"About blowing some arsehole who doesn't appreciate her?"
Her cheeks flush. "Uh, the snaps. She likes them. And the whisper singing." Her eyes travel down my body. "Is that what the song's about?"
"It's art. Open to interpretation."
"You like art?"
"Who doesn't like art?"
She motions it's okay.
"Not everything can be as good as Ninety Day Fiancée."
She laughs. "It's a great show. I don't know why you can't appreciate its brilliance."
"Must be some deficiency I have."
She motions to the speaker. "Do you know what this one is about too?"
"This song? No. But there is one about her wishing her boyfriend was a better lay."
"Did I really miss that? Damn, maybe I should be a lyrics person."
"What kind of person are you?"
"I don't know. Indie sits on the couch, listening to an album on repeat, turning over every word. I listen to the song, enjoy it, listen to the next." Her eyes meet mine. "You're a lyrics person, aren't you?"
"I appreciate them."
"Don't tell me you're sitting in your bedroom, crying to sad songs all night?" she asks.
"Only half the night."
"Really?"
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
"Why do you listen to this?"
"Because I like it. It feels right."
"Exactly," I say.
She bites her lip. "So you… what kind of sad songs are we talking here? Amy?"
"Sometimes."
"Adele?"
"Are you going to name British musicians?"
"Until I run out." She nods. "Uh, Muse."
"They're sad?"
"Coldplay! The song where the guy is on the beach in black and white."
"No, not Coldplay," I say.
"Thank god." She studies me for a long moment, deciding whether or not to keep naming artists. She must decide to stop, because she motions to the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"
"Are you going to offer Cabernet?"
"If you brought some." She pulls the fridge open. "I have coffee, water, diet, ginger ale."
"And the cheap vodka?"
"Very cheap." She taps the freezer door. "It's under two bags of peas."
"You're hiding it?"
"I'm not supposed to drink during soccer season."
"You're not following that advice."
"I know." Her expression fills with guilt for a second, then she shakes it off. "But how often does my sister get married? And I'm not drinking on school nights, so…"
"It's Sunday."
She frowns busted.
"You don't have to convince me."
"You sure?" She motions to my face. "I see judgment."
"I'm surprised."
She raises a brow.
"You text me every Saturday with your run time."
"I do."
"Three times a week over the summer."
"I want to beat you."
"You want to win," I say. "Always."
"And now I'm giving up my competitive advantage by showing up with a hangover?"
"Are you?"
"I don't drink before games. I promise."
"You really don't have to convince me, Sienna."
"I kind of feel like I do." She moves into the kitchen, pours two glasses of water, brings one to me. "I choose Indie over soccer."
My fingers brush hers as I take the cup. "It's not wrong to prioritize family."
"I got scholarships to a few Division One schools. Full rides. I'm a star player."
"Not to brag?"
"To brag a little." She half-smiles. "But I went to a Division Three school to stay close to her."
"And because you no longer need the scholarship?"
"Yeah." She takes a long sip of water. "So now I can live dangerously." She taps her glass.
"You cannot."
"I can too."
"You don't drink on school nights," I say.
"Game nights."
"Because you want to win."
"Of course I want to win. Who doesn't want to win?" she asks.
"Some people don't care."
She looks at me like I'm crazy.
I chuckle.
"What?"
"You."
"What about me?"
"You don't believe some people don't care about winning."
"No… Indie is like that. I just don't get how they could be that way. How can you do something and not give it your all?"
"Don't ask me."
"You let me win."
Maybe. "I was showing off. Paid the price."
"Uh-huh." She looks to the small couch. The desk chair. The seats on the balcony. Settles on the couch. "Do you really sit there, listening to sad music?"
"Sometimes."
"What kind of music?"
"Other than British pop stars?"
"If there is anything else," she says. "Sometimes, I think Amy Winehouse created the only two albums in the universe."
A laugh spills from my lips. She's funny. And she's charming too. In this bold, take no shit way.
I like her.
I like her, and I still want to fuck her.
That doesn't happen.
My eyes go to her bare legs. The hem of her shorts. The tight tank top.
What would she say if I ordered her out of her clothes and onto my cock?
Fuck.
I push the thought aside as I sit at the opposite end of the couch. "Grunge."
"The miserable mumbling guys who don't wash their flannel?"
"I can't see their flannel."
She sticks out her tongue gross. "Men with guitars, huh?"
"Women too. Hole. Garbage. Sleater-Kinney."
She nods with familiarity. "Indigo and Eve are always talking about Hole." She imitates her sister. "'Courtney Love was a poet. How can anyone think Nirvana is the better band?'"
"She's talented."
"She's not mumbling."
I chuckle.
"What? I don't like to listen to men complaining."
My laugh gets louder.
"What?"
Of course, she plays an album dripping with youth and wit. Of course, she dismisses one of the most popular bands of all time as men complaining. "You're sure of yourself."
"Well, yeah, obviously." She turns toward me. "Do you know what Ty likes?"
"Tying up your sister."
Her cheeks just barely flush. "I was going to say what music Ty likes, but if you have more details…"
"I do."
"Well…" Her hazel eyes fill with excitement. "Cam! Tell me!"
"Do you think that will work?"
"What do you need?" She presses her hands together. "Should I get on my knees and beg?"
Fuck yes. "It won't help your case."