by Max Henry
“You must have been pissed at me.” I huff a laugh and rise to my feet. “I’ve made plenty of journos angry in my time but never mad enough to write a hate-story.”
She groans, burying her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, okay?”
I hold out a hand. “Make sure that douchebag boss of yours doesn’t write his version of it, and all will be forgiven.” She places her palm in mine and stands. “I might even see the funny side—eventually.”
Her touch is so fucking soft. Unlike my stick-hardened hands. “We’re dangerous when provoked, us vultures,” she mocks.
I steer her toward the end of the aisle. “Musicians are too. We just don’t vent to a few hundred subscribers like you do.”
She looks back over her shoulder, curious.
I jump one eyebrow. “We write songs about how much we hate you for the whole world to hear.”
SIXTEEN
Jeanie
“Teach Me to Fight” - YONAKA
We’re too far to turn back without it being obvious when I realize where the hell I lead our duo. Neither of us have said much more than a few pointless observations about the people around us while we walk, but the conversation has been strangely easy.
So easy, that I subconsciously steered us toward my apartment. My go to when I want somewhere undisturbed to get deep with my thoughts. Home.
And this guy is about to see how shittily I live.
“I didn’t ask,” I say, glancing across at the tall rocker on my left. “Do you have a time limit? Do you need to be somewhere later today?”
Toby turns his head, gaze dropping the length of me before he answers. “How long did you expect this to take?”
Honestly? The thought he wouldn’t even bother to show up crossed my mind more than once. “We’ve changed the rules,” I say. “So, maybe an hour, maybe three. All depends on how much you have to say.”
“Huh.” He utters the sound in the back of his throat. “Guess that all depends on if you want to give me the explanation I asked for.”
My hand tightens around the strap of my tote. “Why it means so much to write a piece on you?”
He nods, watching me keenly in my periphery.
I buy myself some time fluffing around with the final crossing before my block. He stays quiet while I check the street, his attention squarely on me and not the line of cars as it should be. It’s when he steps out to cross with me, without turning his head once, that it strikes me how deeply he trusts I have his best interests at heart. I could have led him out to be hit by a car, just now. I’ve heard of desperate journalists doing worse for a story. Hell—look at what happened to Princess Diana. But he put his wellbeing in my hands and kept those incredibly unnerving eyes trained on me the entire way across.
“I remember when I was little, the frustration I had when I couldn’t learn more about my favorite singer,” I begin. He stuffs both hands in his pockets and walks in silence. “It was when the internet was new and slow, and smartphones weren’t a thing yet. Nothing compared to the struggle our parents faced, right?” I laugh. “But it was hard all the same to dig up facts about her. I wanted to know what she did when she wasn’t on stage. What her habits and hobbies were.”
“Why?” He utters a single word, and yet it shakes me to my core.
Why? Why do I feel entitled to the private details of somebody’s life? I know the answer, but I’ve never voiced it to a person who’s subjected to that scrutiny. “When you dig deeper and learn the background of somebody you hold in such high esteem, it’s a sense of unity when you discover you share commonalities with them.” I chance a look at Toby, finding his brow slightly dipped, his concentration undeniable. “Maybe they were picked on in school like you, or perhaps their parents are divorced as well.”
“Are yours?”
I hesitate, a little thrown by his sudden interest in my life. “No. But I had friends who found comfort in knowing people they idolized shared the same experience.” We approach my building, yards from the balance being swayed massively in his favor. By showing Toby my inner sanctum, he keeps the upper hand. I put myself out there as vulnerable while he can still choose how much of himself, he wants to share. “When we view celebrities like you as invincible, it’s a dangerous thing.” I stop walking and turn to face him as he does the same. “As much as we know we shouldn’t, we compare ourselves to your insane talent, to your success, and your luck—for lack of a better word—and when our dreams don’t match up, we deduce that you were gifted this life. That we have no chance at bettering our situation or changing our purpose.” I grip the strap of my bag with both hands. “By sharing your flaws, your vulnerabilities, and your shame, I make the famous feasible. I make people like you relatable, and I give others hope that despite their failings, they too can do the seemingly impossible.”
He stares at me, lips slightly parted in the center. Breaths deep and even, his shoulders slowly rise and fall, yet he doesn’t utter a single word.
“Is that enough for you?” I lift an eyebrow. “Is there a point to me allowing you into my home?”
He appears to snap from his stupor, twisting at the waist to look up at my building while his hands pull free of the coat. “This is where you live?” Toby tosses a thumb toward the mildew-darkened block façade.
“It is.” I heave a sigh. “I wanted to be comfortable as well as out of earshot, and I don’t really have many places to do that.”
His plump lips roll together defining the sharp line of his jaw more, if that were even possible. “I said I wanted to believe you, and after that speech I do.” He huffs, brow jumping as though surprised. “But I also told you to convince me.”
“Have I not?”
He swallows. “Why would telling my background bullshit help anyone?” His insecurity shines through in the cadence of his words. “What do I have to give?”
I ache to reach out and comfort him, to reassure him he has value. But instead, I knock my shoe against his boot. “I won’t know until you share your truth with me.”
