Page 85 of Playing the Backbeat
“Bossy too,” I tease as I reach down to grab the drumsticks. “Kinda fits since you’re my boss and all. Which, by the way, should we care about that? You weren’t exactly subtle tonight. Everyone knows we’re…”
“That we’re what?” His brows raise.
I poke his cheek with the drumstick. “You know exactly what I’m saying. You’re my boss.”
“And you’re my landlord.”
“Aren’t there rules?”
“Vicki is technically the bar manager. And I told Ed about us.”
“You did? What’d he say?”
“That I won’t be responsible for your annual performance review.”
“Phew. I can only imagine what would be on there.” His hands trail up and down my thighs.
“Performs well under pressure. Especially when the pressure is here.” He palms me between my thighs, and I lean my head back against his shoulder.
“Takes whatever is given to her with minimal complaint.”
“Now I know you’re lying. I complain a lot.”
“You do. I said minimal. Not none. I figured you were taking it easy on me, considering how much shit I know you can give me on a good day.” His lips tingle against my neck before he kisses me there, trailing more kisses along my collarbone.
His foot stomps on the pedal below and the bass drum reverberates so strongly I feel it in my chest.
“Holy fuck, that scared me.” I laugh.
He leans down, chuckling darkly before whispering, “Hold on then.”
He adjusts our positioning, my legs resting on top of his. His hands wrap over mine while I hold the drumsticks. Moving me with him, he slowly starts to play and I can’t help the giggle that tumbles out of me as we play together. I’m along for the ride as he drives my movements over the different drums and cymbals, realizing for the first time how truly physical this is. His stomach flexes and contracts at my back, his biceps rubbing along my arms as we reach together and hit in time, a syncopated rhythm.
“That one.” I laugh as he stomps again, the foot pedal at our feet setting off the bass drum again. “That one’s my favorite. I can feel it in my chest.”
“Like thunder, right?” I turn to find Dylan smiling at me, a carefree smile that I know I’m wearing as well.
“Exactly,” I say, caught swimming in his warm brown eyes.
“Any requests?” he asks as he continues to play through me.
“There is literally only one answer to that question.”
“Which is?”
“Shudupe, shudupe, shudupe, shudupe, dupe, dupe,” I shout, flailing my arms around wildly, banging on the drum set with absolutely zero skill. Dylan keeps his hands on mine but lets me lead. “If you don’t play ‘In the Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins, then don’t bother coming home.”
With a smile on his face and his eyes locked on mine, he does exactly what I asked. Playing the exact part of the song I love. And I shriek with excitement and beg him to do it again.
He moves on to my next request and then another, before he interjects one of his own.
“Why does this one feel different from the others?” I ask.
“It’s the backbeat,” he says into my ear, not slowing his movements. “We hit it on the second and fourth beat like this.” He shows me. “The focus is on the offbeats. It addsmoreto the music. It drives it forward. Gives the song depth. Gives it life.Sets the tempo. Makes you want to tap your foot. It makes you want to dance.”
His voice sends shivers down my spine. I’m suddenly aware of every inch of me relaxing into his sturdy hold. The power of his hands on mine, his arms around me. His words strike something deep within me, and I can’t place why it feels so personal. But it does.
He humors me, playing every one of my requests. We mess around for another twenty minutes. Even though it’s late. Even though my feet hurt. Even though my shoes are sticky. We leave together, and I feel lighter than I have in years.
