No Tomorrow: Chapter 3

I never go to the park on Saturday. That’s my workweek thing to help get me through the day. But I see no reason why I can’t do my laundry tomorrow instead of today as I usually do. The sun is out, the sky is filled with fluffy white clouds, and I’m in the mood for some fresh air. And I have to admit—curiosity has me wondering if Evan plays guitar in the park on the weekends. I wouldn’t mind hearing more of his music and seeing Acorn’s paw waving around without having to rush to get back to work.

After a quick stop for a soy vanilla latte, I’m reminded it’s the weekend by the fact that the park and surrounding area is filled with people who also aren’t working today and all the parking spaces are taken. During the work week, I never have to find a place for my car because I walk from my office. After circling three times, I finally find an empty spot and shove a few coins in the meter to buy me some time.

There’s a crazy number of adults and children in the park today, and I’m bummed to see my bench occupied by a woman and her two kids. Nervously, I peer around as I scout a quiet place to sit and finally settle on a mossy, shady spot under a big willow tree.

Leaning back against the thick tree trunk, I pull my book out of my bag and pick up where I left off, but my thoughts keep drifting away from the words on the page, as I hope to hear the beautiful sound of Evan’s guitar. Perhaps he plays somewhere else on the weekends or does something entirely different. What does a homeless person do with his time? I can’t picture him standing on the corner of a busy intersection, holding a “will work for food” sign, the dog waving frantically at traffic, but I guess anything is possible.

“You hiding from me way over here?”

I almost drop my book at the sound of his voice but quickly recover and squint up at him. His guitar case is slung casually over his shoulder, a black toothpick hangs from his lips, and the sun shines behind his head like a golden beacon. Acorn lies down in the grass next to me and leans his body against my leg. He’s decided they’re staying.

I try not to smile, but I think I already am. “Someone took my bench.”

“I saw.”

He sets down his guitar and sits on the ground a few feet from me.

“I wasn’t sure if you came here on the weekends or only when you work.”

“I usually don’t. I was actually just wondering if you played here on the weekends.”

“So you were thinking about me?” The teasing tone of his voice sends tingly zaps through my body like the static shock from rubbing on carpet. I wonder if we were to rub against each other if it would feel as electrifying as I think it would.

“No.” The word comes out of my mouth too quickly. “I just like hearing your music.” I wave my book in front of him. “While I’m reading. It’s nice.”

A mischievous glint flashes in his eyes. “I like watching you when you listen to my music. I can tell which songs you like the most.”

“Really?” I ask, amused. “And how can you tell?”

“Your breathing changes. It’s subtle, but I see it.”

Knowing he watches me makes my heart and stomach feel like I’m in an elevator endlessly riding up and down because someone has pressed all the buttons and the lift has no idea where to stop.

“This is a different look for you,” he says. I look down at my off-the-shoulder black shirt and my favorite pair of faded jeans and wonder if he thinks I look frumpy. “Not many women can pull off sexy secretary and adorable girl next door. I like both.”

Compliments from good-looking men are rare for me, and I have no idea how to react. Do I thank him? Tell him even though he’s wearing ripped-up clothes that probably haven’t been washed in days or weeks that he still looks smoking hot? Comment on how the scent of sandalwood enveloping him is alluring?

None of those things come out of my mouth. I just sit there basking in the idea of being sexy and adorable with—knowing my luck—no doubt a super goofy smile on my face.

He touches my paperback and looks over the cover of the man and woman in a heated embrace. The man on the cover has long dark hair, just like his.

“You’re reading romance?”

“Yes.” I hope he doesn’t think it’s silly. “I read mysteries, too.” I’ve literally never read a mystery, but it sounds good and diverse.

He pushes his hair out of his face and takes on that faraway, reflective look I’ve seen on his face before. “Romance is a bit of a mystery in itself, isn’t it?”

I ponder that for a few moments. “In a lot of ways, yes, I think it is.”

“I used to read a lot. It was a good escape from the bullshit of life when I needed it. But now music and people-watching do that for me.”

“Reading books and watching movies are my escapes. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve watched Titanic.”

