Fuck you, celibacy.
2
Kat
I may have studied to be on the wrong side of the camera, because I am the Meryl Streep of acting like I don’t want to lock myself in a closet with Nico Todd and lick him all over.
I can feel his beautiful brown eyes on me as I walk away, but I’m not going to look back at him. If I look back at him, he’ll think I’m flirting. And I’m not flirting. I’m just a really awesome waitress who obsesses about the well-being and voice and eyelashes and butt and hands and full lips of all my customers. I check in with my other table to see if these non-Nico people want anything else, and quickly glance over my shoulder at him.
He’s scribbling in his notebook. Not looking at me. Good. Why should he?
But praise the Disney gods, he grew up good. I wasn’t a huge fan of that wizard show—always more of a movie nerd—but I watched the first season if I was at home when it was on. I was thirteen and my friends had pictures of Shane Miller and Nico Todd up in their lockers. I may have had Annie Leibovitz portraits and stills from Ken Burns documentaries taped to mine, but I had eyes and hormones. Still do!
I didn’t recognize him immediately the first time I saw him walk into the coffee shop, but my stomach flipped in a way that it hadn’t in years. We get all kinds of celebrities in here pretty much every night, because Beachwood is that kind of neighborhood. It’s a casual hipster restaurant, so most people roll in here wearing T-shirts and jeans, unless they’re talent agency doucheholes. But some people look better in T-shirts and jeans than others. Some people have that glow about them, even in a dimly lit retro coffee shop. And all the other waitresses who were on that shift were talking about Nico in the back of the house. It seemed like every one of them knew someone or had heard about someone who’d been out with him—once or twice. I’ve been somewhat out of the loop for about six years, so that was the first I’d heard of him becoming a musician, and that was when I knew for certain that he’d be off-limits for me.
But I mean, it’s my job to take good care of him while he’s here. And to occasionally wonder what the fuck he’s up to when he isn’t here. And to think about him every time I take a shower.
Because once I had listened to him on Spotify, I became a fan.
I fell in love with the songs and tried to stay detached from the singer.
Which is impossible, because he’s so good. His voice is sexy, sure, but he has this way of singing with his whole heart and soul even though he isn’t usually belting things out. And he’s got magic fingers because the way he plays guitar—I swear it feels like he’s strumming my clitoris. His songs are cool but warm at the same time, like an ice cream sundae. They’re all about women, of course, and it’s so easy to close your eyes and picture him singing to you. Even the songs that are about things not working out with a girl are somehow poignant and swoony.
But by the tenth time I’d listened to every song on all of his albums, I realized something: even though he writes and sings love songs—he never once says the words “I love you.”
Which is why he’d be nothing but trouble.
But I can still appreciate his talent when I’m alone, in the privacy of my bedroom.
I can still have a crush on him.
Everyone needs a little crush to get through the day.
I have no idea what a guy like him is doing coming in here by himself all the time. I love that he comes here to write. I guess some people like to have background noise when they’re being creative. I guess he’s more creative after ten pm. He always sits in the same section—mine—never at the counter. If he sat at the counter, he’d be on display. He’s off to the side, near the back. Not the “celebrity corner,” but not out in the open. He can see me if I’m behind the counter and I can see him. Oh boy, can I see him.
I can see those two girls who are approaching him with napkins and pens. He politely nods and smiles, shakes their hands, signs the napkins while chatting. And he keeps glancing over at me. He’s not making sure I can see that they’re asking for his autograph, he’s making sure I know that he hasn’t forgotten about me. I don’t know how I know this. I just do. I don’t know how I’ve been able to resist him. I just have to.
I realize how loudly I’m sighing when I finally turn to the computer. I also realize that Ivy is shaking her head at me. I try to ignore her, but it’s nearly as impossible to ignore my pink-haired friend as it is to ignore Nico Todd.
“Yes, he’s very pretty. He’s so pretty I want to stab my eyeballs with a fork, so I don’t have to look at him. Which is why I don’t like pretty boys. Give me a handful of back hair and a nice pair of man boobs to hang on to and I’m a happy girl.”
“You’re really living in the wrong town for that.”
“That’s why I’m hardly ever happy,” she shrugs.
“He’s not a pretty boy. Is he?” Nico’s about thirty feet away, and for once I’m grateful that the jukebox music from the house speakers is just a little too loud. But I lower my voice anyway. “I mean, he’s pretty and he’s a boy, but he’s not a pretty boy.”
“Please. I bet his semen is sparkly and it sings Beatles love songs while shooting out of his perfect penis.”
I can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Shhhh! I mean, it has been a while since I’ve been exposed to semen, so I’m no expert, but I bet his sperm sings Marvin Gaye songs.”
“Oh my God. You just admitted to having thoughts about his semen. Just go out with him already.”
“Excuse me—you also just admitted to having thoughts about his semen and yet you claim to not be into him.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s lying about it.”
