Chapter 6
SCOTT: LIKE A VIRGIN
The roof of my truck wasn’t built for comfort, and judging by the way Michelle kept shifting like the metal might cave in, she knew it.
She’d probably never sat anywhere that didn’t come with upholstery and linen napkins.
Still, she didn’t complain. She perched beside me, stiff at first, her palms pressed flat like she was bracing for impact, but slowly her back relaxed and she stared off contentedly into the night.
From where I sat, Los Angeles stretched out below us, same as always—an endless sprawl of lights, broken freeways, and smog.
But when I glanced at her, I realized she was seeing it differently.
Like it was enchanted. Like those million pinpricks of light were diamonds scattered just for her.
Michelle’s chest rose slow and steady, just a girl breathing easy, perched on the roof of a beat-up truck with a guy her mother wouldn’t let through the service entrance, looking at the city like it belonged to her.
And I loved being the one who gave her that.
She caught me staring. I could have looked away, but what was the point?
We had one night together, so I might as well make my play.
I leaned in, almost touching. A shuddering little breath escaped her.
That’s when I made my move. My lips on hers, a light touch at first, testing the waters.
Michelle didn’t kiss me back, but she didn’t slap me either.
So I kept going. I was a gambler like that.
My hands slid under her hair on either side of her neck.
She tilted her head and a tiny moan escaped her.
Then she was kissing me. I opened my mouth, applying more pressure, using her neck to guide the direction.
Our kiss grew in intensity. I moved one hand down, tracking the silky fabric toward her breasts.
I’d been obsessed with them all night and wanted… just… one—
Michelle slapped my hand away. “I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Give me a chance and I bet I could make you one.”
She smiled, letting me know I hadn’t lost any ground. “You’re so confident, aren’t you?”
“If you’d let me cop a feel…” I said, emphasizing my need with my grabby hands.
“Stop.” She laughed. “My breasts are off limits to you.”
“You savin’ them for Prince?” I said, nodding like I had her figured out.
“I’m saving them for a guy who hasn’t brought a dozen girls up here in hopes of getting in their pants.”
“That’s not fair! I’ve never brought a dozen up here at once.”
“No? How many girls have you brought up here, then?”
“None.”
“Liar.”
“Okay. One.”
Her stare bored through me.
“Maybe six, tops.”
She laughed. “Now that I believe.”
“But none as pretty as you.”
More soft laughter. “Now that I don’t believe.”
I shook my head, my gaze never leaving hers. “You should. Because it’s true. I’ve met a lot of girls, Michelle… but none who could steal the lyrics right out of my mouth with a look.”
Her lips twitched, like she was fighting the urge to smile. She thought I was only saying it to seduce her. I was. But the part about forgetting the lyrics? Totally true.
“So,” she said finally, “for real… what’s your type?”
“My type?” I repeated, buying time.
“Yes. Every guy has one. What’s yours?”
“Well…” I scratched the back of my neck. “It wasn’t until I got the Farrah Fawcett poster that I knew I was heterosexual.”
Her brows shot up, amused. “Farrah Fawcett? That’s your prototype?”
I shrugged. “I’ve always aimed high.”
“So then, you go for the blonde, bubbly, bikini-wearing beach bunny types?”
“Basically,” I said. “If she looks like she just wandered off a Pepsi commercial, I’m interested, but that”—I tucked a strand of her dark, shiny hair behind her ear—“doesn’t mean I discriminate against one-piece girls.”
“Shut your mouth.” She elbowed me. “This tan is bikini-earned. I just don’t advertise it.” She looked me over, then added, “Do you want to know what my type is?”
“If it’s not me, I don’t care.”
She gave it to me anyway. “Jake Ryan.”
“Who?”
Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious. You don’t know who Jake Ryan is?”
I shook my head.
“The guy from Sixteen Candles? He’s only perfect in every way.”
Now I knew who she meant. I made a face. “That dude looks like he irons his jeans.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“If that’s the type of guy you like, you’re sitting on the wrong roof.”
“And if Farrah is the type of girl you like, you’re flirting with the wrong girl.”
“Nah. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right one.” I walked my fingers up her thigh.
Her eyes flicked to mine, and there was a clear hands off warning. Message received. I pulled back.
“Had to check,” I said with a shrug.
Michelle didn’t seem to mind. Her fingers slid along my cheek before she turned away, hugged her knees to her chest, and stared out at the city lights in a thoughtful way I wasn’t used to.
