What if she goes right back to her old life and never thinks about me again?
What if I miss her after she’s gone, and I have to buy a fucking ticket to one of her shows just to see her beautiful face again?
I don’t even know what she looks like when she’s onstage. Is she all made up to look different than she really is? What does she wear? What’s her persona like?
Hell, I don’t even know what her music sounds like.
Obviously she’s a huge star—I’ve seen the headlines—but it’s been a long time since I followed the charts. I have no idea which hits are hers.
I step out of the bedroom, pulling out my phone to look her up on my music app.
I type her name, and it says she’s got140 songs. This girl’s a fucking machine.
Her face on the cover of her last album is stunning. She looks natural. Absolutely beautiful. That little pink blotch of a birthmark is right there in sharp focus. But scrolling through her most popular tracks, I don’t recognize any of the titles, until one catches my eye: “Maybe You Didn’t Know.”
I remember those lyrics from this catchy tune I heard a couple of months back. Mack Hawthorne had it on the speakers in the gym, and the singer’s voice was distinctive. Cool and breathy at times, then warm and almost wild, yet still pitchperfect. Filled with life and energy. I meant to ask him who it was.
Was it her?
I’d like to find out, but I don’t want her to wake up and find me listening to her music like some weirdo.
I don’t even have my earbuds.
I peek back at her in the bedroom. She looks like she’s out cold, and with those earplugs and the headphones, I can’t imagine she could hear much of anything. Although she did wake up to that pop from the floorboards yesterday.
After careful consideration, I decide to step into the bathroom for more privacy. The security system in this house is impenetrable. The alarm will sound if anyone attempts to breach the perimeter. I close the door quietly, turn on the shower for background noise, then hit play. And…
Holy shit.
It’s the song. The one I remember.
Thatwasher voice.
It starts out with an almost country vibe. Just an acoustic guitar strumming chords. I wonder if she plays when she’s onstage. Then her voice comes in, soft and moody. Even with the hot water steaming the bathroom, she’s giving me chills. Her pitch is precise, but there’s so much life in it—an easiness in her tone that makes it seem like the music is flowing through her—breezy and delicate.
She builds the tension in the second verse, and when the chorus hits, she’s an explosion of energy—her sound is powerful and raw. Rife with emotion. The way she has the rhythm layered under the melody is a solid hook.
It’s mesmerizing.
She’smesmerizing.
I had no idea.
By the time the chorus hits again, it’s so moving I can’t help but sing along.
Our voices line up perfectly, even with the shitty speakers on my phone and the splatter of water hitting the shower floor drowning us out. We sound good together. It makes me wonder what it would be like to sing with her in real life. To feel her voice in my chest as those lovely tones drift from her lips.
Those sweet, full lips I almost kissed when she was in my arms tonight.
I could almost taste her. Feel her round ass in my hands.
Aww, fuck.
I’m making myself hard all over again.
I can’t keep thinking about her like this. I need to shut it down.It’s not safe.
I strip down, thinking a hot shower might help, but it’s a bad idea. As soon as I get myself soaped up, her next song starts playing, and it’s even sweeter. Her voice is rippling its way into my heart and…other places.