“Just because I want to bite him that doesn’t mean I should date him. It probably means I have a vitamin deficiency or something.” As soon as I say the words ‘vitamin deficiency” I regret it, because I know exactly what she’s going to say. “Don’t say it.”
Ivy lowers her already husky voice and says, “You need a mega dose of vitamin D and you know it.”
“I can’t date a musician.”
“Oh puh-lease. It’s not like he’s a drummer. Or a rapper. Or a Jonas brother. He’s a singer-songwriter. Okay, so John Mayer is technically also a singer-songwriter. But he’s not John Mayer. He carries around a notebook, for Christ’s sake.”
I love that Nico carries around a Moleskine notebook. I carry around a Moleskine. We’re journal twins.
But I don’t have time for him. This is supposed to be the year that I get my career back on track. It’s not the year Kat gets her groove back. As much as I’d love to have it all, when I look at my Google calendar, I just don’t see how it would work.
“I need to get home.”
“So—what? Are you going to go out to lunch with that boring accountant again?
“That was months ago.”
“No kidding. Or the boring anthropology professor? Will that make Tate happy?”
Tate.
“I have to get going.” I print out the check.
“Girl. If you really think this guy is going to bolt when he finds out about Tate and you really don’t want to date him, then why don’t you just tell him about Tate and be done with it?”
Because I don’t want him to bolt.
“I don’t have time to deal with this now.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I turn to take the check over to Nico’s table, but he’s standing at the cash register at the other end of the counter, wearing his leather jacket and looking so much yummier than anything we serve here.
“Hey,” he says, as I hand him the slip of paper. “I’m heading out now too.” He barely looks at the bill as he places it and twenty dollars back into my hand. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m in the parking lot.”
“Good. So am I,” he grins.
Well, I�
��m not going to argue with a customer.
I finish up at the register, keeping my hands busy, as I always do around him, so he doesn’t notice that they’re trembling. “I have to get my stuff from the back room.”
“I’ll wait.” He looks down at his phone and taps out a text. No big deal. Just a super-hot guy being a gentleman.
But this is a first. He’s never walked me to my car before. He doesn’t usually stay until closing time, and I don’t usually leave this early.
When I return from the back room, with my jacket and shoulder bag, he slides his phone into the back pocket of his jeans. His gaze dips to give me a quick once-over, ever so quickly, and then he’s smiling innocuously as he picks his notebook up from the counter and wordlessly walks alongside me toward the exit. I don’t think I’ve ever stood next to him before. I’m five-seven, and in my two-inch heels, he has six or more inches on me…
And now all I can think about is having Nico Todd’s six or more inches on me.
Or in me.
It does not help that a Marvin Gaye song just happens to start playing as he holds the door open for me. I look back at Ivy, whose eyes and lips form big round O’s as she jumps up and down. “Let’s get it on!” she mouths to me. I shake my head and look away as soon as she starts miming sparkly semen shooting out of a penis. I need to start talking so he keeps his focus on me.
“Are you, umm…you going home?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a breakfast meeting with my manager in the morning. To go over all the shit that’s coming up. I have a single and an album releasing pretty soon, so there’s a tour and all the other stuff I’ve gotta do to support it.”
We walk through the small foyer between the coffee shop and the door to the parking lot.
“Sounds like you’ll be pretty busy.”
“Eventually.”
“Have you been on tour before?”
“Big ones with other acts. And on my own, yeah, but this will be my most extensive solo tour.”
He holds open another door for me, and I’m so aware that I’m alone with him for once. He pays attention to me in a way that makes me feel fully appreciated, even though we’re just chatting. It’s unnerving.
Let the flustered babbling begin.
“What’s that line from that one song? ‘The road is long but not as long as that call that set me straight, when what felt like love quickly turned to hate. They both began with you at the end of the line but now I know I was out of my mind’…Did you write that one while you were on tour?”
I finally realize that he’s still standing at the door even though I’ve continued walking a little further. When I look back, he’s watching me, grinning. Because oh shit now he knows that I know every word to every one of his songs.
Busted.
He lets the door shut and slowly saunters over to me.
Now that he knows how uncool I am, it can’t hurt to just run to my car and drive off without making eye contact.
Or, I can own it and let him have this tiny victory, because well, he’s really talented and he deserves to hear it from me just once.
“You’ve listened to my songs?”
“Yes, Nico Todd,” I say with a sigh, facing him. “I checked you out on Spotify. I love your music. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“You’re welcome.” I kind of want to get the hell away from this guy but I also sort of wish I’d parked half a mile down Franklin so we could keep talking.
God, the way he’s looking at me. Most guys would get pretty cocky right now, but his smile is a promise that he’ll treasure this little truth nugget without making me feel like an idiot for handing it over to him. It feels like he can see through to my soul and that he knows my soul is damp and engorged and would detonate as soon as he touched it.
“Which car is yours?”
I point to my super sexy Honda, near the far edge of the small parking lot.
“Tell you what,” he says. “You’re about to go on a date with a customer. A walking date. For the time it takes to get from here to your car. Are you ready for the thirty second version of a date with Nico Todd?”
