Read Online Red Velvet Crush by Christina Meredith - Free Book Online Page A

basement, but live and much louder. I have been practicing it at home every chance I get, remembering how it felt to be close to him for the first time, how my heart drubbed down into my toes, how my hands rested on him, light and new.
    I work the pedals on the baby grand, feeling all the notes, full steam ahead.
    I don’t slow down, or ease into it, or even give Ty a chance to catch up to me, but somehow he does.

6
    J ay and Ginger are in for it. I can tell by the way they stand straighter and stare whenever Billie walks into the garage for practice. Today their mouths hang open, and Jay’s bass swings low and loose, temporarily forgotten.
    I’ve seen it before. It is a side effect of her bounciness, her indifference, and the little space between her front teeth. Boys love Billie.
    But Ty never even seems to notice her. He is either very well behaved or impervious to her charms. Maybe he is still hypnotized, spinning under the dazzling spell of The Wall of Sound and its sea of shining instruments.
    I am still feeling it, too, and returning to the dusty dimness of the garage is a bit of a disappointment. But Jay and Ginger are here when we pull up, spilling stupid jokes and guitar licksout into the street, and sliding under the moon and stars strap feels like home. It sparkles when the light hits it just right.
    Billie is sporting a fresh scrape on her knee. It looks suspiciously like rug burn, but Billie always has a bruise or a scratch or a bump. A nick. A little something that she picks up during the day and has no idea how it happened.
    She bumps along with a smile on her face, knocking into everyday shit, unknowingly changing the trajectory of everything around her. Lives, furniture, even things that appear to be set in stone are nudged into another dimension when she bounces up against them: poor, unprepared world.
    Her eyes follow mine from her knee to her face, where they flicker and hold, seemingly abashed, but I bet I just imagine that.
    What was she up to while Ty and I were out?
    I tell myself she tripped.
    Ty waits for her while she gets set, tapping out the intro to the next song on the rim of his snare. Jay joins in, and Ginger Baker rolls his head back and forth to the beat, already lost.
    When Ginger goes to bed at night, I bet musical notes dance before his eyes, while bosomy girls in satin nighties thread in and out of staves, weaving themselves into his unwritten masterpieces.
    Billie starts singing, and soon she is screwing everything up. I know it’s on purpose because songs she has known herwhole life are coming out wrong.“Wish” becomes “kiss.” “Boys” becomes “noise.”
    There is no excuse. Growing up with Winston was a lifelong primer in classic rock. We skipped right over “The Farmer in the Dell” and went straight on to “Black Dog,” drifting along on a constant stream of acoustic intros and cigarette smoke.
    The periodic table and the parsing of sentences fall right through Billie’s brain, but those lyrics are stuck in her head, like bubble gum on the bottom of her boot. This has to be payback for spending the day with Ty.
    I scowl at her from behind my guitar and wonder what will come next.
    Finally Jay jumps forward and whispers over her shoulder.
    â€œAh . . . it’s ‘repent,’” he says, “not ‘red pants.’”
    Billie turns to look at him, eyebrows arched.
    Jay ducks his chin and slides back into his spot, lining his worn Vans up behind his microphone, completely apologetic and still slightly goggled by her presence.
    â€œâ€™Sokay.” She smiles sweetly, finally swimming in the attention she was after.
    We find our places again while Billie sways, waiting for the start of the next verse.
    She stands, hand on her skinny hip, the fake fur trim surrounding the hood on her parka tangled into her hair. As the music starts building, she arches toward the mic, and Iwatch her