Page 10 of Best Friend Burden

“Yes.”

“That wasn't a yes or no question, Jackson,” I said.

“Not for most people, but it is for her. Name an instrument, she can play it. Keyboard, drums, bass, guitar, violin, whatever. She's talented as all fuck.”

He hadn't named any woodwind or brass instruments — there was no way this girl played the oboe or French horn — but I wasn't going to argue with semantics. The truth was, in my industry, you quickly became at least somewhat familiar with other instruments, but there were usually only one or two that you were comfortable recording with. For me, it was just the bass guitar. I could certainly play rhythm or lead, and often did so in a pinch, but there were better people out there to call.

So just because she could supposedly play all of those instruments, it didn't mean she was playing any of them at a studio level. That's what auditions were for.

“So what do you want from me?” I asked. “I can't get her a job at my studio. We've got our standard roll call of people.”

“No, no, no,” Jackson said. “I just need you to bring her in and give her a tour, show her what it's like. Maybe give her a few pointers about breaking in. You see, she wants to be in the music industry, but she's not sure she's good enough. But I'm telling you, she is.”

Jackson had a tin ear. His assessment of the musical skills of a girl he was enamored with was worth exactly nothing to me.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” I said. Professional musicians always take other people's opinions on someone's musical ability with a grain of salt, but it wouldn't be too much trouble to just show her around in between recordings if it'd help my brother get laid. “Have her come by the studio around nine a.m. tomorrow, and I'll give her a tour. What's her name?”

“Natasha Tau,” he said. “T-A-U.”

“Text it to me,” I said. “I'll put her on the guest list and I'll meet her in the lobby. Tell her to bring ID and give her my number. Have her call me if she runs into any trouble.”

“Thanks, bro!” Jackson said. “You're the best.”

“Take care,” I said, and hung up the phone right as I was exiting the freeway, nearly at my apartment complex.

It had been a long day. The one good thing about long days was looking forward to going home and having the apartment to yourself. I could chill out on the couch, watching a Lakers game. In the past, I'd have a beer and some pot along with it, but not anymore. Not having the tools to help me get to my mellow made things a bit more difficult, but I was able to do it so long as I had the space to do so.

It wasn't until I put the key in the lock to my door that I realized I wouldn't have such space. Because I had fallen victim to the curse of a pair of pretty eyes and allowed them to get the better of me — the exact trap that my brother had fallen into. I had surrendered a part of my space and my freedom because that’s what pretty eyes could do to me.

When I opened the door. I did not see those pretty eyes because her back was to me.

What I did see was the curve of a perfect ass, in tight cotton underwear, wiggling to music I couldn't hear. I could see the sexy curve of her side, fully exposed below a black bra. And, as my eyes rose higher, I could see the source of that silent music — a pair of earbuds stuck deep in her canals, preventing her from hearing me come in.

And she was an absolutely terrible dancer. Her body flailed back and forth with no concern for any kind of rhythm or self-control. We've all been told to dance like nobody's watching, but for her, that would be terrible advice.

“Melody,” I said, obviously too quietly for her to hear.

Her nearly naked body almost prevented me from seeing the state of the rest of the kitchen. It looked as though a tornado had passed through it. Pots and pans were all over the place, with sauces spilled onto the counters and cut up peppers and onions scattered onto the floor.

“Melody!” I said, with some force behind my voice, all the while, getting angrier for just how bad she'd let it get on the day after I told her she could stay. A full twenty-four hours had passed between when I told her she could live with me and her completely demolishing the place. This wasn't a simple mess — this was the kind of thing that would require hours and maybe even a cleaning crew to properly fix up.

She still didn't hear me. She dropped a spatula onto the ground and backed towards me with that shaking ass and I took a deep breath, about to scream her name when she did a kind of strange backwards Nicki Minaj bunny hop right into my hardening dick.

But she didn't stop there, she kept on grinding up against me for a few seconds before I shouted, “MELODY!” as loud as I could.

She jumped forward with a scream and took out one of her earbuds, before falling face first into the floor. Next thing I knew, that sweet ass of hers was right up in the air, just begging to be grabbed or spanked. Not that I would have done that, but I wanted to. Either way, following that, she fell flat against the floor, almost like a cartoon character. Her insane klutziness was so adorable. I have never seen someone fall this much in my life. She turned around, and her face turned bright red. She was so embarrassed that the redness moved down her chin onto her neck and even the top part of her chest where her bra struggled to contain those two gorgeous tits of hers with their piercing nipples.

God, they were even better than I remembered them being in high school.

I was furious with her, but at the same time, I wanted to tear what remained of her clothes off and rail her right there on top of the dirty counter, but I contained myself.

“What the hell have you done to my kitchen?!” I screamed and watched her sink in place, instantly feeling bad. I didn't mean to snap like that, but the mixture of a bad day, a strange sexual tension in my pants, and coming home to this horrible mess made me testy. Whatever my excuses may or may not have been, it was an overreaction, and I didn't mean it.

“Oh, it's not so bad,” she squeaked in a tone that revealed she didn't believe it. “I guess I sort of lost track of where I was. I'm sorry.” Her voice was meek, but loud. I knew exactly what the cause was.

“Did you seriously not hear me?” I asked.

“No.”

---