“And if everything I have to say is pointless?” He glances down at our feet.
“I’m certain it won’t be.”
He’s not convinced. That iron shutter drops once more, Toby’s features hardening as he stands a little straighter. “You going to ask me up then, or what?”
“Fuck me.” I mutter the words to the pavement. “What the hell am I doing here?”
His chuckle follows me when I head for the building, punching my access code into the shielded panel before he can get a glimpse. Not that I expect a guy with the world at his feet to have any reason to sneak into my place, but if this turns sour, you never know how low his revenge tactics could go. What should concern me more is that I think that way because it’s something I would do. Maybe I am one of those desperate journalists?
“You know, this is how Rey and his girl, Tabby, first hooked up.” His words echo in the bare entrance hall. “He gave her a ride back to her place so she could collect her violin. Followed her up to her apartment and the rest is history.”
“Is that so?” I glance behind me, flattening my lips. Don’t read into what he says, Jeanie. Don’t do it. “Is that what you think I’m doing here?” Idiot.
He studies me a beat before dropping a stunted laugh. “No. Just pointing out the similarities.”
Goddamn. If I could snap my stupid fingers and whisk myself away behind the safety of my locked door, I would. Being in this guy’s presence makes me say the dumbest shit. “I’m this one.” Like stating the fucking obvious when I stop outside my door.
“Ground level. Nice.”
“You don’t like heights?” I chance a look at him while I unlock.
He shakes his head, gaze drifting across the detailed cornices and over the ornate archways. “Nope. Not that.” He nods toward the shared courtyard visible through the iron security screen. “Ground level means you can have a garden.”
A green thumb. I never would have picked that abou
t him.
“Well.” I shunt my door wide. “Hate to disappoint you, but none of these places have outdoor access.” Something I’ve added to my wish-list for my next apartment. “Not that it matters.” I ditch my tote against the wall, aware he follows me inside. “I can’t keep anything alive to save myself.”
Toby makes a tsking sound while he shuts my door. “All it takes is a bit of care, Jeanie.”
God, I love it when he says my name; propels this into an insanely more intimate meeting than what it is. “Something you’re good at, right?”
“I’ve been told as much amongst other things.” He has no qualms about inspecting my space, inviting himself down the short hall to poke his head in the bathroom door, and my bedroom. “Lots of character.” I roll my eyes at his self-observation before he clarifies, “This building must be at least a hundred years old.”
“Nineteen-twenty,” I answer, adding a love of architecture to his list of curiosities. “The date is stamped in the brick over the entrance.”
He re-enters the living area and stands with both hands in pockets. “I was distracted by something else.” The guy never looks away.
I swear to God, I incinerate and rise again in that moment. Only, unlike a phoenix, I don’t ascend into something majestic and powerful—I feel reborn as a giddy teenage girl asking her crush to pass the sauce. Monumentally bad idea, coming here.
“Where would you like to start?” I ask, cutting a path across to my tote so I can retrieve the notebook. “We can’t talk about Rey, or your family, not to mention the entire band. Can we talk about you growing up if we don’t come close to Rey?” I straighten with pen and paper in hand to find him seated on my small sofa, hands clasped and elbows on knees while he stares out my tall window.
“You live by yourself.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Is it because you’re so interested in everyone else’s lives that you keep your own small?” He turns his head, not making eye contact but making it clear he expects an answer.
“I keep mine small,” I grit as I cross to my armchair, “because that’s how I like it. Simple. Uncluttered.”
“Ready to run.” Although he doesn’t seem to talk about me anymore.
“Is that how you live too?” I edge myself onto the cushion slowly to avoid spooking Toby from this train of thought. Not that it matters.
“What’s your first question?” His critical gaze settles on me.
“I thought we were doing this spontaneously?”
He jerks his chin. “Then why the notebook?”
“How am I supposed to remember it all?” I draw my chin back and frown hard.
He takes a moment to lean back, spreading both arms over the back of the sofa. An arrogant pose if ever I saw one. “Perhaps if you can’t remember some of what I say, it’s not so important after all.” He quirks an eyebrow. “If anything is worthwhile, it’ll stick.” He taps a stiff finger to the side of his head.
I zero in on his colored locks, on the fading hues washing back to platinum blond. The roots are half an inch long, which tell me he hasn’t taken much time out for himself lately. I cement that fact to memory and set the notebook aside. “Fine. No notes.” Both palms raised before me, I scoot back on the cushion. “It just means you’ll need to take the lead.”
“No problem.” I get the impression he’s used to that. All public knowledge about the band point to him being in charge. “I dropped my brother at rehab the other week.”
“I thought you said no talk about Rey?” I fold my arms across my chest.
He gives me a flat glare that warns me to shut the hell up—so I do.
“As I was saying, I dropped him at rehab the other week and the first thing everyone worried about was whether we’ll make our next studio deadline.”
My heart skips a beat; he’s straight into the meat and bones of it all. I totally did not expect this.
“But they all asked me about the others,” he continues, staring out my window once more. “And not one person asked if I’d be ready for the deadline. Not a single person wanted to know about me,” he presses, “until you.”
