4. Moon
4
MOON
M y pulse was still thrumming from the performance, each beat heightened by the way Hendrix had looked at me on stage, his eyes holding mine like he’d seen something no one else had. His words after—smooth as his guitar playing—reverberated in my mind, blending with the adrenaline coursing through me.
Hendrix was magnetic up there, his fingers moving over the strings like he wasn’t just playing music—he was living it. There was an ease to him that I envied, the way he seemed to fold into the sound without overthinking it.
I honestly was enchanted by this guy, and I couldn’t help staring at him playing across from me while I lost myself in the lyrics. Hendrix looked like he was born for the stage, though his casual, almost careless demeanor said he didn’t think about it at all. His dark espresso brown curls tumbled in thick waves that brushed the tops of his shoulders, held back by a faded bandana folded as a headband, the edges frayed with age.
On stage, his stormy blue eyes had flicked between his guitar and me, their intensity softened by a hint of mischief. He wore several silver rings, rugged with carvings in them, that caught the light while he played. Tanned olive skin stretched over rugged muscles, pronounced even through his long-sleeve soft washed Henley, which seemed to ripple with each strum.
His well-worn jeans, slung low on his hips and faded to a soft, pale blue, carried a rip at one knee that told a story of use, not fashion. When he reached up to strap his guitar, the hem of his t-shirt rode up, exposing well-defined V-muscles and abs carved from years of living rather than a gym. Scuffed boots tapped out the beat on the stage floor, the rhythm pulsing through him like a second nature.
But before I could lose myself in the memory of Hendrix on stage, I felt someone else’s attention sweep over me, cool and unhurried, like a hand gliding up the back of my neck, lingering just long enough to stake a claim.
Hendrix guided me over to a guy leaning against the bar, one I hadn’t noticed during the performance. Tall and lean but with strong shoulders, his sandy long hair, golden at the tips where it had been lightened by the sun, brushed his neck with boyish disarray. His features held a mix of quiet confidence and something darker, and his eyes locked onto mine with a look that made me blush. His eyes—God, his eyes—were like the ocean swirled on the rocks.
After exchanging banter and names, Conrad handed us each a glass, his movements effortless and assured. He pressed a whiskey sour into Hendrix’s hand with a knowing smirk, then turned to me with a glass of something creamy and swirling with ice.
“A White Russian,” he said, his sea glass eyes glinting as if he’d just told me a secret.
The drink was pale and inviting, the faint aroma of coffee liqueur curling up like a whisper. I took a tentative sip, the velvety smoothness coating my tongue before a hint of vodka cut through. It was rich, indulgent, and surprisingly perfect.
“How did you know what to get me?” I asked, my brow arching in suspicion as I glanced up at him.
He leaned closer, his grin widening. “I have a knack for knowing what people need before they do.”
The smoothness of the drink spread through me, mingling with the heat of his gaze. Damn him—he was right.
“You like that, trouble?” he asked with a knowing smirk.
“Careful, Conrad,” Hendrix cut in, stepping closer to my side. The scent of his cologne—a mix of something warm and musky—wrapped around me as his arm brushed mine. “You might find she’s more than you can handle.”
Conrad raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Is that right?”
The tension between the two men was palpable, a silent battle of wills playing out before me. And yet, I could feel myself at the center of it, the spark drawing them both closer. Hendrix’s dark eyes lingered on my face, quiet and intense, while Conrad’s gaze dipped lower, his lips twitching like he was already imagining my reaction to something he hadn’t yet said.
“What do you think, Moon?” Conrad asked, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. He reached out, his fingers brushing mine as he gestured toward the drink in my hand. “Are you more than I can handle?”
I laughed softly, but the sound came out more breathless than I intended. “That depends on what you can handle,” I said, meeting his eyes.
Conrad chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my skin as he leaned in. “You have no idea.”
His fingers grazed the small of my back, light but deliberate, sending a shiver up my spine. Hendrix noticed the movement, and his eyes darkened slightly as he stepped closer, closing the space between us. His hand came to rest on the bar beside mine, his body leaning just enough to make me feel the heat of him.
“Well aren’t you a mysterious moon,” Conrad said, his voice low and intimate. “You’ve got both of us curious, and that’s not easy to do.”
I glanced between them, my heart racing at the intensity of their focus. Conrad’s thumb traced a slow, teasing circle at the small of my back, while Hendrix’s arm brushed against mine, his closeness making it impossible to ignore the way his gaze seemed to drink me in.
“What can I say?” I replied, my voice soft but edged with challenge. “I have that effect on people.”
“Clearly,” Hendrix said, his lips quirking into a half-smile. He shifted slightly, his chest brushing my shoulder as he leaned in to take the drink from my hand. His fingers lingered over mine as he lifted the glass to his lips, his dark eyes locking on mine as he took a slow sip.
Conrad tilted his head, watching the exchange with a faint smirk. “You’re playing with fire, Hendrix.”
