Just The Way You Are

The first time he asked me what it was like being with someone like her, I didn't know what to tell him. So I told him it was like falling. Because, in a way, it is like falling. In a way, my whole life is like falling. But being with her--that's like falling with the knowledge that, no matter how hard I fall, someone's going to be there to catch me.

The first time he asked me if I thought we were meant for each other, I just shrugged. Because I don't know, and she doesn't know either, but that's okay. Hell, it's fucking great, because we don't have to know. We don't have to focus on where we go when the flame between us flickers out. The whens with her don't matter because there are too many nows to distract myself with.

She makes me want to live in now, and that's why I love her. Even when we're fighting, even when I'm torn between wanting to choke her and wanting to smoke the whole pack of cigarettes on my dresser, I love her. We aren't perfect, and we aren't gorgeous, and we probably aren't anything to write home about, but we're real, and that's better than a whole lot of shit in my life right now.

The first time he asked me if I was going to call her, I knew I would. He didn't even really need to ask. He checks up on all of the girls I meet, as though he needs to protect them from me. He probably does. Sometimes I catch myself needing to protect me from me. I've never had to protect her, though. She does a pretty good job of protecting herself. She does a pretty good job of protecting me too. When I'm with her, though, there's nothing to be protected from. Being with her isn't about armor or defenses or walls or what-happened-to-me-when-I-was-younger.

Being with her is about stripping. Clothing, facades, the lining of your throat.

The first time I met her, it was at a bar. It was a stupid industry party, and both of us were bored as fuck. The flavor of the night had slipped away from me long before, and I was too tired of schmoozing to do anything but get drunk. I'd managed to successfully avoid Kevin for at least half an hour when I finally reached the bar and ordered a glass of Jack. Watered down, of course. I wanted to start out slow in case he found me.

"Pussy."

Her voice was low, throaty, and full of disdain. I turned around to counter her politely and explain the situation, but all of that changed when I saw who she was.

"Yeah?"

She nodded curtly. "Yeah. Are you afraid to take something stronger?"

I laughed in what I hoped was a condescending tone. "Like you can talk. You aren't even of age."

She paused to consider the thought. "No," she finally agreed. "But I could drink you under the table."

A girl. Challenging me to a drinking contest. A platinum blonde pop star, nonetheless. I groaned aloud. "Whatever. You willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

"Sure. Twenty bucks, and the first drink's on me."

I smirked. Suddenly, the evening wasn't so bad. Hell, by the end of the night, I was going to be totally smashed and twenty bucks richer. "Name the beverage, baby."

"Tequila. Shots. And don't call me baby."

It took us three shots before she exposed her neck to me and demanded that I lick the salt off of her instead of my hand. By five shots, my tongue was between her breasts and her tongue had found my navel. By eight shots, she was a mess of blonde light in front of me and I was dizzy with drink and desire. By ten shots, I was smashed, and she was laughing.

I surrendered, but she ordered another, just for kicks, and sprinkled salt on my lower lip. It burned, but the sensation paled in comparison to the smoldering of her lips on mine. The shot became a kiss all too quickly, and I was inside of her by midnight. Still totally smashed.

I woke up that morning with the hangover from hell and her number across my chest.

Needless to say, I called her, and a night of fun and fleeting lust became a few weeks of conversation and impending romance. She was everything I'd ever wanted in a girl, and she had the ferocity to balance me out.

She was the first person in my entire life that I didn't have the ability to control.

I still can't control her.

She can still drink me under the table.

I still lick the valley between her breasts.

She still scrawls messages across my pectorals.

I still enjoy bantering with her.

She still talks to me like I'm the only person in the world.

I still can't believe we're together.

Deep down, I don't think she can, either.

Which is why, at four in the morning after a long show and an even longer drive from one city to another, my cell phone is ringing in my hand.

"Yeah?"

I can hear the smile in her voice before she ever says a word. "Alex."

I won't let her call me baby, so she calls me Alex instead.

I'm smiling now, and I know she can hear it. "Chris."

She won't let me call her baby, so I call her Chris instead.

"I missed you."

"I can tell."

"Did I wake you?"

"Nope. Couldn't sleep."

"Miss me next to you?" And I know she's smirking.

"Not half as much as you miss me." And she knows I'm teasing.

"Probably true. I miss your voice the most, though."

And that's why I love her. Because nothing matters but the way her words wash over me and the fact that all I have to do to please her is tell her how my day was.

"That why you called?"

"Yeah. It was a lonely evening. Had to remind myself you were still there. Even if you're not really here."

"I'm still here."

"So am I."

"Good." And it is good, because I may not know where we go from here, and I may not think about it too much in the moments like this, where she's on the line or in my head, but I can't really imagine a future without her in it.

"Was it a good show?"

I smile. "What do you think?"

She laughs lightly. "Judging by the sound of your voice? Loud crowd. Good crowd, but loud. And Nick was flat tonight, on account of one of his famous colds. But the audience was easy to hype, so you didn't dance as much. Spent more time thrusting your thang into the front row."

"You know me so well." Damn, and she does, too. Just by the sound of my voice, she can tell me how the entire night went, and I love that about her. It's our own little game, that tiny way to remind each other that we're still connected. "And you? How was your day in the studio?"

She smiles. "What do you think?"

It's my turn to laugh. "Judging by the sound of your voice? Long day. Session with Linda that dug deeper than you wanted it to. Lots of tears, lots of broken glass, but an awesome track at the end of the day."

"You know me so well."

I do. And I pride myself on it, because I know her every bit as well as she knows me.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Sing me a song?"

A sigh, because I'm tired, and the crowd was loud, and the night was long, and I'm not sure how many notes will be just right. "A song?"

"Just a line or two."

She sounds feeble, which I know she isn't, and I know that her day was a lot longer than she lets on. "Okay. But it's gonna be rough."

"You know I don't care."

It's true. She may be a professional, but she doesn't mind when I'm a bit off pitch. I think she prefers that I keep my imperfections, just the way that I love it when she cracks and I can see tears in her eyes.

"What song?"

"Mm..." She sighs, and I know that somewhere, she's falling back into the pillows and closing her eyes. "Anything."