I met my soul mate at the carwash. True story. One of the outdoor coin operated rigs. Wearing a red dress and red heels, I wrestled the spray wand, dodging the ricocheting mist of the soap. A white Camero slowed to a stop--an older souped up model, suggesting it's owner is skilled under the hood;) The driver leaned out the open window. "Nice car!" He complimented my red Mustang. I know. I've often wondered if I hadn't matched my car that night if I would have still caught his notice. Exiting, he relieved me of the spray wand and took over the job. "You should take better care of it." If I answered, I don't remember. "Not let it get so dirty," he elaborated. What an ass, right? I didn't know it at the time, but that was my soul mate talking...
Fictional soul mates are easier to recognize. Have a favorite true or fictional soul mate story?
Now take a
Soul Mate Sighting Jules Breaux and Matt Loren
“But he’s a guy…”
“Yeah, I know, but Marc told him he could try out.” Jules did not even pause in her tidying up of the rec room as she shrugged in answer to the roll of Starla’s eyes.
“But he’s a guy.”
“We don’t have to let him in the band. Just be cool to him when he gets here. Then we can keep looking.” Snatching an ashtray, she dumped it into the trashcan she carried.
“You told Marc it was going to be all girls, right?”
“Yes, Star, yes.” One of Marc’s discarded shirts had the misfortune of being handy enough to double as a dust rag, and she swiped it over the drum stool and heads.
“So why would he…” Star trailed off, clearly peeved.
Holding the shirt, Jules surveyed the room. The area was cluttered with an assortment of guitars, a drum set, and a few other varied instruments, as well as a pool table, stereo, and sofa. Once her father’s toy room, the area had gradually become mostly her and Marc’s chill zone.
And now, it was begging to be a band practice room.
“Probably for a bag of weed, or wax for his board. Yeah, probably the wax since the guy works at ‘The Surf Shack.’” All of Marc’s surfer tribe smoked weed.
To that logic, Starla expelled a frustrated scream just as the doorbell chimed.
“Remember, be cool to him.” Jules turned a warning glance on Star as they filed down the hall to answer the door. “It’s not his fault my brother is a—”
“Okay!” Star hissed the interruption, motioning with a jerk of an irritated hand for Jules to proceed. Obviously, she wanted this inconvenience over and done with.
When Jules unlatched the door and pulled it open, both girls exchanged a quick surprised glance, and all traces of animosity dissipated. She found herself eye level with a shark’s tooth on a hemp string, resting just below the neckline on a white tee shirt. The neck it encircled was long, masculine, and tan. Tilting her chin, she stared into a face which fluttered her insides and flushed every cell. His eyes were as dark as the hair spilling around his features, and her gaze seemed glued to those chocolate pools.
“Hi! Come in!” Star edged forward when Jules couldn’t find her voice.
“He’s so fine!” Jules mouthed as she and Star led the way down the hall to the rec room. Maybe this audition would be a waste of time, but it would be an enjoyable waste.
t He had sauntered straight to her father’s drums, and currently stood assessing the white Pearl set with sheer reverence. A pair of drumsticks extended from one of the back pockets of his jeans, and her gaze lingered, transfixed by this area of his anatomy.
When he turned, she tried to jerk her eyes to his face, but was waylaid by the new eye candy. Until now, she had only curiously scoped out a guy’s crotch. Now, her heart pounded in a weird new way. Up. Up. Tee shirt hem. Surf Shack logo. Neckline. Adams Apple. Up. Lips. Helplessly, she lingered again. Up. Deep dark eyes framed by black lashes, enhanced by brows almost as black. A lock of dark hair fell over one of those brows, and he pushed it back as he waited for her to continue. His eyes skimmed down to the Wayward boots, seeming to stop for split seconds along the way, but by the time they met hers again, they were politely impersonal.
When she couldn’t seem to speak, and Star didn’t chime in, he curved an arm behind his back, whipping the sticks from his pocket. “Let’s rock!”
“Yeah, I know, but Marc told him he could try out.” Jules did not even pause in her tidying up of the rec room as she shrugged in answer to the roll of Starla’s eyes.
“But he’s a guy.”
“We don’t have to let him in the band. Just be cool to him when he gets here. Then we can keep looking.” Snatching an ashtray, she dumped it into the trashcan she carried.
“You told Marc it was going to be all girls, right?”
“Yes, Star, yes.” One of Marc’s discarded shirts had the misfortune of being handy enough to double as a dust rag, and she swiped it over the drum stool and heads.
“So why would he…” Star trailed off, clearly peeved.
Holding the shirt, Jules surveyed the room. The area was cluttered with an assortment of guitars, a drum set, and a few other varied instruments, as well as a pool table, stereo, and sofa. Once her father’s toy room, the area had gradually become mostly her and Marc’s chill zone.
And now, it was begging to be a band practice room.
“Probably for a bag of weed, or wax for his board. Yeah, probably the wax since the guy works at ‘The Surf Shack.’” All of Marc’s surfer tribe smoked weed.
To that logic, Starla expelled a frustrated scream just as the doorbell chimed.
“Remember, be cool to him.” Jules turned a warning glance on Star as they filed down the hall to answer the door. “It’s not his fault my brother is a—”
“Okay!” Star hissed the interruption, motioning with a jerk of an irritated hand for Jules to proceed. Obviously, she wanted this inconvenience over and done with.
When Jules unlatched the door and pulled it open, both girls exchanged a quick surprised glance, and all traces of animosity dissipated. She found herself eye level with a shark’s tooth on a hemp string, resting just below the neckline on a white tee shirt. The neck it encircled was long, masculine, and tan. Tilting her chin, she stared into a face which fluttered her insides and flushed every cell. His eyes were as dark as the hair spilling around his features, and her gaze seemed glued to those chocolate pools.
“Hi! Come in!” Star edged forward when Jules couldn’t find her voice.
“He’s so fine!” Jules mouthed as she and Star led the way down the hall to the rec room. Maybe this audition would be a waste of time, but it would be an enjoyable waste.
t He had sauntered straight to her father’s drums, and currently stood assessing the white Pearl set with sheer reverence. A pair of drumsticks extended from one of the back pockets of his jeans, and her gaze lingered, transfixed by this area of his anatomy.
When he turned, she tried to jerk her eyes to his face, but was waylaid by the new eye candy. Until now, she had only curiously scoped out a guy’s crotch. Now, her heart pounded in a weird new way. Up. Up. Tee shirt hem. Surf Shack logo. Neckline. Adams Apple. Up. Lips. Helplessly, she lingered again. Up. Deep dark eyes framed by black lashes, enhanced by brows almost as black. A lock of dark hair fell over one of those brows, and he pushed it back as he waited for her to continue. His eyes skimmed down to the Wayward boots, seeming to stop for split seconds along the way, but by the time they met hers again, they were politely impersonal.
When she couldn’t seem to speak, and Star didn’t chime in, he curved an arm behind his back, whipping the sticks from his pocket. “Let’s rock!”
above excerpt from Lisa Gillis' Six Silver Strings Series: Rising Sun, Half Moon, Rock Stars
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