Then, almost like she surprised herself, she said, “You were… great tonight. Not sure if you know that. The way you connected with the crowd. You’ve got a good voice, but it’s more than that.
You have this magnetic pull that makes people lean in and forget themselves for a minute. ”
I blinked, thrown enough that I didn’t trust my voice.
I didn’t get a lot of praise. Growing up, I was mostly underfoot, trying not to get trampled.
Music was something I did because I loved it, not because I thought one day I’d see my name in lights.
I didn’t need to be the best, just good enough to make people look twice.
Onstage, for a few minutes, I wasn’t background noise.
I was the one holding the microphone. And that was enough.
“You think so?” I asked.
She nodded. “And it’s not only me. You could see it in the reaction of the crowd.”
I met her gaze, letting the compliment settle. “I only started singing last year. We lost our front man, so I gave it a shot.”
“You’ve got that thing that can’t be taught,” she said.
“Music has shaped my entire life. Perfect pitch set me apart in piano lessons, and my parents hired the best teachers money could buy. The goal was always to make me a world-class pianist. All that money, all that time—and still… when you sang, it felt like you were giving people something I never could. It’s connection, Scott. That’s a gift.”
I wasn’t great at reading people, but I definitely caught her disappointment. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a musician?”
“Because we met eight hours ago. It didn’t come up.”
“Do you still play?”
Michelle’s posture stiffened. “I just finished my freshman year at Juilliard.”
“Well, shit...”
Her laugh was short and bitter. “Don’t get too excited. My parents donated a building.”
“Oh.”
The word landed wrong, and I instantly regretted it. Made it sound like I agreed she wasn’t good enough.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” she cut me off. “I already came to the conclusion myself. I quit.”
“Juilliard?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I was taking a spot from someone else who deserved it more. People whose parents didn’t purchase it. Someone like you, with natural talent.”
“I think you’re giving me way too much credit, and yourself not enough.”
“I know I’m good, Scott. I’m just not exceptional. And that’s what it takes at Juilliard.”
I could’ve kept arguing, but her face told me she’d already made her peace. I knew that look: the world pushing you to choose one thing when you’d already decided on another. At the end of the day, the choice was yours to live with. And hers was made.
“Did your parents freak?”
“They will when they find out. I plan to tell them tomorrow.”
My eyes popped. “I’m glad I’m not you.”
“It’s not going to be pretty. I think that’s why I came tonight. I needed a moment to breathe before my world totally collapses.”
I got the point, though I wondered if she really understood what a collapse felt like. I did. And it was barely survivable. Somehow, I figured her version of collapse would pale in comparison.
“Remember earlier when I told you I was running from an arranged marriage? It wasn’t a joke. My mother doesn’t believe in higher education. She thinks I should marry and carry on the family name. Pop out a couple of heirs. Juilliard was the only thing protecting me. And now…”
“That’s bullshit.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”
“It’s your life. No one has the right to tell you how to live it.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I don’t need to. We’re not living in the Middle Ages. She can’t force you into a life you don’t want. You’re the only one who decides that. And if you let her, that’s on you.”
“Ouch.” She winced.
“I’m not trying to be a dick. We only get one life, and no one knows how long it lasts. So live it as Michelle Lavelle… or live it your own way, but don’t tell yourself someone else decided for you.”
Michelle brushed the shivers from her arms. “It’s not that easy. I’d lose everything. You saw me at the gas station. I’m not sure I could survive life on the outside.”
“Then marry Prince.” I shrugged. “That’s your choice. Problem solved.”
“So my choices are pumping my own gas or marrying Prince? No middle ground?”
“Correct.”
She nudged me, smiling, and we sat in silence until I pulled a blunt from my pocket and lit it. “Wanna try?”
“What makes you think I haven’t tried it before?”
“Just a hunch.”
“And you automatically assume I’m a prude?”
I lifted my hands. “Whoa, I’m not stereotyping anyone. I’m just trying to smoke my joint in peace. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, more for me.”
Michelle hesitated, her good angel screaming in her ear. “Okay, fine, I’m a prude. Give it to me.”
“I knew it.” I laughed and passed it over.
She took a puff. Her eyes went wide on the first inhalation, and then the coughing fit started. It took her a full minute to get words out again. “Oh, my god. That’s awful.”
She handed it back.
“You know what? I take it back. Marry Prince. You’re not cut out for this life.”