Lightning Strikes Once – by Claire Marti
LIGHTNING STRIKES ONCE
BY CLAIRE MARTI
ANDRé
Cursing my lack of self-control, I looked over at the gorgeous blonde at the far end of the table again. Usually the Beverly Hills Public Library was my safe haven from the crowds, from the public, from the band. When I wasn’t on tour, I loved to hide out here and read without distraction.
But right now, I was getting whiplash from pretending to read my book and sneaking glances at her.
She was minding her own business––like I should be––a mountain of books stacked haphazardly next to her laptop.
Her silky, honey-colored hair was in a low pony-tail, revealing a defined jawline and a swanlike neck that beckoned to be kissed.
I couldn’t discern the color of her eyes, hidden behind black-framed glasses, but I could feel the intensity of her gaze as she glowered at her computer screen.
What was it about her that drew me in, even at a distance?
I forced myself back to the present and resolved to stop staring but I couldn’t concentrate on my latest read, Warhol . I sure as hell wasn’t going to bother her because I valued my privacy and respected others’ but damn, I was tempted to approach her.
But I wouldn’t.
I lowered my gaze and turned the page, determined to focus.
“No!” The word cracked like a shot and the solid wood table vibrated.
My head snapped up and I stared.
The woman shook one slender hand, likely from smacking the table, then she dropped her forehead onto the desk. A protective instinct surged through me. I jumped out of my seat and approached her, stopping a few feet away.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, drawing a disapproving glare from the middle-aged ginger across the aisle.
She lifted her head, slid off her glasses, but remained silent. Her eyes were enormous and tilted up at the corners. Beneath the muted lights, they gleamed with a greenish-gold cast, like a tiger’s. Her pulse hammered in her throat, her tawny skin drained of color, and her full pink lips parted.
I crouched down, not wanting to tower over her. “Do you need help? Can you tell me if you’re alright?” I kept my voice low, soothing.
She closed her eyes for a moment, her dark lashes fanning her cheeks, and exhaled an audible breath.
I stayed quiet, something tugging in my chest. Her distress was palpable.
“I’m so far from okay right now.” Her voice was melodic, shooting a chill down my spine with its velvety smoothness.
“Is there anything I can do?” I wanted to help erase her pain.
She pressed one hand to her chest. “You’re sweet. I just received some terrible news and I should get out of here before I disturb the rest of the patrons. Sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize. My book was boring and you saved me from passing out with my face in the pages. You did me a favor, really.”
Her lips quirked. “Sure.”
Those captivating eyes crinkled at the corners, the faint lines revealing she smiled a lot. Maybe I could help cheer her up.
“Shhh.” The crabby patron wagged a finger at us.
“Now, we’re in trouble.” I grinned at her. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She licked her lips and every muscle in my body stiffened. I was definitely in trouble.
“I will be. Like I said, I should leave.” She closed her laptop and rose.
An urgent need seized me. I couldn’t let her go, at least not without learning her name.
“Well, I’m a really good listener. Sometimes talking with someone neutral can help. I was about to go grab a nightcap, why don’t you join me?” Uh, no. I certainly was not and where the hell did that come from? A nightcap? Was I in an old black and white movie?
“Oh, I couldn’t.” She paused, her full eyebrows knitting over a small straight nose. “You know what, scratch that. I don’t feel like going home. Not after the news I just received…a drink might help.”
“Really? You’ll have a drink with me?” And now I sounded like nerdy 13-year old André asking his crush of the month to the school dance .
“Yes, let’s get out of here before the redhead over there physically kicks us out.” She began stuffing her belongings into an enormous sunflower yellow satchel.
I caught a hint of lemon and maybe bergamot. She smelled as delicious as she looked.
“Let me grab my stuff.” Lightness fueled my stride. The beauty at the end of the table had said yes.
Although I hadn’t introduced myself, she hadn’t shown even a flicker of recognition.
I’d keep it to first names––safer that way.
As the drummer for Black Velvet Machine, one of the biggest alt-rock bands in the world, I hated the moment when someone looked at me as a “rockstar” instead of just another guy.
Not that I’m complaining about the incredible life I lead but the fame that comes along with all of it sucked.
I had zero desire for the limelight and avoided it as much as possible.
The lead singer and lead guitarist, Zoe and Liam, were fine with being the faces of the group.
Hell, they’d even gotten fake-married to kick off Zoe’s joining the band a few years ago, then they’d fallen in love for real. Crazy story.
