facing away from him by the time he reached her, having pulled the last of the towels from the dryer. He wrapped his arms around her waist as the song came to an end, startling her, though not enough to stop her from singing: “You will be his…”
He smiled, drawing her close and offering, “He will be yours,” instead, directing his words into the shell of her ear.
She brushed her fingers over his where he held her. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I didn’t mind waking up,” he replied, tightening the brace of his arms around her.
She sighed, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder. Companionable silence fell over them as they stood there and listened to Dusty’s soulful voice fill the air around them.
He closed his eyes, relishing the way it felt to hold her in his arms. Her warmth seeped into him, the brush of her robe soft against his skin. He could feel the rhythm of her breathing, smooth and soothing, the subtle rise and fall of her ribcage, just inside his elbows, intoxicating him. It was enough to lull him – with security, with serenity.
If he tried hard enough, he could forget the ache of longing that filled him whenever he held her; forget the distance that drove them apart; forget how much – and how ardently – he loved her.
She shifted against him with a sigh, wrapping her arms around his waist and tucking her head into his chest. It was enough to break his dreamy reverie, to bring him spiralling back down to reality as Dusty’s soaring vocals proclaimed, “You don’t have to say you love me / just be close at hand…”
He sensed her melancholy in the way she held him, the way her arms closed tightly around his waist, and in the way she held herself – the tension coiled like a knot between her shoulders, the tautness of her frame. He furrowed his brow, resting his head on hers, lifting one hand to clasp her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “Are you okay, Stacy?” he asked softly.
She didn’t respond for a long moment, long enough to make him wonder if she’d even heard the question.
“It’s the way you make me feel / the moment I am close to you,” she sang, softly, quietly, her words reverberating into his chest, making him aware of the music again. “Makes today seem so unreal / somehow I can’t believe it’s true…”
She looked up and him, the intensity of her gaze instantly arresting him. “Tomorrow, will you still be here? / Tomorrow will come, but I fear…” She touched his face. “That what is happening to me / is only a dream…”
“Stacy,” he whispered, taking hold of her hand, surprise and need and longing welling up inside him. “I – ”
“Move in with me,” she broke in.
His heart stopped, and then started to throb painfully against his ribs. “What?” he sputtered, not completely sure that he’d heard her correctly.
“Move in with me,” she said again, her fingers drifting through his hair. “You practically live here already…why not make it official?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes falling closed. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked him. He’d never been able to say yes, because living with her without being with her would be absolute torture, and he wasn’t that good of a man.
He could only live with temptation for so long.
Still – with her hands in his hair, and her body leaning into his, he was finding it a little difficult to refuse this time.
He worked hard to quell the hope and excitement that flared in his chest. “Where is this coming from, all of a sudden?” he ventured.
She sighed again, her eyes roving over his disheveled hair and traveling down the lines of his face. “It isn’t ‘all of a sudden,’” she replied, brushing her fingers over the bandage on his temple. “It’s just… When you showed up on my doorstep last night, beaten and bloody…it scared me.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know this hardly ever happens,” he assured her gently. “It was one asshole artist with a temper, determined to take out his frustration on everyone else. I mean – I write music for a living, it’s not like I deal cocaine.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she returned, shaking her head, curling her hands around his neck and lowering his forehead to rest against hers. “I hate the thought of anyone hurting you – and that – made me realize….”
Her eyes searched his for an achingly long moment; he felt his breath shutter in his lungs, his chest constricting over the frantic beating of his heart, and he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to hear her say it, words he’d be longing to hear from her for years, words he was fairly sure he’d never hear again, after the last time…
Being her friend is enough, he reminded himself – only to realize that it wasn’t.
He loved her, so much, to the point of physical pain. Maybe he’d just been kidding himself for all of these years, clinging to some tiny hope that she felt even half the love he had for her. She was beautiful, successful, intensely independent – she could have any man she wanted.
And he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it to be him.
It felt like an eternity passing before she spoke again.
“It made me realize how much I love you,” she finally said, closing her arms over his shoulders, oblivious to the wave of relief that flooded through him, “and how much I want you here, with me.”
“Stacy, I – ” he began.
“I know it’s not fair,” she barreled on, “but I’m tired of trying to be fair. I can’t help it – I love you, and I don’t want to lose you. Not again.” She shifted slightly, hugging him close. “Last night was a wakeup call.”