“Maybe,” Hendrix replied, his gaze still on me. “But this fire is sweet.”
The air between us grew heavier, charged with unspoken tension. I could feel the heat of their bodies, the way their movements seemed to orbit around me like gravity pulling us closer. My breath hitched as Conrad’s hand slid up the bar, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist in a touch that was both casual and electric.
“You don’t scare easily, do you?” Conrad asked, his voice dipping lower as his fingers traced my pulse. “You seem like the type who likes to see how far things can go.”
My lips parted, my reply caught in my throat as Hendrix leaned in, his voice a murmur against my ear. “He’s right. You do have a way of pushing limits.”
My cheeks flushed, but I didn’t pull back. Instead, I turned my head slightly, my lips brushing dangerously close to Hendrix’s jaw. “Maybe I like seeing who can keep up.”
Conrad’s hand tightened on my wrist, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin there as he leaned closer. “Careful, you might find that some of us don’t play fair.”
“Neither do I,” I replied, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of sensations racing through me. I shifted slightly, my arm brushing Conrad’s chest as I leaned back against the bar, my gaze darting between them.
I couldn’t help but wonder where this was going. Where did I want it to go? Did I want Hendrix, or did I want his friend Conrad? The thought twisted through me, sharp and intoxicating, warming me like the lull of my drink. But it wasn’t just about choosing one or the other. It was the way they existed in the same space, the heat of their combined presence igniting something inside me I hadn’t fully grasped yet. They were opposites in so many ways, yet both pulled at different pieces of me, equally enchanting. The question wasn’t just what I wanted. It was whether I was ready to chase it, to dive into the storm they both created and see where it led.
The air around us felt electric, each touch, each glance layered with possibilities that none of us seemed willing to deny. As Conrad’s hand trailed up my arm, his fingers brushing the curve of my shoulder, I realized I didn’t want it to stop.
Hendrix leaned casually against the bar, his dark eyes catching mine as Conrad finished his drink with a grin that felt like a challenge.
“You should come back to our place,” Hendrix said, his voice low, almost as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
Conrad nodded, tilting his glass in agreement. “Yeah, Moon. We’ve got better drinks and worse ideas. Perfect combination.”
I laughed, the sound a little breathless. “Worse ideas, huh? Should I be worried?”
Hendrix smirked, pushing off the bar and slipping his hands into his pockets. “Only if you scare easy.”
I didn’t.
Their place was a short walk away, tucked on a quiet, tree-lined street. The house itself was something out of a dream—or a movie set in a picturesque Southern coastal town. I couldn’t help but wonder how in the hell did a couple college guys end up living in such an elegant, expensive home. This was no typical frat house, that’s for sure. A sprawling antebellum home, its soft teal exterior glowed under the flicker of black lanterns flanking the door. Cypress shutters framed tall windows, and intricate wrought-iron railings wrapped around the double piazzas.
“Wow,” I said as we stepped onto the wide porch, the creak of the floorboards under my boots breaking the stillness of the night. “This is…not what I expected.”
Hendrix chuckled, unlocking the heavy front door with a twist of his wrist. “What did you expect?”
I shrugged, following them inside. “Something…smaller. Messier. College dude apartment, maybe a frat house. This looks like it belongs in a magazine.”
Conrad grinned, brushing past me to flick on the lights. “It’s all thanks to Granny Goodloe. Fanny couldn’t bring herself to sell the place after her mom passed, so she handed it over to us—responsible adults that we are.”
“Fanny is my stepmom,” Hendrix clarified. “We live here with my stepbrother who is probably holed up in his room—the guest house out back—with his books and his cigarettes. Conrad and I pretty much have the run of the place to ourselves most of the time.”
I took in the interior which was just as stunning. High ceilings stretched above us, with dark wooden beams crisscrossing the space. The living room opened up with an elegant yet lived-in feel. A mix of modern furniture and vintage accents gave the house personality—an expansive sectional wrapped around the room in a sumptuous pale grey, large plush oriental rugs, and a white brick fireplace topped with a stately wooden mantel in cream.
The walls weren’t just walls—they were a gallery. Art everywhere, from oil paintings to photography, some framed prints, some large canvases left unframed. I caught sight of a bold piece done in oils hanging above the fireplace and couldn’t help but stare.
It depicted the Charleston coast, but not the idyllic, sunlit scene you’d find on postcards. The water was restless, painted in churning shades of gray and blue, the waves rising and crashing as if frozen mid-turmoil. The sky above was heavy with clouds, dark and layered, streaked with flashes of pale yellow light breaking through. In the distance, the silhouette of a pier jutted out into the storm, stark and lonely. It felt alive, as if the scene were still unfolding, the storm ready to pull you in if you got too close.
“Who did that one?” I asked, moving closer, unable to tear my eyes away.
The boys exchanged a glance, something heavy and unspoken passing between them.
Hendrix cleared his throat, his voice quieter than usual. “James.”
“James?” I repeated, glancing back at him.
