Call Me Love Ch. 01

Fellas, it's not like we can help it. It's like we're wired to focus on the physical stuff, whether it's getting into a scrap or getting into bed, especially if there's a cracking girl in the mix. Our minds just start wandering, we'll follow a nice pair of legs off a cliff. But don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean we're stupid, it's just that we don't always think two steps ahead.

It's like it's in our DNA, innit? Doesn't matter if you're some high-flying politician, a holy padre, or just a regular bloke like me -- the moment you spot a short skirt, your mind starts sprinting off to places it shouldn't. It crosses all sorts of boundaries, from social status to race to your job. We're all in the same boat, really. Strange comfort in that, don't you think?

A quick glance around the room shows the usual setup, my mates' laughter echoing faintly as the Sunday night blues settle in like a heavy fog. Three days off work gone in a flash, and tomorrow it's back to the grind. The party's in full swing, bodies swaying to some indie track that probably peaked last week. Should be having a blast, but for some reason, it's just not hitting the mark.

It's not a total drag, but honestly, I reckon I'd have been better off just chilling back home.

I'm only here 'cause Jeff, my mate, wouldn't stop pestering me until I agreed to come along. 'Anything can happen,' he says. Yeah, right. Except now, I'm bored out of my skull. As the music fades and the chance of any excitement dwindles, I'm almost ready to call it a night.

But then, I spot her.

It's the way the light glints and glitters off the rings on her fingers, that caught me eye. She looks a bit of a girly girl with black painted nails, her hands weaving stories of their own as she talks. Long, black, and glossy hair, that's bouncing with every laugh and toss of her head, a perfect frame for her face and a great smile

A long-sleeve black and red plaid slipping off her shoulder catches my eye, it 'fits' sure, but you can't tell me it's not a bit snug on her, though I'm not complaining one bit. She either didn't notice or she knows exactly what she's doing. Either way, it's not leaving much to the imagination, it's alright, I'm sure my imagination can fill in the blanks.

And it's not fully buttoned up either, teasing the whole room with a peak of her belly button and suddenly I'm thirsty as anything.

But what really gets me are those legs -- seeming to stretch on for miles all wrapped up in a tiny black skirt. Soft and curvy hips, the kind you just want to grab hold of, you know? And I'll be the first to say it -- she's got a great ass. Forgive me for being a guy, but it's impossible not to notice. Goddamn, I'd be hard-pressed to keep my hands off it, if I had her alone.

She looks a bit shorter than me, but then again, who isn't? Didn't get much from my old man; I take after my mum, except for the height--that's all him, towering over everyone like a human lamppost. Her grin? Infectious, mate, lights up her whole face like she's about to spill some scandalous gossip. And those eyes? Well, I'd love to tell you the color, but she's just far enough away to keep me guessing. But let me tell you about her makeup game--it's on point. Dark eyeliner, not too much, just enough to add a touch of mystery without screaming '80s glam rock.' And those lips? Dangerously tempting, like they're daring you to take a bite. And there she is, looking right at me, grinning like she's got a secret. Straight at me. Giving me a wink--or at least I hope it's for me.

Lucky me, there's not a cliff in sight.

I've been around the block, and hit up more parties than I care to count. When music's coursing through your veins like it does for me, you do two things: crash as many parties as humanly possible, and belt out your tunes for anyone who'll listen. But in all those ragers, I never came across someone like her.

Now, my mates? They're wasting no time taking the mickey out of me, ribbing me for going all wide-eyed over this stunner. But you know what? I couldn't care less, hell, I don't even hear them.

I'm looking for something different, someone I don't mind losing a bit of sleep with or shooting the breeze about my music. The sort of girl where every word I say means something to her, 'cause it means something to me, know what I mean? And those are a rare find.

It takes a bit of legwork, mate, 'cause they don't just fall into your lap. You gotta set your sights on the ones who are in it for the sheer thrill of the party, not just to bag a member of the band. The ones with genuine smiles, living for the music like we do, laughing like they couldn't give a toss who's watching--they're the ones who'll stick in your daydreams.

A girl who's all smiles, laughs, and just embraces herself--now that's attractive, ain't it? One thing's for sure: I gotta figure out her name, and I gotta do it quick before some other bloke swoops in, 'cause I ain't the only one eyeing her up.

