Another Summer

By Sue Lilley


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1 mins


Hardly a love affair. Not yet anyway. And hardly likely to become one, when they only had a week. It could be nothing but a passing moment, nothing to do with reality. But how she wanted that one perfect week. And if she was going to behave like a different person, at least she looked the part.

The corset felt like fancy dress, the perfect disguise to hide behind, although it was straining to contain her boobs. But when it got the attention of the overworked barman, she was pleased she’d been brave enough to abandon her everyday clothes.

She was nervous and wanted a vodka but made do with tonic and lime as she’d promised to drive Jake home. She may be sleep deprived but she wasn’t deluded. She knew the evening wasn’t going to end with a peck on the cheek but she’d stopped being shocked by how much she wanted that.

She wondered where he was. Was she meant to hang about until he spotted her? Which wouldn’t be easy in this crowd. It seemed the band had quite a following. Their logo, Morgan Run was daubed like graffiti on the drum kit and a fair number of T-shirts. There was a buzz of anticipation and she hoped they were as good as Jake obviously believed.

As she squeezed her way to the front, the lights dimmed and the cheers tingled up her spine. The first three on stage were a lethal combination of looks and swagger. But when Jake strode out, he nudged them into a different league.

His skinny black jeans were sprayed on the muscles of his thighs, his white shirt fastened by a single button at the waist. His cuffs were undone, wafting in the lights as he caressed the saxophone, eyes closed against the glare.

Then he sang solo and a hush fell over the crowd as he stood alone in the spotlight, his gentle voice haunting in the rustling silence. He seemed lost in some rapturous world away from the noise and the drunken adoration. Evie stood transfixed by his mouth and the thought of what it was going to do.

He played again, the most poignant saxophone blues she’d ever heard. She wanted him so much she could barely breathe and she ached to reach out and touch him. He opened his eyes and looked into her soul. Then he smiled, just once, before he disappeared.

She felt dizzy and tried to laugh at herself. What was she, sixteen again? It was only a song and he was a performer. He got paid to make people feel like that. But she still wanted him. It was a terrifying cocktail of guilt and excitement.

She made for the ladies room. But the corridor was crammed with gorgeous young girls, all tanned in tight little dresses. A sudden commotion and there he was, basking in the attention. Still playing to the audience, he tugged on the ends of a towel he’d slung around his neck. The white shirt was damp, clinging to the honed contours of his chest.



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