Page 53 of Worth Every Game
I type a response. Delete it. Type another and delete it, then Kate sends one.
Kate: Should I be worried that you’re sitting at your desk stalking Elly when you should be working?
Me: I’m not stalking. Just interested.
Kate: Don’t believe you for a second. Elly’s not a dish to be tasted at the buffet. Leave her alone and get back to work.
When I get home, Elly’s playing the guitar and singing in her room, and something in my stomach flutters. The word ‘butterflies’springs to mind. I roll my eyes at myself, but in spite of whatever reaction I’m having to the sound of her voice, I take off my coat and jacket, hang them up, and take the stairs to her room. There is no way I am letting her ignore me, or what happened last night.
She might be able to pretend that orgasm didn’t happen, but I can’t. She’s given me the sweetest taste of what it might be like to have her, and I am desperate for more.
I stand outside her room, holding my breath, listening to her sing. The melody, the sweet cascade of notes, elicits an emotional response that I’ve never felt from any music other than Elly’s. I could stay here all night, letting her songs drift into my subconscious and carry me away to some other world. She’s a siren. A witch, casting a spell with music that floods my veins like a drug.
She’s really good. I have no idea why she hasn’t made it yet, whatever that looks like. She should be putting this stuff out in the world. Sharing her gift. That annoyance flares again, but at the same time something stirs in my chest, as though her song is tugging on my heart. Maybe even my soul...
Reality check.I’m lurking outside my housemate’s room, listening to her sing, hoping I get to witness her orgasm again. This is not sustainable behaviour.
I knock on the door, and the noise stops.
“Go away.”
Hmm. Maybe she’s not as up for this game as I thought she was. I knock again, more gently this time, and lean right against the door when I say, “Are you avoiding me?” The guitar begins strumming again, but she’s no longer singing. I knock again. “Come on, El. Open up.”
Silence is followed by soft footsteps pacing towards the door, and my chest tightens.
The door swings open, revealing Elly in her pyjamas and those pink fluffy slippers back on her feet. I note them, but say nothing.
“What do you want?” She cocks a hip, one fine-fingered hand resting on it. Her eyes blaze like she wants to raze me to the ground. Everything I meant to say withers and dies in my mouth.What the fuck was I going to do? Give her a winning smile and say, ‘Hey, El, how about some more orgasms?’Even I’m not enough of a dick to realise that, based on the look on her face, she’s not going to take me up on it.
“If you don’t have anything to say, then go away,” she quips. “I don’t want to play with you right now. This is my practise time. It’s important. Don’t interrupt me when I’m playing.”
Frustration crackles through me.Why is she being like this?Elly goes to shut the door, but I stick out my hand to stop it. She might be mad, but she doesn’t have the strength to shut me out.
“If you take it so seriously, why don’t you have any social media?”
She backs up a step, the anger draining from her face. My question has obviously knocked the wind out of her sails.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I looked you up, and there’s nothing. Can’t find your music anywhere. How do you expect to make it if you won’t let anyone hear it?”
“I do let people hear it,” she mutters.
“At the Marchmont Arms? That dive in the West End? Who the fuck do you think is going to hear you down there? Are you that naïve?” With each question, the harshness in my tone increases.
Elly’s shrinking before me, wilting like I’m stealing all her nutrients. An inner voice warns me to stop, trying to remind me that this isn’t what I meant to say when I came up here. Not evenclose, but her defensiveness has me on the attack. And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s spot other people’s weaknesses. I’ve been doing it ever since I was a kid, so I could know what they were and make sure I didn’t fucking have any.
“Fuck you,” she snarls. “My career is none of your business. How dare—”
“No.” The word erupts from my mouth, and Elly tries to push the door closed again, but I’m still holding it open. “Don’t shut me out. This is important. You want to know what I think?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“I think you’re frightened, and that’s why you’re stuck in this hopeless rut of waitressing and gigs. Do you want to spend your life waiting tables and singing in that shithole? Why aren’t you out there looking for a manager? An agent? Something?”
These words jolt her, as though they’re charged with a force that runs right through her body. I’ve hit a nerve; by the looks of it, a fucking big one.
She lunges towards me, hands striking my chest, but the impact is negligible, like moths batting the underside of a lampshade. “Get out. Get out of my room.”
I catch her wrists, holding her still. She’s breathing unevenly, snorting exhalations through flared nostrils. I’ve never seen her look so angry. Not that I’m surprised, because I’ve gone for the jugular tonight, and I really don’t know why, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.