“My older stepbrother,” he explained, his tone carefully even. “He’s…not with us anymore.”
The words carried a weight I couldn’t ignore, but the way Hendrix’s dark eyes held mine told me not to ask.
“It’s stunning,” I said, turning back to the painting. “It feels like it’s alive.”
For a moment, silence settled between us, the storm in the painting reflected in the room. I wanted to ask more—who James was, what had happened to him—but something in Hendrix’s expression warned me not to push.
“You all have good taste,” I said instead, forcing a lightness into my tone. “This place feels like it has stories.”
Hendrix’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, it does. The good taste is all my stepmother, Fanny, though. We just have to keep things looking decent.”
Conrad clapped his hands together, breaking the tension as he stepped into the room. “Alright, let’s stop standing around like we’re in an art gallery. Drinks and games, people. Let’s go.”
Conrad disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with Hendrix for a moment. His gaze lingered on me, a little too long to be polite but not long enough to feel uncomfortable.
“Want a tour?” he asked.
Before I could answer, Conrad reappeared with a tray of drinks—another whiskey sour for Hendrix, something dark and neat for himself, and a fresh White Russian for me.
“Tour later,” Conrad said, handing me the glass. “Game first.”
“Game?” I asked, taking the drink and arching an eyebrow at him.
Hendrix leaned against the back of the sofa, his smile lazy but loaded. “Conrad thinks games are the fastest way to figure someone out.”
“That’s because they are,” Conrad countered, settling into one of the chairs and motioning for me to sit. “Besides, games tell you a lot about a person. Are they honest? Bold? Competitive? Or,” he added with a wicked grin, “are they more interested in bending the rules?”
“Depends on the game,” I said, lowering myself onto the couch across from him.
“Truth or dare?” Hendrix asked, leaning forward just enough to close the space between us.
I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s not a game. That’s a setup.”
“Exactly,” Conrad added, his voice smooth as he took a sip of his drink. “The best games are. But I’ve got a different version in mind. Just dares.”
The air between us felt charged, each glance and smile a move in a game we hadn’t officially started playing yet.
“Alright,” I said, setting my drink on the coffee table. “But if we’re doing this, we’re playing my way.”
Conrad’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “And what’s your way, Moon?”
I leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other as I met his gaze head-on. “No holding back. No skipping turns. And no complaints if you don’t like the dares.”
Hendrix chuckled, his lips curling into that half-smile that had been driving me crazy all night. “I think we can handle that.”
“Good,” I said, picking up my glass and taking a slow sip. “Because I play to win.”
A moment later Conrad reappeared with a collection of ceramic bowls and pens.
“All set,” he said, his voice carrying a playful edge that hinted this wasn’t going to be your average drinking game. “Here’s how it works.”
He set the bowls down on the coffee table, then handed me the stack of cards. “We’re going to divide these cards into categories. Our names go in the first bowl. Actions go in the second. Recipients in the next, and body parts in the fourth. Finally, the tone or mood—think adverbs—goes in the last.”
“Adverbs?” Hendrix rolled his eyes. “Is this a game or grammar class?”
Conrad smirked. “If you don’t know how to use adverbs by now, I don’t know what to tell you, man. Besides, they’ll make things interesting.”
The air between the three of us was charged with flirtatious tension as we each started scribbling down our choices on the cards. I couldn’t help but peek at Hendrix as he wrote on his cards, his wolfish grin suggesting that whatever he’d written was particularly bold. Conrad was all business, scribbling quickly and dropping each card into the bowls with ease.
I hesitated, my pen hovering over the cards. What did I want to write? I decided to range between the edge of coy and daring. For actions, I chose “kiss,” “tease,” and “suck.” For body parts, I picked “neck,” “inner thigh,” and “cock,” my cheeks heating slightly as I tossed in my cards. And for the tone, I went with “seductively,” “playfully,” and “skillfully.”
Conrad put cards with our names in the “doer” and the “recipient” bowls, and when we had added the rest of the cards, he leaned back in his chair, his whiskey glass catching the light. “Alright, Moon. You’re up first.”
The rules were simple: draw one card from each bowl and act out the combination. My heart beat faster as I reached for the first bowl and pulled out a card. I unfolded it slowly, Hendrix’s dark eyes watching me with an intensity that made me feel like I was under a spotlight.
I read the cards in order — “Moon…tease…Hendrix’s…neck…”
I bit my lip, glancing at him as I pulled the last card, “playfully.”
Hendrix leaned forward slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. “Guess I’m the guinea pig. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I downed the rest of my drink and leaned closer to him. His scent filled my senses—clean with a little spice—as I pressed my lips just below his jawline, my breath warm against his skin. I dragged my lips slowly up to his ear, grazing it lightly before pulling back.
“Mm okay. Strong start,” he said as he winked at me.
Conrad raised his glass in a cheeky toast. “Strong start, but let’s see if you can finish.” He wiggled his brows at me.
I laughed, the tension easing as I settled back into the couch. This was going to be a night to remember.