I'm not sure how I ended up on the other side of the flat, but here I am, closing in on her. The music's pulsing through me like it's trying to kickstart a heart that's been asleep for too long. I can start to pick out the sound of her voice from the crowd she's with now. And it's not like most girls, all sugary and high-pitched. Nah, it's got this sultry, smoky quality to it. It's like a cat's purr, the hum of an engine, the deep rumble of a bass guitar--all wrapped up in one. It's the kind of voice that could lead a bloke down some dodgy paths with just the right words.

Haven't got a clue what to say to her, but I'm praying I'll come off smoother than I feel, you know? Like Danny Dyer, Richard Ashcroft, or Alex Turner vibes or something. My mind's racing like a runaway train with no brakes, hurtling toward the great unknown. But just when I'm about to make my grand entrance, some git decides to slam the brakes on my progress with a well-timed hand on my shoulder. And who is it? You guessed it -- Jeff. Now, don't get me wrong, he's a decent lad, but he's got a knack for rotten timing, don't he?

"Oi, Ben, what's caught your eye? You seen a ghost or something?"

Suddenly, his arm barrels around me with the force of a sledgehammer, sending me teetering like a drunk on a tightrope. I stumble, trying to regain my footing as Jeff pivots me away, and it takes me a sec to set us right before we go tumbling to the floor in a heap.

Jeff's definitely had a few, lumbering about with all the grace of a drunken stag in a pub garden. He takes a swig of his brew, his eyes darting around the room like he's trying to see through walls. Not keen on being the spectacle of the night, I shoot a nod back to where we came from.

Then, he spots her. Jeff's gaze locks onto her like he's trying to crack a code. With a nonchalant shrug, he gives his two cents:

"Yeah, she's kinda cute."

I do a double-take. Jeff's comment throws me off more than a step--'cute'? Are we even looking at the same girl?

She's gorgeous.

Sure, she might be cute when all snuggled up in blankets in a cozy bed, but that's not exactly what I have in mind.

"You got a chat-up line?"

I ain't got an opening line, and Jeff knows it. He shrugs and smirks, gesturing to our gear in the corner. 

"Come on, mate, let's give it a whirl."

I don't get it. 'Give it a whirl?'

What's he on about?

Right here, right now? Just grab my sticks and start banging out a wicked beat like it's all part of the plan? I wasn't planning on performing, but the spark in Jeff's eyes tells me he knows something I don't. It could go two ways: he's either setting me up for a cringe-worthy crash and burn to have a laugh at my expense, or he's lining me up to be the main attraction. With Jeff, you never know for sure.

I've got no clue where this is heading, but I think, 'Sod it,' and just go with the flow. Jeff's got a knack for taking the mickey out of folks, but it's all in good fun. He's never let me down when I needed him to back me up on the dating front. If he chucks me to the wolves, I'll give him a right bollocking he'll remember for ages.

I settle in behind my drum kit, sticks in my hands calming those fluttering butterflies in my stomach. Maybe it's for the best, 'cause I haven't drummed up a decent chat-up line. Jeff throws me a nod as he grabs his bass and starts plucking out a classic Clash tune, the rhythm flowing effortlessly from his fingertips as if he's been playing it since birth. 'Cause, well, he probably has.

My drums kick in, setting the rhythm for the song, letting it chase away my doubts, and soon enough, Pete joins the party with his guitar slung over his shoulder like it was his plan all along. As our music fills the room, drowning out any background noise, all eyes are locked on us -- including a set I still can't quite make out the color of. But they're proper cracking, and I can feel them on me.

She's giving me the once-over, and then some.

Turns out, Jeff's a damn good friend after all.

It's a small gathering, just a bash for no reason at someone's place, and there's no one here who's gonna give us a record deal. But her watching makes it feel like I'm headlining Glastonbury. I notice her foot tapping to my rhythm, hips in sync with my bass drum -- so I decide to throw a bit of swagger her way. I shoot her a cheeky grin, give a nod, you know, do what I can in the moment. She fires back with this minxy smile and a nod. Like I said, she's here for fun, and she's smashing it.

Pete, as usual, dominates the scene with killer guitar riffs and vocals that transform our dinky living room into a jam-packed show. I love Pete, mate. He's a top-notch bloke who's had my back more times than I can count. But as I watch him lead the charge, I can't help feeling a twinge of envy. The guy can belt it out, shred those strings, and the crowd eats it up. Most girls naturally swoon over the frontman -- it's only right. He's front and center, hogging the spotlight for the world to see, they're singing along with him. If he says jump, they jump; if he says scream, they scream. Leaves the rest of us feeling a bit sidelined, and by 'the rest of us,' I mean, well, yours truly.

