Okay, so maybe my decorating instincts aren’t as terrible as I thought they were. “Thanks. I’ve always liked that shade of blue-green. Darker than a Tiffany box, but not too dark.”
“Exactly. It’s really striking. Bold.” He turns to me with a smile and accepts the wine key I hand him.
“Considering that this is the place I spend most of my time, I figured I might as well surround myself with things I like.” I watch as he wanders over toward the many, many books lined up along the walls. They’re arranged by color now, though I might change that up soon. Probably the next time I get stuck on a scene and look for a way to distract myself from the work I should be doing.
“Well-read too. I guess that goes with the territory.” He glances over his shoulder with a grin.
“I bet, in your apartment or your house, there’s all kinds of music.”
He pours wine into the two glasses I brought out from the kitchen. “I have a music room at my house, out in LA. I miss it right now—which is funny, when you think about it. I can listen to any music imaginable, thanks to the magic device in my pocket.”
“But it’s not the same as being home with your own collection.”
“Not even close.” He sits down next to me and touches his glass to mine. “And there is such a huge difference between the vinyl and the digitally remastered versions of so many really great albums. It’s like they suck all the soul out of the recording when they mess with it like that.”
“I’ve heard that argument before, but I’ve never owned a record player or any vinyl albums, so I can’t really offer my opinion.”
“You don’t own a turntable?” He looks downright stunned.
“No. I don’t own a girdle either.” When he sputters a little, I explain, “It’s just that, for most of my life, vinyl records were so old-fashioned. Now, like you said, everything is digital. I can listen to just about anything on my laptop. And I know that’s not the same.”
“We need to get you a turntable.”
“Do we really though?” I ask. All I want to do is spend time with this man, and it seems like he is always coming up with ways to change the subject. “I kind of thought we would spend tonight together …”
“I don’t mean right this very minute.” His gaze softens along with his voice, which drops into something barely louder than a whisper. “Trust me, I want to spend tonight with you too.”
“Good.”
This is happening. This is really happening.
I’m not going to play the good girl tonight. No way. Tonight is a night to be bad in the best way possible.
“What did you have in mind?” He settles in, draping an arm over my shoulders and pulling me in until my head is resting against him.
Honestly, this is enough for now. Sitting here, being together, relaxing. I could almost fool myself into imagining that this is our life, the two of us. Enjoying these brief moments together, focusing on each other when we have the chance to. It’s all too easy, falling into reverie, a fantasy that will probably never come true.
“I thought maybe we would order something to eat, for starters? If you’re hungry, that is. We could watch a movie on my laptop.”
“You don’t have a TV?” He sounds surprised as he looks around. “I didn’t notice that at first.”
“I never got around to buying one.” I shrug. “Anything I want to watch, I can find online or stream it or whatever. If I had a TV around, I would leave it on all the time and get distracted. I know myself well enough.”
“I hate silence.” He laughs at himself a little, shrugging. “Little-known fact about me. A silent house or apartment freaks me out.”
“We can turn some music on if you want—even though it’ll only come from my laptop, and I know that’s not nearly good enough.” I finish with a wink, standing up from the couch. “Anything you want to hear?”
“I could go for some jazz,” he offers.
That’s unfortunate since, now, all I can think about is my grandmother’s warnings. Why couldn’t he have picked hip-hop or swing music or religious hymns or anything else, literally anything at all?
“I have to admit, I’m not well-versed in jazz. You might have to tell me a specific artist to look for.”
“It seems like I have a lot to teach you.”
Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking about music anymore?
He comes to me, where I’m standing at my laptop, and takes me by the hips. He presses me against the desk, our bodies flush against each other. “I’d like to start teaching you now,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of my nose, my cheeks, my chin. “I mean, I could go for something to eat, but you’re much tastier than anything I can imagine being delivered.”
What is a girl supposed to say to that besides, “That sounds good to me.”
The next thing I know, his hands are under my butt, and he’s lifting me, carrying me to the couch with my legs locked around his hips. I can’t help giggling as he lowers me, lowering himself at the same time until he’s settled between my thighs.
“Lesson number one,” he growls, planting tiny kisses on my collarbone. “You are wearing way too much clothing right now.”
“We’ll have to do something about that,” I whisper, closing my eyes and succumbing to the bliss rolling through me in waves as he unbuttons my blouse with one hand while his mouth travels lower, lower …
He stops at the sound of scratching at the front door. I open my eyes to find him looking toward the door, confused.
“What’s that?”
Of all times for Phoebe to decide she wants to pay a visit.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry.” I manage to slide out from under him, buttoning my shirt and smoothing my hair into place as I go to the door. “She might’ve gotten out from the apartment across the hall.”
He mutters something I don’t quite understand, and I don’t need to know exactly what he’s saying to catch the general idea. Considering I’m throbbing like crazy between my legs, I understand the sentiment.
Sure enough, there’s a certain golden retriever sitting at the door.