Our manager actually thought it gave the band a tougher image to keep my former football player frame in the background. Worked for me. On the last album cover and in press photos, I was in the shadows, and endeavored to remain there in my personal life, too.
As long as I was careful and shunned the spotlight, I could have a semi-normal kind of life.
When I returned, her tall graceful dancer’s physique was poised for flight. “I’m ready. Did you have someplace in mind?”
Not exactly. I usually only hit Beverly Hills for my favorite library, not for over-priced cocktails. “Honor Bar is about half a mile away, down on S. Beverly. You good with walking?”
“Fresh air sounds perfect. By the way, my name is Mallory.” She offered one artistic hand and the moment our palms touched, electricity sparked up my arm.
Her breath hitched and for a split second our gazes locked. She retreated a step. Our chemistry was palpable.
“I’m André. Nice to meet you.” We exited into the California night and headed toward N. Crescent Drive. “So you come to the library often? I haven’t seen you there before.”
Because no way would I have forgotten her.
“Well, I’m usually at the Charles E. Young Research Library over at UCLA but this place is a great spot to hide out.”
Another thing we had in common. “So are you a student?”
She snorted. “Um, no. I’m a Professor. An anthropology professor. I’ve been out of the country doing field work for the last few years and now I’m trying to reacclimate.”
“Wow, that’s incredible. Where’d you spend your time?” I understood how it felt returning after touring for months and not feeling like I belonged, exactly, in my Silver Lake home.
We continued down the wide residential street, surprisingly peaceful in the early evening.
“I was in Tanzania. Mostly in a village called Arush.”
“Tanzania? Now that sounds like an adventure.” We’d played shows in Cape Town but hadn’t had time to explore East Africa. Life on the road blurred sometimes, but Kenya and Tanzania were on my travel bucket list.
“It’s incredible and parts of it were definitely an adventure. Parts of it were like watching paint dry but that’s the field I chose.” Her tone was self-deprecating.
“Are you teaching Paint Drying 101 for the summer session?” I wanted to help keep her smiling.
“Not this summer––we save the best classes for the Fall. I’m actually not sure what I’m doing. And now…” She paused and smoothed back a strand of hair the subtle breeze had teased out of her ponytail.
“Funny. I’m here if you want to talk about it but we can just have a drink and talk about anything.” Even if we discussed watching paint dry.
“Thanks.” She stopped and gestured to Honor Bar. “We’re here.”
I hadn’t realized we’d walked so far. We’d fallen into a natural rhythm, with her easily keeping pace with me. I was 6’4, so most people had to hurry but her gait was smooth, leisurely.
The noise spilling from the bar’s entrance greeted us. People were crammed inside shoulder to shoulder and my spine stiffened. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to get a booth.”
She shrugged. “The bar’s fine with me. Why don’t you lead the way and we’ll snag a spot.”
I tugged my dark cap down, tucked my chin, and we squeezed in near the servers’ station.
Mallory caught the bartender’s attention and next thing I knew, we were sipping our glasses of Red Breast 15, neat.
Another thing we had in common––a love of good Irish whiskey.
Awareness spread through me. Between her sleek curves pressed against me, her stunning face, and sweet voice, I wanted this woman.
We attempted to talk but the chattering crowd and the blaring of some terrible 70s tunes drowned us out. By the time a third person jostled me, I was done. I wanted to get to know Mallory, not feel like we were in the middle of a mosh pit.
I leaned down, drinking in her tempting scent. “I really want to hear what you have to say and it’s impossible in here. Do you know a coffee house or someplace quieter close by?”
She tilted her head. “There’s a little coffee bar called Blue Bottle that may still be open. It’s not too far from here. Want to try that?”
“Sure. Anything’s better than here. Let me get the tab.” I turned to flag down the bartender.
Suddenly, Mallory stumbled into me with a cry. I turned in time to see the cocktail waitress smack into her with a full tray of drinks, drenching her. Glass shattered, the tray clattered to the ground, and the patrons howled and cheered.
I caught her slender shoulders, steadying her, and a surge of protectiveness filled me.
Time to get us the hell out of here.
The young server grabbed a dish towel and attempted to pat Mallory dry. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” But Mallory’s white t-shirt was soaked, and her jeans were splattered with alcohol.
“I’m fine, but tonight is not my night.” Mallory’s lips pressed into a tight line.
She did not look fine.