Chapter 20
Juliet
I made him play me the music he’d recorded in his basement. We’d eaten, and Gary had passed out in his dog bed as the sky clouded over outside.
Finn pointed out the files on the computer, and as I played the tracks on his sound system—God, it was nice to live in a place you owned by yourself, with no roommates to complain about your music—he took the cushions off the sofa in the corner. He scattered the cushions on the floor and lay on them on his back as the songs spun one after the other. It was a perfect lazy weekend afternoon, listening to music after a long walk as the weather darkened outside.
I sat cross-legged on my own cushion on the floor, and by the second song I was into it, my own existence vanished into the world Finn had made. His music was melodic, a lot more pop than what I wrote myself or what I played with the Road Kings, focused mostly on the sound of acoustic guitar and keys. His voice was soulful, the hooks and the bridges skillfully done. By the third song, and then the fourth, I fully understood that Finn Wiley had songwriting talent that ran laps around any other songwriter I had ever met.
The music told stories. Childhood stories, character portraits, stories that were what it felt like to laze in a park on a summer day and imagine the lives of the people around you. The music was a tapestry. One of them was about a breakup, the character in the song driving with all of his belongings in the back of his car. I had my reasons, Finn sang in his soulful voice, And I think you know what they are.
I wound through song after song, transfixed. Some songs were rough, some unfinished, but the ones that were polished shone like gems. I could hear him experimenting with sounds, influences, arrangements—high-level things I’d never tried. Finn had played every instrument on every track, then mixed it. Just sitting alone in his basement. He was that fucking good.
It would have been infuriating if it wasn’t so hot.
I had worked with good musicians before. Great ones, even. Hell, I was a good musician. Finn wasn’t the first example of musical competence I’d ever seen, but this felt like diving into a waterfall or jumping from an airplane—terrifying, but at the same time, it made me feel like anything could happen.
I had been in a rut. I could suddenly see it so clearly, even though it made me flinch. I had spent years not trying, doing the same thing over and over, masking my fear as attitude. I had decided, after my band broke up, that nothing was worth hoping for anymore. That any attempt would be met with failure, so in order to avoid being hurt, I wasn’t going to bother.
Finn had failed, too. He had done it differently and more publicly than me, but this was his reaction to it. I had played tiny clubs with Checkerboard Sadness, and he had made this incredible music in his basement, which he hadn’t shared with anyone else. I understood it. I understood him. He wasn’t heroic or perfect or golden or even brave, not all the time. He was fucking real.
I stopped the music mid-song and looked at Finn. I could have sworn his expression was stricken with hurt when he heard the music stop. “Okay, it isn’t finished,” he said hurriedly. “I’m still working?—”
“Shut up.” In one motion I straddled him right there on the floor, bent down, and kissed him. Hard.
I felt his surprised laugh against my mouth. When I broke the kiss, he looked bemused, though his skin had a telltale flush. “Juliet?”
He always called me that, I realized. Always Juliet, never Jules. My family called me Jules or Julie. My band called me Jules. Only Finn called me who I was, every time.
“Shut up,” I said to him again, and then bent for another kiss. He kissed me back. My body remembered last night and wanted more, any way I could get it. I wanted his hands and his naked skin and the way he tilted his head back when he was lost in it. I wanted his weight on me, and I wanted my weight on him, the realness of both of us, right here in this moment. I couldn’t think about the future, whether I’d ever have him again. I just wanted him now, and I wanted all of him.
Finn pulled back. He looked confused and happy and very turned on. “You like the music,” he said, and though it wasn’t a question, I could hear that he wasn’t sure.
Instead of answering, I slid my hand down between us, into his sweatpants.
He twitched in surprise, and I felt every part of it, the reflex of his hips and the quick tension in his thighs. His eyes went wide. “You really like the music,” he said with another laugh. Finn’s laugh when he was happy and also worked up was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It should be in a museum.
I curled my fingers around him, brushing my thumb over his tip. “I really like the music.”
“Jesus, Juliet.” The laugh was gone, and he put a hand to the back of my neck to pull me down.
I was getting familiar with the way he kissed, the full attention he gave it, the deep concentration. I was familiar with the feel of him in my hand, the scent of his skin, the sound of his breath. I wasn’t used to knowing someone like this, to feeling like he knew me. I didn’t understand it all the way, but in the moment, I didn’t care. I just wanted him.
Finn tugged at my shirt, and we parted so I could pull it over my head and off. I was naked beneath it. He maneuvered me just enough to pull my jeans and underwear off and toss them, and then I pushed him down and climbed onto him again, naked. I took my turn pulling his shirt off. We were almost wrestling, pushing and pulling in a way that felt delicious with anticipation. I tried to position him so I could yank his pants down and ride him, but he stopped me with his hands on my hips, his fingers hot where the pressed into my soft flesh.
“Finn—” I protested.
“No talking,” he said, and then he surprised me by sliding his body down the cushions, his hands still on my hips.
Oh, Jesus. This…this was not something guys volunteered to do, in my experience. They liked to talk big about it, but it was all talk, no action. Finn, apparently, could put his money where his mouth was.
I had to grip the edge of a nearby shelf to brace myself, to balance so that I wouldn’t lower all of my weight down and suffocate him. I tried to get the position right, I really did. I tried to be considerate. I had a brief second in which I was almost embarrassed. And then I think I blacked out.
There’s pleasure, and then there’s whatever Finn Wiley did to me on the floor of his basement music room, sprawled on the cushions from his sofa. I didn’t have a word for that, but evil incarnate came close.