Chapter 10 #3
If he hadn’t been on his best behavior when he helped me move in last year, his striking black hair, icy eyes, and sharp tongue might’ve been intimidating. But we found common ground in ’90s sitcoms, Marvel movies, and of course music.
He builds intricate Lego models—planes and ships, or sometimes human anatomy—eww. It’s also his personal mission to make sexually charged innuendo out of everything we say, which is odd considering his comfort show is Full House.
He’s like Tony Stark with a guitar … in scrubs. It’s wild to see Dr. Know-It-All transform into a guitar wizard who sings with effortless falsetto like Adam Levine.
If Daniel’s salted caramel, Jace is molten lava.
“Remember the riff I taught you?” Jace plays a bit from a Pink song, and I echo it back, albeit a little slow. “Accurate, but where’s the attitude? You gotta play it angry, sweetheart.”
“You haven’t been around enough to properly tick me off, Jacey.”
“Aww. Do you miss rubbing your hands all over my frets?” He gives me a smarmy grin while I gag.
“That was so bad.” I groan as I set his pretty vintage green Telecaster back on a stand. “You’re out of practice. That was pathetic.”
“I know. I’m out of practice with everything. You’re singing the high parts tonight.” He hooks an arm around my neck and discreetly leans in. “So was that for real with Danny or groupie deterrent?”
“He’s apparently not into Little Red Jailbait,” I joke. “Kidding. She’s nineteen, but he used me like a human shield.”
“What excuse do I need to get you in my lap? Because dayumm.”
“Shut up, Jace.” Here we go.
He opens fire without so much as a warning shot. “Listen, Cupcake. I’m busy. I don’t have time to gather intel. So if you already have or will be hooking up with my roommate, kindly dump the loser you say you’re engaged to, because Danny’s not your backup plan. Don’t do him like that.”
I can usually keep up with him, but I’m left staring in an open-mouthed daze. I guess I’m out of practice too. I take a breath and prepare to fight back, grabbing a fistful of the back of his shirt, keeping him close so I can keep my voice down.
“Wow, first of all, I don’t hook up. Act like you’ve met me. And keep in mind he started it. I didn’t just climb in his lap. You’ve done the same thing, pulling me between you and some random girl.” I let him go and duck out from under his arm.
“Simmer down, teapot.”
“Did you just call me fat?”
The color drains from his face as he backpedals. “What? No! I was calling you short … and hot. The angry kind of hot, in this case. You know, I’m a little teapot, short and … Stout doesn’t necessarily mean fat, but … can we just call this one hell of a teaching moment? You got me.”
“I’m going to look for Annie.” That’ll redirect him.
“She went home to change. She’s almost here,” he says, glancing at his phone.
“Oh really?” I mimic his annoyed stare. They always know each other’s whereabouts, and it has not gone unnoticed. Jace may be better at hiding it, but he keeps up with Annie as much as DC keeps up with me. Now to pretend I didn’t draw a parallel between us like couples.
We’re not.
I tease them a little, but I never take it too far, because I don’t know how his protectiveness of her is different from his protectiveness of me, other than being decidedly less violent.
He’s a spinning wheel of dirty innuendo and scathing snark with me, but that butthead is downright soft for her.
I know his family issues run deep, but other than our similar dad issues, I don’t know much.
So I tread lightly with him about relationships. For now.
“I’m a single guy who occasionally checks on my single neighbor,” he volleys back. “See how that works? You and Danny have been in some kind of Amish-style courtship for a year. You have chaperones most of the time, but you’re together. And yet … you’re still dating someone else.”
My eyes burn as I admit to myself he’s right, other than the hookup insinuation.
And I know he didn’t call me fat. I only said that to watch him squirm.
He’s a royal pain in my posterior, but he’s not a monster.
“Anyway, you’re taking high stuff. My voice is trash.
I might throw you a lead.” He’s trying to smooth over his accusations, but I’m still irritated.
“Not happening.” I do not lead. “But keep this up, and your range will be higher than mine. I have no idea what we’re doing tonight. I was just told to come.”
“That’s what she said,” he mutters deadpan.
“Jace! What the heck?” I jerk my eyes up to look at him, but he just rolls his eyes.
“Hair metal works on you like hard liquor. We’ll get a couple Poison songs in you, and you’ll sing anything.” He ignores my death glare lasered on him. “I wrote down some songs we’ve played before. It might be amazing, or it might be awful. Probably some of both.”
“Hey, Mr. Stark?” I smile up at him with feigned sweetness as Daniel approaches with scraps of receipt paper and pens, undoubtedly surveying what level of bickering we’re on.
“What?” Jace says, annoyed at my Iron Man comparison.
“Na-na, na, NA, na-na, na …” I sing the familiar guitar riff from the Pink song, and his mouth twitches, holding back a laugh. “Pepper’s here.”
His eyes lift to the door when Annie walks in wearing high-waisted jeans and a white crop top.
DC’s hand finds my lower back as he steps around me. “Come here.”
He grabs the Telecaster, looping it back around my neck as he guides me to a barstool, where he sits behind me and pulls me against him.
“If you put the capo on the second fret and play it here, it might be easier.” His chin’s back on my shoulder again, and he’s talking next to my ear while he guides my hands.
Hands that immediately turn to seal flippers playing in Jell-O.
“I hate you.” I laugh. He’s not even subtle anymore; he’s just outright torturing me.
“Why? I’m trying to help.” His rumbly chuckle is a menace to my heart. “You know practice doesn’t make perfect …”
“Perfect practice makes perfect,” we say in unison as music teachers everywhere peer over their readers to nod in agreement.
“You don’t hate me,” he teases. “I think you love me.”
“You think so?” Phew, somebody’s feeling sassy today.
“I do.” He stands, lifting Jace’s guitar back over my head. “Is he bothering you, Lu?”
“Nah, I got him.”
“Well, I got you.”
“I know you do.”
Jace eyes us, barely out of earshot, with an unreadable expression. Not good or bad, maybe just concerned.
“All right,” Daniel says with natural authority, “y’all, write down some songs and drop them in the mug.”
We quickly jot down some favorites. Not even a minute later, I overhear what sounds suspiciously like, “What did you say to her?” in a low, tense tone. I hope not. I can handle Jace, and I don’t need to be a topic between them.
Jace and I love each other in a brutally honest, unsweetened sort of way. He’d kill someone over me, and I’d absolutely shank someone over him, but there’s a far greater likelihood that we’d kill each other first. Like siblings. But not enemies.
No one but Jace can flirt, correct, compliment, and talk to me like I’m five years old in the same sentence. And he refuses to call me anything close to my name. I’m sweetheart or Spice Cake, which is a spin-off of my official title: Violent Cupcake. Anything but Lucy.
Funny, he seems to say “Annie” without any trouble. Insert eye roll. But he’s fiercely loyal and protective of his friends, so I respect him for that. Unfortunately, I ride the line of being under his protection and on his watch list. It’s exhausting but somehow not contradictory for Jace Roman.
But I’ve had more than enough Jace for one night.
I need some Sammy sunshine.