But that ain't me tonight. There's just one girl I've got my sights set on, and she ain't paying Pete any mind at all.

One track would've been good for me -- but nah, Jeff's as crafty as they come, and reckons he's gonna spice things up. It's never straightforward, is it? It's like planning to have just a single pint at the local, impossible to stick to just one.

"Oi, you darlin's fancy any tunes?"

Is it just luck that he's eyeballing my raven-haired girl? Nah, never. He's the smooth talker, the geezer who stirs up the mob and gets 'em all buzzing. Pete's got the talent, yeah, but he's a bit of a hermit, comes off as the strong silent type.

Those dark locks and that grin -- she's got me hooked. Her lips curve into a smirk, and she gives that lip a playful nibble before diving right into Jeff's banter.

"How 'bout some Queen?" She pitches in. No British drawl in her voice, pure American charm. This shindig just keeps getting better.

"You got it, darlin', which one?" Jeff hollers. She leans to whisper to a friend, then shouts back something that drops my jaw: "Another One Bites the Dust."

I don't know how she clocked it, but this tune's my jam. It's the first beat I ever banged out on the drums back when I was just a kid. I can play it blindfolded, in my sleep, or even when I'm completely sloshed. And tonight, I smash it like I'm jamming with the legends I've always looked up to; Roger Taylor, John Bonham, or Keith Moon. I'm no rockstar, and odds are no arena will ever chant my name. I'm just plain old Ben.

Tonight, though, I don't feel plain at all. Our eyes lock again, and again, and this time it feels like an electric current jolting through the crowd, straight from her to me.

I love seeing a girl having a blast, you get me? Not one of those trying-too-hard types -- you can spot 'em easy enough. The ones trying to be sexy, trying to make everyone want them, the ones who try to be the center of it all by drawing all eyes on them, doing what they think people like. Some blokes dig that, but not me.

This girl... gotta get her name in the bag. Belting out the lyrics, swaying her hips to the rhythm of my kit, and hell, that's my kind of vibe. Nothing tops a girl who lets loose with her favorite tune, rocks an air guitar, and gets in sync with the crew over some banging music. And this girl is ticking all those boxes for me.

Never thought I'd be more eager for a gig to wrap up, that ain't usually how it goes, I'm the last one to leave, but Jeff's got the crowd whipped up into a bit of a frenzy. We're blazing through tune after tune 'til my arms are screaming for a break - a real feat, mind you. I've got the stamina to drum for ages, but tonight's thrown me for a loop. And even though I'm soaked through and my arms are like jelly, she's still got her eyes glued to yours truly.

Gonna give Jeff a ribbing later. I mean, couldn't he have whispered a hint while I was tuning the drums earlier? 'Hey mate, save some for later, yeah?' But nah, cheeky Jeff always keeps me on my toes. Pete couldn't care less, though - he's just doing his thing, paying homage to our music idols.

Ten songs. Ten bangers cooked up on the spot, and we smash every last one. When we hit that final note, Jeff shoots me a look that says, 'Give 'em something to remember.' So, I go all out. Pouring every last drop of energy into one insane drum solo. Might've put the flat's landlord on edge with the neighbors, but hell, it's worth it. People usually focus on Pete and listen to Jeff, but now, everyone's gaze is fixed on me.

With one last crash of the cymbals, the music's fading, and I'm absolutely knackered. All I need to set me right is a Carling, a cool breeze, and to give Jeff a sock in the shoulder. Oh, and I need to figure out what that siren's name is. But the way she lifts her bottle, I got a feeling my luck's taking a turn for the better on that front after our impromptu gig. Good 'ol Jeff. Looks like I owe him one, even if he did throw me into the lion's den without warning.

I don't give a toss about what my mum says; my sticks go where I go -- school, dining table, church, and yeah, even in my back pocket after a set. Not that I'll ever say it to her face. I don't have a death wish, and Mum would set me straight. Then she'd go and tell my nan, and then I'd really be in for it. Gave 'em a twirl between my fingers and slipped 'em right into my back pocket. Girls love that little trick.

My limbs are killing me as I rise from the kit, and with a bit of a wobble, I sling a dig at Jeff's arm -- doesn't faze him, but Jeff, the proper drama queen, shoots me a look of feigned agony and belts out, goading me on. All in good banter, though, mates will be muppets. Besides, if I was really up for hurting him, I could, and he's clued up on that.

