Voice and Melody

-I don't know if I will continue this, depends on the response. Enjoy-

My band’s singer is weird. Not surprising really, most singers have a quirk, I think it comes with the ego.
Like right now, he’s sprawled across my rumpled bed, head off the edge and hanging upside down, staring at me. His eyes are a little scary, there the color of a penny, and sometimes they glow. Or maybe that’s just the drugs talking. I really don’t know.
But he’s just staring, and I’m not really something to stare at. I’m ordinary. Brown hair, brown eyes, not too short, not too tall. Just… ordinary.
Like I said, he is just staring at me, not blinking, not smiling, nothing. There is nothing behind his eyes; it’s like a blank wall.
He’s like this sometimes, the only time he really comes alive is around music. I really wish he would show some fucking emotion or focus on something else. I’m kind of afraid to move, but I do. I bring my hand down beside my chair and lift my ebony acoustic guitar out of its stand. I slid my hands along its smooth side and up the slim neck. I pull the purple pick from between the strings and drop it on the ground.
I pluck a note and it bounces around the silent room like a tennis ball. I glance at him and he still hasn’t moved from his position. His hair is snarled like he tried to pull it out from the roots, but it’s probably just bed head.
I go back to my guitar. I trace my fingers up and down the frets, limbering my fingers, and then I’m coaxing a melody from it. The music is smooth and vibrant, I feel it seep through my skin and wrap around my spine.
My breath shudders out and I close my eyes. I don’t know how long I’m playing before I feel hot hands on my face.
My eyes snap open and the music falters, before it falls completely silent because I forget to keep playing.
He’s staring down at me, but there is a spark behind his eyes. His lips twitch and he drops his hands down to pull my guitar from mine.
When he turns back from putting the guitar back in its stand he touches my face again. Just the back of his knuckles down my temple, along my jaw, and at the corner of my mouth. He slides his thumb across my bottom lip and he smiles. His teeth flash as he speaks.
“Leander, you trying to get my attention?” His voice is like my guitar, like Kahlua and cream sliding down your throat. Thick and smooth.
I try to turn my face away, because I was trying to get his attention, and him knowing it is embarrassing.
But he want let me hide, he never does. He grips my face tightly and I make an irritated noise in the back of my throat.
“Jace-.” I start, but his lips smash mine and he straddles my lap, shoving me against the back of the chair, hard. I grunt into his mouth, but his lips keep twining with mine. We’ve done this before. He would sink into whatever world that’s in his mind, and I would draw him out with my guitar. That was how we met. His voice and my guitar.
But forget about that. His teeth are nipping my bottom lip, then his tongue is slicking it and I groan.
He is not light, actually he is a bit bigger than me, but it doesn’t matter, ‘because his ass is grinding into my lap and pretty much any real thoughts go out the window.
His tongue is mapping the roof of my mouth and skidding along my teeth. His hands are under my shirt and tracing my ribs when the worst thing happens.
Someone knocks on my door.