It took a moment for his mind to slow down, for her words to sink in. He accepted her embrace, warmth and eagerness cascading over him as he closed his arms around her and thought about the night before. She hadn’t fallen to pieces when she opened the door; she’d simply looked at him, assessed his scrapes and bruises, and led him to the kitchen, where she kept her first aid kit. She was calm and comforting as she cleaned and bandaged his wounds – just as she always was, whenever he needed it.
If the experience had shaken her, she’d hidden it well, in the moment.
“Last night – ” he started, only to have her cut him off at the pass.
“ – was temptation at its worst,” she confessed, loosening her hold on him. She shook her head before pressing it to his again. “I wanted to stay with you.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he breathed, smoothing his hands up the planes of her back, drawing her body achingly close to his own.
“I couldn’t,” she whispered, her breath warm on his lips, her mouth torturously, dangerously near. “I didn’t want to make you think it was only out of sympathy.”
“When have you ever done anything solely ‘out of sympathy’?” he mused teasingly, brushing his lips over hers.
That simple little gesture was enough – she surged forward, into him, capturing his mouth with her own, twining her fingers through his hair as she kissed him, long and slow and deep. It was enough – to bring back memories, thoughts, feelings, desires – to make his chest ache as his heart shattered and reformed, brimming over with his love for her – to push him forward, beyond, unable to counter the tidal wave of emotion that crashed over him: love, and lust, and need, and want, joy and relief and the surge of confidence that came with understanding exactly what she meant: about wanting to stay, wanting to be there, with her.
It was wondrous and glorious and slightly overwhelming. As much as he’d wanted this, he never actually thought it would happen. Their history was long and tumultuous, filled with love and laughter, but also bitterness and heartbreak. Through it all, they’d somehow managed to remain friends – and he’d spent years loving her from afar, holding her hand and soothing her, supporting her and comforting her, letting her go when he wanted nothing more than to pull her close instead.
She was her own woman, standing in the middle of her own laundry room on a random Saturday afternoon, and with one kiss, she’d made him the happiest man on earth. She had the world at her feet, and what she wanted was him: a struggling musician who still had to deal with volatile artists and egomaniacal managers in order to have precious studio time, who occasionally had to fight – literally – to keep his integrity intact.
“Stay awhile / let me hold you,” she murmured between kisses, raking her hands through his hair, bringing him back to the surface of his thoughts. Dimly, he became aware of the music that permeated their air around them, and the way she smiled against his lips as she sang along. “Stay awhile / ’til I’ve told you / of the love that I feel for you…”
He broke away from her, just far enough to gaze into her eyes, a warm flush of adrenaline coursing through his veins when he saw her love and desire reflecting back at him. “Do you serenade all of your boyfriends with Dusty Springfield lyrics?” he teased, sliding his thumb over the crest of her cheek.
She shook her head, the end of her ponytail curling over her shoulder as she smiled at him. “No,” she returned cheekily, “the other ones get Madonna, or Aretha if I really like them.”
He pouted. “You wound me,” he cried dramatically, clutching his hands over his heart.
She rolled her eyes as she moved away from him, opening the top of the washing machine and throwing the wet clothes into the dryer beside it. She turned back, eyeing each of the piles on the floor, as if trying to decide which one was next.
“You look like you’re washing the entire contents of your closet,” Ryan observed, stepping out of her way as she passed, apparently in search of something in particular. “Is this normal? Do I need plan for this?”
She shot him a wry look as she bent down to pick up a huge pile of dark-colored garments. “I have a business meeting in LA next week,” she informed him, taking her load over to the washing machine and slowly feeding it in. “Fall/winter concepts – and trying to pry out of Pantone what the next color of the year will be.”
He couldn’t quite hide his disappointment. “You’re leaving already?” he murmured, trailing after her. “But what will I do while you’re away?”
“What you already do,” she replied archly. “Come here at all hours of the day or night, eat everything in my fridge, freak out my neighbors, and then sack out on the sofa. Although,” she mused, sending a coy look at him over her shoulder, “it might be nice to come home and find you in my bed, instead.”
“Really,” he contended, draping his arm over her shoulders as she measured the detergent and poured it into the basin of the machine. He drew her close as she lowered the lid. “You know,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek, just beside her ear, “there are a lot of reasons why I love you, but that one has to be my favorite.”