“Ahh.” He smiles and nods. “Devastation masked in a love story. I see the appeal.”

I laugh. “I know it’s wrong, but it’s so addicting.”

“Trust me. I get it.”

Acorn rolls onto his back. As we both reach to rub his belly at the same time, our hands accidentally touch. I pull mine away, startled by the weird shiver that travels up my arm and into my chest.

“Do you ever sing? Or do you just play guitar?” I ask.

I catch the briefest clench of his jaw muscles. “I sing sometimes. I just don’t like to.”

“How come?”

He stares at the dog, who has all his paws up in the air. “I guess I prefer to be in the background and not the center of attention. Less seen and more heard.”

I know all about fading into the background of life. “I’d love to hear you sing someday.”

He frowns, then smiles before he unlatches the guitar case and pulls out the scratched and scuffed-up instrument. “I’ll make a deal with ya,” he says. “I’ll sing for you, just this once, if you let me buy you an ice cream after.” He nods his head toward the ice cream cart across the park.

My leeriness of him is fading; all thoughts of him being some kind of big bad wolf fall to the wayside with the promise of singing and ice cream. I realize if all it would have taken to lure me in was ice cream and a song I probably could have been easily kidnapped as a child. But something about Evan isn’t evoking that stranger-danger vibe I initially felt with him. I want to trust him, and even more, open up to him a little.

“Deal,” I reply. “Ice cream is my weakness.”

He sits cross-legged, the guitar in his lap and his tattooed knees shoving through the frayed holes in his jeans. Cocking his head to the side, he looks up to the sky.

“All right, Ladybug,” he finally says, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and putting it in the pocket of his blue and gray flannel shirt. “I’ll sing you a song I wrote a few days ago. It still needs some work, but it’s a start.”

Intrigued, I set my paperback aside as he plays a slow, faint melody that gradually grows deeper. When he begins to sing, the passion in his voice reaches straight into my soul and latches onto it. Possesses it. Despite the warmth of the sun, goosebumps scatter over my flesh in response to his unique, gravelly, but emotional tone. His eyes are hooded and downcast as he sings, and I realize when he performs his own music, he gets intimately involved—consumed by the melody. He pours his heart and soul into it, and the words and music carry traces of him along with them. And he was right when he said my breath changes when I listen to him play, because this song and his voice have made me breathless.

Now it makes sense—all the times I watched him lose himself in music. Those were his songs. The songs I recognized from the radio? He was different when he played those. Although he performed them perfectly, he didn’t close his eyes to shut out the world or move his hands so passionately across the strings. The connection wasn’t there.

But this, this private performance just for me, is like he’s sharing his devotion to the art of words and sound. It’s obvious he deeply loves what he creates. I’m honored and awed and quite enamored with him, his music, even his dog. The lyrics are dark, seductive, and sad:

After he sings the last word and strums the last note I take a deep breath. “Wow. That was just…” I grapple for words, but can’t come up with any good enough. “Incredible. Amazing. Your voice gave me chills.”

I want to hear more. Begging isn’t beneath me. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than listen to him sing and watch his fingers drift over the guitar all day long, just for me, without the small crowd of people that usually surrounds him.

A hint of shyness reaches his crooked smile. “You’re the first to hear that one.” He strums his fingers across the strings.

“I feel special now.”

“You should.” He places the guitar back in the case and snaps it shut, causing Acorn’s ears to perk up. “That’s all for today,” he announces, snuffing out my hopes to hear more. “Now you owe me an ice cream date.”

My cheeks burn at his choice of words, and I feel a stab of unease as we walk toward the ice cream cart. Is this wrong? Having ice cream with a homeless guy who’s sort of becoming a friend? I think his flirting is harmless. It’s probably the way he acts with all women. It doesn’t mean he likes me. And the strange fluttering of my stomach is just a side effect of listening to amazing music up close, like having front-row seats at a concert by my favorite band.

That’s all.

“You’re really talented, Evan,” I say as we walk. “I don’t understand why you’re playing here in a park for dollars and change when you could be—”

“A famous musician?” He finishes my sentence as if he’s heard this hundreds of times before.

