I laugh and slap his shoulder, then turn to gaze out at the multi-colored lights of LA speeding by.

“Anyway, there’s not much going on for me at home either,” I admit.

“Oh yeah?”

I turn to face him.

“I’m crashing with some roommates. My room is more of a closet. PETA would go crazy if someone kept a dog in there – a struggling musician, however, is just fine.”

He lets out a deep, two-tone laugh. “That bad, huh?”

I nod a little, then laugh a little.

“Shit. All I seem to do these days is complain,” I say. “I’m getting tired of myself. What about you? I still have no idea who you are, or where you’re from.”

“I hate life stories,” he tells me. “I prefer living in the present.”

I turn to him and see that he’s watching me intently as he says it. Suddenly I feel like a rabbit in the headlights of his piercing brown eyes. He reaches over and strokes my hair lightly away from my face, rough fingers tickling my tense neck slightly. My body – and it’s my body that decides, not me – reacts by pressing my cheek against the back of his hand, nuzzling the tough skin.

The cab seems to rev up to lightspeed when he leans in, the city streets turning into a blur of stars, the feeling of being pinned back into the seat by acceleration hitting my gut. I close my eyes and feel full lips kiss my neck delicately, from the nape to the back of my ear, a trace of desiring tongue. I tilt my head back, inviting him to do more of whatever he’s doing, and melt into the seat. He blows softly against the sweat on my neck, and the butterflies in my stomach go crazy, his cool breath giving me goosebumps. I part my lips, breath short, and wait for what comes next.

“We’re here,” he says. I open my eyes and turn slowly, like I’m waking up from a deep sleep.

The cab smoothly stops and Brando smiles as he puts his hand on the door handle.

I feel like someone just cancelled my birthday.

Brando pays the driver, steps out, and has my door open before I can even find the door handle. All swagger and grace, despite his size. I step out and before I even stumble his hand is pressing against my side, holding me up.

“Careful,” he winks, when I look up at him.

He keeps his hand pressed against my waist all the way through the large entrance of the red-brick apartment block and into the elevator. He pushes the top button, and we look at each other as the doors shut. The second they draw close, it’s like a starting gun. Without a word we leap into each other, Brando pulling my tense body against his hard chest. His hands instinctively go to the back of my thighs, lifting me off the floor with ease and wrapping my legs around him.

Our tongues crash together, and I get a full hit of Brando’s dark, powerful aroma. I put my hands on his cheeks, guiding my lips into his, the tough, sandpaper-stubble scratching at my palms.

The doors open and the next thing I know, he’s carrying me into a gigantic loft apartment. I can tell he’s craving me, I can smell the animal nitrate coming off of him, feel the way his body is starting to take over his mind. For a few seconds it feels like I’m lashed to a boat in the storm, about to be carried away by this beast of a man. My heart starts to race, my breath shortening.

“Wait,” I say, pushing myself away from his lips with what little willpower I have left. He releases me, placing me gently on the floor. I shyly look away. “This is…really new for me.”

Brando’s lips curve into a broad smile. He laughs a little as he wipes my lipgloss from his lips, his stubble sounding like a brush as he wipes his fingers across it.

“Things never stay new for long.”

I smile meekly and fold my arms across my chest.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, taking off his coat to reveal a tight-fitting shirt that hugs all the deep grooves of his torso. “I’ll go get us a couple of drinks. Then we can talk more.”

I watch Brando swagger off through a side door. The second he disappears, being here in this huge, strange loft with a guy I barely know feels even more crazy. It’s only when I turn around nervously, scanning my surroundings, that it starts making sense.

One length of the loft is a floor to ceiling window, with a view that seems to pan over the busiest, most picturesque part of LA. A silhouette of glass towers against a star-filled sky. It’s remarkable, and yet I barely give it a second glance. The real focus for me is the rest of the room.

It’s a musician’s paradise. It’s as if Brando reached into my subconscious, discovered what my ideal apartment would look like, and then came up with a place twice as impressive. I step forward slowly, like Alice through the looking glass, eyes popping out of my head, dizzy from noticing so many beautiful things. A butterscotch ’66 Telecaster lies on the couch in the middle of the room as if it was just another guitar. A vintage Steinway upright piano sits casually against the wall, sheet music messily spread across the keys. A rare Linn drum machine leans against another wall, cables squirreling out of it in all directions.

And vinyl. Lots and lots of vinyl. On giant partitions that I would need a step-ladder to reach the top of. Piled high in every corner of the room. Decorating the walls and most of the furniture. I can smell it, and it’s intoxicating.

I grab an album that I’ve never heard of, its colorful cover compelling me to read a few of the song titles, and put it back, continuing to step slowly through Brando’s musical grove. If I’d known he had a collection like this, I would have never abandoned him that first night in the club.

“Whoa!”

The word comes out of my mouth in a shocked gasp. Without even thinking about asking, I grab a beautiful mahogany acoustic guitar from an antique chair and hold it in my arms like a newborn. I strum a few chords and it hums and purrs perfectly, the sound from it almost magical. After way too long with my broken pawn shop guitar, holding this feels like a revelation from God.

I play a little more, basking in the velvety richness of the sound, singing a little softly. When I open my eyes, Brando’s in front of me, a drink in each hand.

I freeze, hand firmly caught in the cookie jar. “Shit. I—”

“No. Don’t stop.”

“I’m sorry. I just…it’s so beautiful.” I lean over to put the guitar down.

“Don’t apologize,” Brando says. “Come over here. Bring the guitar with you.”

He leads me over to the sunken area in one part of the loft, a low, soft couch lining it, and sets my drink down on the table. He pats the spot next to him, a mischievous smirk on his face, and I oblige.

“Play for me,” he says, gently.

My heart flutters for a second as I realize what I’m doing, sitting in a loft filled with beautiful things, holding a guitar I’d give my left leg to own, and about to play to a handsome man – still pretty much a stranger – who seems to genuinely want to hear me. It’s almost too much, but before my flight response has a chance to kick in, I catch Brando’s eye, and something in it plucks my heart like a low E string and soothes my nerves. I settle the guitar on my lap, half-facing him on the couch, and start playing.

I close my eyes, not even needing to look at the fretboard, it fits my hand so perfectly. The words pour out of me like birds taking flight. It’s the easiest song I’ll ever play. The acoustics of the loft, the feel of the mahogany guitar, the gentle looseness that’s still permeating through my body. The man I’m playing for. It’s too perfect. When I finish, I wonder if I’ll ever play like that again.

I open my eyes and look at Brando. His lips are parted, his eyes dreamy and lidded, as if drugged by the sound. He gazes at me for what feels like an eternity, then shakes his head slightly before speaking.

“I haven’t heard a song that moved me like that in a very long time.”