The old man didn't leave me with much, just some old-school parenting, meaning he'd give me a right bollocking whenever I cocked up. But he did school me a bit in boxing before he took off, and I ain't half bad if I do say so myself. Way I fgure it, if the music gig goes pear-shaped, I reckon I could fall back on a career throwing haymakers.

Pete's completely lost, not catching a whiff of what's going on between me and Jeff. He just gives me a head shake and buggers off to grab a drink -- he's got the right idea. But before I can follow suit, Jeff clamps down on my shoulder again.

"Saw her clockin' you the whole set." He grins, nodding across the room. She's deep in a chat with another girl, stealing a quick glance our way, and shoots me a grin. "Don't say I never did anything for you, mate," What's that supposed to mean? Oh, hell what's he about to do?

"Bloody hell, mate, you look fuckin' wrecked! Go grab a bit of fresh air, yeah?" He practically bellows at me, giving a solid nudge toward the balcony. 

Well, now the whole room's looking at me. Right, reckon it's time to have that breather outside. Maybe I'll come up with something slick to say.

The cold air's a slap in the face as soon as I step outside and it's brilliant. Can feel the sweat on my arms, neck, and back turning icy, the kind of cold chill that tells you you're alive. This, right here, is what it's all about -- not some dead-end job where your boss don't even know your name, nothing to show for it by the time you hit forty. 

No, it's this -- feeling the chilly air on your skin after you've nailed the best set while impressing a girl you fancy. Playing till your arms ache, making mates among strangers, getting pissed and having a laugh with your found family, and then doing it all again the next day. 

This is the good life.

I'm drenched in sweat, probably don't smell too good, but I can't be arsed to care. Just need a few minutes out here to sort myself out, maybe puff on a cig, grab a drink, and back into the thick of it to see where the rest of this party takes me, it's starting to shape up a bit. Still need to find out her name.

Behind me, a rush of air sweeps out as the door opens and closes, bringing with it the sounds of the party and the scent of weed; someone's having a good time. It's not my thing, just a fag, and a brew, I'm a simple bloke. I spin around, half expecting Pete to show up with a drink, ready to sort out the situation between me and Jeff and have a laugh at my expense. But, by the grace of Lady Luck herself, it's like she's taken a shine to me, there stands my mystery girl, looking even better up close, and not just because she's holding out a brew.

"Killer set," That smoke I heard is just as inviting as it was before our impromptu concert, but that voice of hers, even if she wouldn't give me the time of day, I'd still listen to her read the bloody dictionary.

"That for me?"I ask, nodding to the bottle she's holding. It's a daft question, of course, but I like a girl with a sharp tongue, and silly questions are a good way to gauge quick wit.

She responds with a playful eye roll and a shake of her head. "Nah, I just like carrying around two drinks 'cause I'm thirsty." Bet you are.

Those captivating eyes and that sassy mouth -- got me hooked, I tell ya. As she hands me the bottle, her fingers brush against mine, and I swear there's a little spark there.

"Looked like you needed a pick-me-up," she clinks her bottle against mine. I knock it back, don't matter if it tastes like dishwater, the cold hits the spot after a solid set. And with this stunner serving it, it's as good as anything on the top shelf.

"Cheers for that, love," 

Local girls ain't too fussed about that endearment; it's as common as calling someone 'mate.' But with Yanks, especially them girls, they lap it up and the grin she's throwing my way tells me she's eating it up too. 

"Never seen you here before," She shakes her head. "Who's your crew tonight?" 

I gotta suss out who she rolled in with. Don't fancy chatting up some bloke's little sister. Though she doesn't strike me as a kid, not with that fit bod, sweet curves, and those lush lips. What kinda brother would let his sister out of the house like that anyway? Still, I ain't up for any underage drama. If she's too young, I'm out. Don't need that hassle in my life.

"My flatmate and her girl; Stevie and Nicki."

I ain't got a clue who Stevie and Nicki are, but that's not surprising. People just show up to these things. I'll have to ask Pete later; he usually knows everybody. She doesn't mention a fella or being anyone's little sister, so that's as good as a green flag in my book.

"Didn't know I was getting a free show," She adds with a little grin.

"Don't get too excited, love, only the first one's on the house," I smirk back, patting my pockets feeling around for a fag, but I come up short. Must've smoked my last one and forgot to get more, I ain't nervous at all but still, it helps to have something to do with your hands. Dammit, a smoke would really take the edge off.