He wants to be heard. My heart aches for this man, so lonely amongst an endless tide of attention.
“I got the impression that isn’t a question you appreciate being asked, though.” Why would he complain that nobody paid attention to him if he fights back against the intrusion so vehemently?
“Not from the media.” He rises and shakes his jacket off, laying it over the far end of the sofa. “That’s what puts me in a rather impossible situation.”
I eye the wide cut of his shoulders beneath a simple short-sleeve shirt. Charcoal, which I find to be intriguing. It’s not the A-typical black wardrobe of a rocker, but it cuts a contrast with his fair complexion and light hair that oddly insinuates menace all the same. “If you don’t want to talk to me, then why are you here?”
Toby resumes his position, only this time he’s fully at my end of the two-seater. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, Jeanie.” My goddamn name again. “It’s that I don’t want to talk to media.” He smirks, a gentle curl of his lips while he snorts a bitter huff. “But either way, why would I have a heart-to-heart with some fucking stranger?”
The label cuts me deeper than I think even he intended. “Well then, let’s not be strangers.” I tuck my legs up, folding them beneath me. “Make this an introduction.”
“That assumes we’d meet up more than this once,” he challenges with a wry smile.
“Would that be so bad?” I tilt my head.
He takes a long moment to drink me in, those penetrating eyes roving the length of me, twice over my face before he turns his head away and slumps back with a heavy sigh. “Tell me about you first.”
“Why?” I drop my legs down and straighten. “So, you can decide if you like me?”
“Would that be so bad?” He drags his gaze back to me, using my words like a weapon.
“You’re in my home.” And he treats me like a hostile intruder.
“My request would be the same no matter where we are.” The fucker drops his head back and closes his eyes as though I bore him.
I shoot out of my seat and pace across to the kitchen, stalling halfway when I remember I drank the last of my liquor over the weekend. Fuck. “Are you always this arrogant?” I figure caffeine is better than nothing and prepare the kettle instead.
“How is it arrogant to want to trust someone before you divulge everything to them?”
“Okay, first,” I snap, waggling the teaspoon his way. “I didn’t ask for everything. And second, who says I trust you? You want me to divulge it all, but you don’t give me any assurances either.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“That doesn’t constitute trust.”
“Often have people in your home when you don’t have faith in their goodwill?”
The jackass who stole my signed Foo Fighters guitar after three shitty dates springs to mind. “Again, faith in a person’s goodwill doesn’t equal trust.” I dump the coffee grounds in the mug. “You can have faith a person will treat you with the same respect as you do them, but still be betrayed.” He stays quiet while I finish off my mug and then realize how fucking rude it will be to return without one for him. Oh well. “One for one.”
“No.” He straightens in his seat, watching me as I settle in with a fresh brew. “That tit-for-tat stuff is for kids. Where’s mine?” He jerks his chin toward my coffee.
“You seem pretty comfortable here,” I sass, alluding to his previous position. “The kitchen is over there if you want to make one.” The asshole calls my bluff and rises to his feet. Will he ever stop ripping the power back in his favor? “Are you always this direct?”
“Yep.” He tries cupboards until he finds the mugs. “Saves a lot of wasted time.”
I study Toby while he makes himself a coffee, oddly alarmed by how well he fits in to my apartment. The man looks as
though he belongs in the space, as though he’s done this plenty before. I shake the daydream free and shift my focus out the window to the darkening sky. “Could rain soon.”
“Hope so.”
“You like the rain?” I look back his way and find him topping up the mug with cold water. Must prefer it black, then.
“I like storms. Although it hardly does that much around here on the flat.” He lifts the mug and takes a tester sip. “Fuck, that’s better.” Something shifts in him the moment he has coffee in hand. It’s as though he subconsciously switches gears to how he is at home, relaxed and at ease while he enjoys the bitter taste across his tongue. He makes his way back to the sofa slower, a lazy smile on his lips. “We toured in Finland last year.”
“I remember.”
“Third day there, the weather packed it in. We had to delay the second show because the grounds turned to a goddamn bog, the mud was that thick. Everyone else went back to the hotel once the postponement was announced; we’d been on site for scheduled media,” he shares, settling into his seat and taking another sip. “Everyone but me.” His gaze softens, thoughts far away while he stares ahead out the window at the gray sky. “I sat my ass in the center of the stage and watched the storm roll in. The clouds were amazing,” he says with clear awe. “The gradients against the sky, the highlights where the sun behind fought to break through. It went black within minutes and then hell on earth began.” He chuckles. “One of the light towers got struck by lightning. I held my breath, then. Just fucking amazed at the power of it all.”
“Was anything damaged?”
He frowns, seeming to snap free of the memory. “No. It was all fine.” The hardness remains. Makes me think he regretted that slip of concentration.
“We had storms every spring and summer where I grew up.” Toby’s interest piques at my words. “Big thunderous performances that would shake the house with each boom. Our cat was terrified of the damn things, which seems so strange for an animal born in the area.”
He huffs a simple laugh, but it’s everything. With one common weather event, I’ve cracked the hardened exterior. There may be a way to go, but perhaps, just perhaps, this wasn’t such an enormous waste of time and money after all.
