We take the elevator down. The hotel morning is a softer animal than the night. Fewer phones. More coffee cups. The valet brings the bike around. The engine wakes under me. She climbs on and fits her hands at my waist, and we roll out.
The city is honest in the morning. Palms. Sun. Concrete that doesn’t pretend to be marble. Lou’s grip settles. Her chin touches my shoulder once and lifts. We take surface streets. No hurry.
Sagebrush looks smaller in full light. Beige and heat. The sign is tired. The door sticks. Thankfully, the air inside is cool. Mismatched chairs that survived three economic cycles sit around, taking up space. The control room glass appears wavy when viewed from the side.
“No one’s here on Saturday at nine. That’s not a rule. It’s a fact.”
She snorts. “Artists.”
I walk her to the back hallway, where the wall is a museum of what used to sell. Gold records. Newspaper clippings. A few of our first plaques sit to the side. Our mother’s session photos. Her bass. A set list from a night we barely survived because the soundboard died, and we finished acoustic on the floor.
“We crashed here between sessions. On the floor. On those old throw rugs. Used our jackets as pillows. Ate whatever the vending machine had. It was good. We were broke and tired, and it was still good.”
Lou studies the wall, then studies me. “You look proud.”
“We were working.” I touch the frame of a photo where we’re eight kinds of exhausted and still smiling. “Working is easy to be proud of.”
She stands next to me and breathes in like the room has a smell she missed until now. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“Wanted you to see our version of this place. Maybe wipe out the memories from yesterday. I doubt that was a good impression of the studio. Vegas changes clothes every year. This place stays ugly and useful.”
“Ugly and useful,” she repeats, amused. “I like it.”
We loop the live room. The drum kit is under a drop cloth. The piano waits with its lid down. The red light over the door is off. Good.
Lou runs her fingers over the edge of a music stand like she’s feeling the nicked paint and the invisible history. “I could work here.”
“You could do anything here,” I say. “That’s the point.”
She turns. The quiet in the room changes shape. The light is soft. Her mouth does a small, uncertain thing that makes me want to fix the air. I step closer, but not too close.
This is going somewhere I didn’t expect. “We’re here because I wanted to show you the wall. We don’t have to do anything else.”
She studies my face like she’s calibrating a lens. “And if I want something else?”
“Then we can make out like teenagers until someone files a complaint.”
She throws her head back and laughs, then moves first. A step into my space. Hand at my chest, flat and warm, testing the give of the shirt and the muscle under it. I hold still and let her feel me take a breath.
She leans in. I meet her halfway. Her mouth is soft and certain and tastes like her sweet croissant from breakfast. The first touch is a clean press. I answer with the same. We both pause, a heartbeat of confirmation, then tip into it.
Kissing slides into a series of moments. The shift of breath. The temperature of a lower lip. I keep my hands high—shoulders, the back of her neck, the line of her jaw—with the lightest touch. She makes a quiet sound that changes how I’m breathing.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, then slide to my waist, then around my back, pulling me closer. I go willingly. Our bodiesalign, and soon she’s grinding on me, her legs around my waist, my hands under her ass.
Damn that ass.
I take a long breath through my nose so I don’t rocket ahead. She catches it and smiles into the kiss like she appreciates restraint. I reward her for noticing with a deeper pull, a slow stroke that says I’m not made of ice. She answers with a small, involuntary exhale that I feel on my tongue more than I hear.
I angle us so her back finds the wall beside the plaques. Not pinned. Placed. She tests the space and nods without breaking contact. I slide one hand into her hair, careful of the locket, and the other to her hip, steady. She lifts onto her toes to meet me, and I bend, and we find the level where neither of us has to strain.
Her palm cups my jaw. The pad of her thumb traces my lower lip. My eyes shut for a beat. Open. Her lashes are dark and wet at the edges. It’s just what happens when a person gets kissed right.
Hands go places. Over clothes. Under them. When my fingers slip up the inside of her thigh over her leggings, she’s all too eager for me to reach where I want to go. I keep it focused. Mouth. Breath. Hands where they belong. No territory I can’t defend. No move I can’t take back if she changes her mind.
She doesn’t. She grinds her pussy on my fingers until she’s shaking.
We break to breathe and don’t go far. Forehead to forehead. A laugh that’s almost a groan. A sigh that’s almost a curse.