Hell yes.
No.
Maybe?
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“To be clear,” he continues, touching my arm to indicate that I’m not to start walking yet. “I’m aware that it won’t be ending the way the usual date with Nico Todd ends.”
I laugh. “With a woman running for the hills, you mean?”
“With a woman who’s passed out from orgasmic bliss,” he counters.
“How do you know they aren’t playing dead like a possum, so you’ll leave them alone?”
“I dunno—are possums flushed and breathing heavily while whispering Nico Nico Nico when they play dead?”
I shake my head, but it’s because I can no longer keep up this ruse of believing that any woman would try to get away from him at the end of a date. I actually believe there are possums and raccoons and squirrels in Los Angeles who have a crush on Nico Todd. Meanwhile, I’m emotionally preparing myself for a thirty second date with him.
“Okay, here we go.” He takes a step and I walk, slowly, alongside him. “You look stunning tonight.” He looks me up and down again, this time from a foot away, and it’s core-shaking.
“Thank you.”
“How was your day?”
“The usual. Except for this weird guy who came into the coffee shop. How was yours?”
“Spent most of it looking forward to seeing you tonight. The usual.”
I roll my eyes, though I’m unable to stop smiling.
He points to the sky. “I love this song. You like Marvin Gaye?” We can’t actually hear the song out here, but he starts swaying his head a little bit, eyes closed.
“I do, actually.”
“Wanna dance?” He starts singing, God help me, about how he’s been really trying to hold back these feelings for so long, and if I feel the way he feels, baby, then... His shoulders and hips are swaying, and he suddenly places his free hand around my waist.
My hips sway too, because yes, I have also been holding back these feelings for so long.
I close my eyes, and I don’t know if my feet are still touching the ground anymore, but I trust that he won’t let me fall. Or maybe for the moment I no longer care if I fall, because his hand is warm and now it’s on my hip, and giving myself to him can’t possibly be wrong—can it?
“We’re here,” he says, whispering into my ear.
“Where?” I mumble, eyes still closed, because I have no idea where I am anymore.
“Your car.” He removes his warm hand from around my waist.
It takes me a moment to return to the parking lot and remember who I am and where I need to be.
I lean against the trunk and stare down at my feet, clinging to my shoulder bag with both hands. I don’t trust that my knees will hold me up yet. His feet are now an inch away from mine, toe to toe. He is completely in my space, and the air feels different. I don’t know how I have the strength to look up at him, but the eyes want what they want.
He holds his notebook in front of himself with both hands and stares at my mouth as he says, “I did write that song on tour, by the way. I never sing it on stage, but I had to include it on the album.”
“It has a different vibe than most of your other songs,” I manage to squeak out.
“Yes. It does.”
I am dying to ask him who it’s about. How long did he date her for? Did he really think that he loved her and want to get back home to her when he was on the road? What did she say to piss him off? Did he consider her his girlfriend? What was his longest relationship? Exactly how many women has he slept with?
This is coming from the documentary filmmaker part of my brain, of course.
“It’s catchy, though. A lot of your songs are… It’s hard to get them out of my head.”
Wait. Is it my imagination,
or is he leaning in closer?
“Yeah,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Let me take you out on a longer date. Tomorrow.”
We’re so close to the freeway but all I can hear is my heart thumping and my breath catching and all I see is his beautiful mouth, inches from mine.
“I can’t. Thank you for asking, but…” I release a long-held sigh. “There must be so many women who are dying to go out with you.”
“Yes,” he confirms.
“Why are you wasting your time with me?”
“I can’t seem to find anyone I’d rather waste it on since I met you.”
I scoff at that. “What is that—a future lyric?”
“Just the truth. It’s hard to get you out of my head.”
This doesn’t feel real. His fingers are brushing a strand of hair out of my face and he is going to kiss me right here in the parking lot and I want him to. I want it so much and I can’t do this, so I do something else. I wrap my arms around him, clutching him to me and resting my cheek on his shoulder.
Oh God I’m hugging him.
This is not hot.
I can hear the air blow out of his nostrils.
He’s laughing at me.
And his leather jacket smells so fucking good.
Shit, I’m still hugging him.
Fuck, I need to let go of him.
But he smells so good and it feels so good to have his arms around me.
But Tate.
I jerk back, startling him. The side of my head collides with his chin and my elbow bangs against the trunk of my car. “Shit!”
“Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Yes. Are you okay?”
He rubs his chin. “Yeah.”
“Sorry. I really have to go. Thanks for the—I had a great time.”
“Yes. Me too. Good night. Drive safe.” He steps aside, probably knowing full well that it’s not out of the realm of possibility that I could run him over while backing out.
“You too.”
He stands a few feet away while waiting for me to back out, rubbing his stubbly chin. I’m pleased to report that I do not run him over, nor do my tires screech while I book it out of the parking lot. But I do check my rearview mirror while slowing down to turn onto the side street, because part of me is afraid that I’ll never see him again.
Charmer Page 2