“Hi, pretty girl.” I crouch in front of her, and laugh as she kisses my chin. She probably smells Dustin on me. “Where’s your daddy?”
Matt’s door is partly open, which is unlike him.
To my surprise, Phoebe starts to growl. I glance over my shoulder to find Dustin walking toward us.
“Don’t be rude,” I whisper, trying to chide her. “Be a nice girl.”
“Phoebe!” Matt throws his door open wide, looking disheveled, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He groans when he sees her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Did you leave the door open?” I sigh, shaking my head. “And you’re the one who gets on my case for doing things like that.”
Rather than argue with me, which is normally the way this would go, Matt looks into my apartment and finds Dustin standing behind me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, I guess I didn’t close the door all the way. I was about to get in the shower, and I knew something was up when she didn’t follow me into the bathroom. I don’t think I’ve taken a shower alone since I adopted her.”
He then extends a hand toward Dustin, reaching over my shoulder. “Matt Ryder.”
“Dustin Grant.” He doesn’t sound thrilled, not even a little.
Even when he was in a bad mood and he met Hayley, he managed to sound upbeat and friendly. He knew he was talking to a fan and didn’t want to disappoint her.
After sizing Matt up, he’s probably decided it’s not worth it.
“Oh, right! You’re the musician! Kitty told me about you.”
The two of them hold each other’s gaze, and I might as well not even be present. Frankly, I sort of wish I weren’t because I’m getting the feeling they’re having a conversation far beyond anything they’ve said out loud.
“All good things, I hope.”
Is there a law that people have to say that? Because I swear, if I had a nic
kel for every time I heard that …
“Actually, she hasn’t had the chance to tell me too much. You two haven’t known each other for very long.”
I’m about to choke on all the testosterone.
“Anyway,” I interject probably a lot louder than I need to, “here’s the dog. Try to make sure your front door’s closed all the way next time, okay? I wouldn’t want to see you lose this sweet girl.” I reach down to pet her head, but she’s too busy growling softly at Dustin.
“Sorry.” Matt shrugs. “She’s not usually like this. She’s generally friendly to everybody.”
Is it my imagination, or did he look at Dustin when he said that?
“She’s just jealous that I’m hanging out with somebody who isn’t her.”
Honestly, if I were wearing a pair of tap shoes, I couldn’t dance any harder than I am right now. I’m trying desperately to keep things light and upbeat and to prevent these two from, I don’t know, pulling out their penises and measuring them. Or whatever men do in situations like this.
“Nice to meet you,” Matt offers through gritted teeth.
Dustin turns away, mumbling, and Matt’s eyes widen when they meet mine.
I don’t trust him, he mouths.
I didn’t ask you, I mouth back, and then I stick my tongue out at him because I am very mature. He’s used to that by now anyway.
When it’s all over and I close the door, all I can do is put a hand on my forehead. “I’m so sorry about that.” I laugh. Yes, it was just a silly detour. Nothing more serious than that.
Dustin doesn’t appear to share my opinion. “Who is that guy?” He jerks his chin toward the door.
“Just my neighbor. It’s not a big deal. I’m sorry if he came off a little too …”
“Macho? Like a complete jerk-off?”
I know I shouldn’t come to Matt’s defense, but I can’t help it. “He’s not that bad. He’s like a brother. He drives me nuts, but I guess he feels like it’s his job to protect me.”
He snorts, picking up his wineglass and draining it before pouring more. “Yeah, like a brother. I’m sure that’s how he sees you.”
I feel like I’m joining a conversation already in progress, and I have no idea what I missed. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, get real. I know you’re a nice person and you have a great heart and you’re sweet, but let’s not kid ourselves. He’s obviously after you.”
“After me?” I can’t help it. I have to laugh. “Hardly. Please, let’s not even think about him. He’s just my neighbor.”
“Does your neighbor come to your door, wearing nothing but a towel all the time?”
“No. Only when he was in the middle of getting into the shower and his dog got out.”
Now is definitely not the time to describe our first real meeting—when I took off all my clothes and threw up on Matt’s carpet before passing out in his bed. There are certain things Dustin doesn’t need to know about, especially when he’s looking and sounding as angry as he does right now.
“It just seems a little too convenient to me.”
“Considering that you don’t know the first thing about my life or the way I live it, Dustin, I don’t think you have enough information to decide whether something is convenient or not. And, if this is the way you’re going to act, I think tonight was a mistake. I’m sorry things turned out this way, but life happens. Either you can deal with that or you can’t.”
He picks up the bottle, still half-full, and shrugs. “Whatever. If that’s the way you feel about it, I’ll be going.”
“I guess that’s for the best.”
I pull the door open for him, and he saunters out into the hallway, throwing a dirty look at Matt’s closed door before turning and walking toward the stairs.
Now, how did everything go from wonderful to terrible in no time flat? I mean, this has to be a record, even for me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’m a little apprehensive, waiting in line to get into Dustin’s latest show. There are only four more gigs in the city before he moves on to Boston.