“Yeah. I mean, I really think you could.”

We stop at the ice cream stand and browse over the menu of flavors.

“I’ve had offers, been flown to L.A. and Seattle to meet with bands and producers and all that shit. That’s not what I want. I don’t care about money or being known. All I care about is playing music I love and being free. I don’t give a shit about anything else.”

His answer baffles me. Who walks away from the chance to make money? Why would he choose to stay on the streets?

He pushes my hand away when I take my wallet out of my bag.

“I can afford ice cream, Piper.”

I hesitate, feeling bad. Not only for insulting him, but for allowing him to spend his money on me. I’ve seen what people throw in that tip jar of his. Reluctantly, I put my wallet back as he orders two cones for us and a scoop of vanilla in a cup for Acorn, who’s waiting next to us with a wildly wagging tail and what could almost be a smile. My heart clenches at the dog’s excitement, and all I want to do is take him home with me and give him a big bowl of food, a soft doggy bed, and some toys.

Where do Evan and his dog even sleep at night? On the ground? In a sleeping bag? In a tent? I wonder if the rest of his stuff is hidden under a bridge or in a shopping cart in the bushes, or who knows where?

“You okay?” he asks after he pays with a handful of folded dollar bills.

I force a smile. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

His tongue sweeps over his mint chip ice cream, and the glimpse of a silver bar pierced through it grabs my attention. I’ve heard that men get their tongues pierced to heighten the sensation when giving oral, and I wonder if that’s why he has one.

“You know what I like, Piper?” He takes another lick. “People who say exactly what they’re thinking.”

Hint taken.

“I was wondering where you sleep.” And what you do with that tongue bar. “I know it’s rude, but I was just curious.”

“It’s not rude. We sleep under that bridge where we ate lunch yesterday. It’s quiet and mostly dry, and the cops don’t give me a hard time. Some nights, I can see the stars.”

I swallow my ice cream too fast, and it spikes into my brain like an ice pick. “Oh.”

“Do you like where you sleep, Piper?”

What a question that is. So simple to answer, really. But deep down, in the secret places of my thoughts, it’s not so simple at all.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you sleep alone?”

“No.” I pause to gauge his reaction, wondering if he’s fishing to see if I’m single. “I sleep with my cat.”

He grabs the hand that’s holding my cone and brings it to his lips. I watch in fascination as he licks my ice cream, without asking, without hesitation, and with his smoldering eyes locked right onto mine.

“I wanted to taste yours,” he says, licking the pink raspberry from his lips.

I blink and swallow. “I-I don’t mind,” I reply, running my tongue over the spot he just had his mouth on. Our eyes meet as he licks his ice cream. It’s a kiss that isn’t a kiss.

An erotic shock jolts through me. My germ radar has gone dark.

Finished with the last bite of his cone, Evan picks up Acorn’s empty dish and throws it in the trash, then walks me back to the tree where he found me.

“It’s probably time for me to get going.” I smile up at him. “Thanks for the ice cream. And for singing for me. I really loved it. If it was on a cassette, I’d probably play it over and over and over again.”

Stepping closer, he pushes my hair behind my ear and holds his hand there with his thumb on my cheek. I can smell tobacco on his hand but it’s not unpleasant. My breathing stills at the uninvited touch. My head screams at me to slap his hand away, but every other part of me savors the intimacy, the glimmer of desire in his eyes, and the sudden heat between my thighs.

“Tonight when you’re sleeping with your cat in the place you only like sometimes, close your eyes and you’ll hear the music. I promise.”

He pulls away. Walks away. Every time I watch him walk away, I’m struck by a sudden fear that I’ll never see him again. The feeling disappears just as quickly as it comes.

I’m still so buzzed by my unexpected reaction to his touch that I walk in a daze to my office building, only to realize my car isn’t there and is parked about six blocks over in the other direction.

Damn!

His lyrics are still in my head as I trek toward my car, as I cook dinner with my mom that night, and later when I’m in my bed and close my eyes to drift off to sleep.