#5oclockinthemorning
HARLOW SAINT JAMES
Linc leftme on the side of the road. Just walked away.
For the first few minutes, I’d thought for sure he wasn’t coming back. I sat in the passenger seat with the door hanging wide open and daylight blinding me. He wouldn’t leave his truck here. He just needed time alone, I thought.
It was what Dad used to do. Anytime I screwed up, he’d avoid me to give him time to calm down.
I’d never needed sex so badly—or was so desperate to please a guy—that all thinking went out the window. But Linc did this thing with his eyes that was hard to escape. He had sad, crucifixional eyes that nailed me in place and slashed my chest. Big agonizing blue eyes that killed me slowly and numbed me faster than narcotics. Who knew that Rockstar Linc Hendrix was just as fucked up as I was?
Twenty minutes later, he was walking toward me along the sidewalk. His shirt was gone and wrapped around his hand. Ink crawled up both arms, crossed his chest and stomach. They moved with him with every step. A red container, which I assumed was gas, clenched in his grip at his side.
He didn’t say anything when he arrived at the truck.
He didn’t even look at me.
He popped the cap on the gas tank and filled up.
I watched his reflection from the side mirror, thoughts throwing punches with bare fists in his mind. Knuckles bleeding and teeth flying.
Good, I thought.He’ll take me home, and the night will go down as the longest whiplash of my life.
Then a hiccup restarted my heart. Like it didn’t like the thought passing through my mind.
“Don’t touch my knob.” Linc was back in the driver’s seat, swatting my fingers away from the volume. It was the second thing he’d said to me since I almost got hit by a car. The first thing he’d asked was where I lived.
Red Hot Chili Peppers pumped through the speakers. I sat back in the seat with my two empty bottles of champagne close to my chest like they were an expensive designer bag. “This is very 2003.”
“What is? The song or the age you were acting back there?”
“I was one in 2003.”
Hehmphed. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
I was desperate to change the subject and the awkward tension. “You’re into old school stuff too?”
“I’m into music. I thought that was obvious.” He leaned forward, making a right turn with one hand. “The Chili Peppers is a five a.m. Saturday morning mood.”
“A five-a.m. mood?”
Linc drove with his knees, flashed the screen of his phone, and scrolled with a single finger to show me the numerous playlists. They were all specifically labeled:after a show, private show, pre-game, do what you do, late-night car rides, meaningless fuck, afternoon barbeque, at the beach, let me let you know, stuck in a funk ...
He was scrolling too fast, then his phone clicked off. “I’m a grade-A nerd. You don’t have to say it.” His phone dropped into his lap, and his hand returned to the wheel for another turn.
“It’s dope.”
“Dope?”
“Hey, I didn’t choose the thug life. The thug life chose me,” I said, and Linc chuckled. The sound was like organic peanut butter, with fine grit. Maybe we could get past what happened on the street and call it a day—or a night. “What playlist did you have on last night while we had sex? What was it called?”
“Harlow.”
“Liar.” I studied his profile until his expression faltered and there was humor in his smile.
He flicked his eyes at me just once. “It was calledsync or swim.”
I liked being able to look at him without him looking at me. I liked that he didn’t have social media accounts. That he didn’t have all these girls taking up his feed like every other guy in the scene, liking and commenting on his pictures. I liked that I forgot he was a rock star in some band called House of Sparrows. I liked that despite how out of touch he was, I was still able to touch him.