Honestly, I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the many bouquets of flowers he sent since our last disastrous almost-date two nights ago. My apartment would make a great venue for a wedding ceremony right now. Roses as far as the eye can see.
What is it with rich guys and roses?
And it isn’t just the flowers either. He must’ve sent at least twenty or thirty texts later that night, apologizing for coming off like such a jerk. We talked things out, and he admitted that he felt jealous and threatened by Matt’s presence across the hall.
Needless to say, it took all of my self-control not to respond with two simple words: No duh. It had been pretty obvious to me at the time that he was freaking out because he was jealous and unsure of Matt’s place in my life. I might not have a ton of experience with men, but I know what a jealous man looks and sounds like—and I knew at the time there wouldn’t be any convincing him otherwise, which was why it was just as well that he left.
But that is in the past. This is now, and I’m waiting in front of the club for the doors to open.
It’s so funny. I was just as excited as these women when I first saw Dustin perform. Wondering what he would be like, what he would sound like, even what he would look like now. Remembering all the music from my youth, all the days and nights I’d spent pining for him, listening to his songs and wishing he were singing to me.
And now, here I am. Smiling benevolently at them since I happen to know what it’s like to kiss him. To be touched by him, to have him want me. All these poor little peasants can live in their dream worlds. I know what it’s really like to spend time alone with him.
I have to admit, I’d like to know a lot more about spending time with him. It seems like something always gets in the way. Either my stupid principles or a certain golden retriever who lives across the hall.
I’m starting to wonder if we’re ever going to get the chance to take this to the next level before he’s out of town. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. Maybe I was only ever meant to be a quick hook-up while he’s in town.
And I need to be okay with that.
Am I okay with that?
Before I know it, we’re moving into the room where he’ll be performing. This is much nicer than where I’ve seen him perform before. He told me that since things are going so well and he’s been getting great feedback and reviews, his agent was able to talk some of these club owners into giving him bigger rooms and more tickets. It’s still a far cry from where he used to be, but I can already see how his situation is improving.
It won’t be long before he’s right back up on top. I’m sure of it. And I can’t help but glow with pride as I take my seat at the front of the room—at a table reserved for me.
“Why does she get to sit up front? There aren’t supposed to be reserved tables here,” one of the women at a nearby table asks this question to no one in particular, raising her voice loud enough for me to hear it. “We waited outside for two hours to get in first, and we’re not allowed to have the best seats?”
“Maybe she’s his girlfriend,” somebody else suggests.
I try to pretend I can’t hear the way they snicker and whisper. Let them whisper. Wouldn’t they feel stupid if they knew the truth? That I’m not just obsessing over the past. That the man’s tongue has been in my mouth, for God’s sake.
I have to admit to myself, if to no one else, that dating him full-time would be a full-time job, point-blank. I don’t know if my self-esteem could handle it, any more than I could handle the idea of thousands or even millions of women lusting after my man. If I’ve learned nothing else from this experience, I’ve learned that much.
I doubt Maggie would care about the personal lessons I’m learning, however. She wants a book out of this, a book which I’m slowly but surely putting together. Maybe when this is all over and I stop dating for the sake of my writing, I can write a memoir about all t
he different men I dated and how they all taught me a lesson or two.
Depending on how long this experiment of mine lasts, it could be a pretty epic collection of stories. Good thing I’ve been taking notes all along.
When the lights go down, that familiar rush of energy hits me from all sides, and I have to smile. Yes, he can be an insufferable jerk, but I’m proud of him. He’s insecure, just like everybody else in the world. There’s another lesson brought to life: it doesn’t matter how popular a person is or how much success they’ve seen in the past; we are all just trying to get by, and there will always be insecurities we can’t let go of.
Because really, at the end of the day, there’s no comparison between Dustin and Matt. At least, not on paper. Sure, Matt probably makes good money doing what he does, and of course he’s hot. Women must find him sexy because Lord knows he’s successful enough with them.
But Dustin? He’s got that magic, the charisma that oozes from him the second he takes his seat and smiles out at the audience. The man sparkles and smolders at the same time; it’s like he’s not even human.
I wish there were a way I could describe the sound of dozens of pairs of panties melting all at once because I would love to put it in a book.
“Hi, everybody. Thank you so much for being here with me tonight. It’s so good to see you and know I have fans like you out in the world.”
There’s that indescribable sound again. I’m surprised there are any panties left to melt at this point.
“It means the world to me that you care enough to be here. I hope I make it worth your time.”
They’re eating out of the palm of his hand. And he knows it. I have to commend him; he’s getting better at working the small crowds with each show. As good as he was at first a couple of weeks back, it was nothing compared to now.
I’m familiar enough with the music to follow along—at least, until he surprises me at the end of the first set.
“This next song is very new. So new that I just wrote it in the last few days. You’ll be the first people to hear it performed.”
Kitty Valentine Dates a Rock Star Page 12
