by S. E. Hall
That’s her chance to critique in my ear. “I like her a lot. Adorable and subtle, great singer. And I love the look she puts on your face. Wasn’t sure your eyes still knew how to sparkle.”
“That so?”
“Excellent choice, Rhett. She has class.”
“Which means one thing—she’s out of mine.”
Liz leans back and frowns, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I pray you don’t really believe that. You’re as classy and fine a man as ever’s been made, despite your bullshit quest to prove otherwise.”
“Sounds a lot like the last speech I got from Reece.” I laugh.
“See?” She slaps my arm. “I knew I liked her!”
“Come on, love,” Cannon hurries her, desperate to get laid.
“I gotta go.” Liz starts to walk away then pivots and speaks softly in my ear again. “Show her the real Rhett, just once, for me?”
I nod then dodge her eyes, done with the introspection. I catch a glimpse of them walking out, hand in hand, Cannon bent to her ear. They don’t make it look so bad. In fact, Sommerlyn’s the only picture of misery here, trudging along behind them—alone.
JC’s quick to say his good-bye as well, and I have no idea where Jarrett and Landry disappeared to long ago… and that’s all of them.
She’s pretending to be enraptured by the person on stage when I walk back over and sit beside her.
“Just us,” I point out.
She’s obviously well aware, the rapid pulse in her neck her Judas. “Be right back.” She jumps up. “Ladies’ room!”
I hide in the bathroom much longer than necessary, scrubbing my hands twice to the entirety of, ironically enough, “Happy Birthday”—learned that tip on Oprah. Then I touch up my makeup and give myself a quick freshener spritz. It dawns on me that I’ve been in here awhile, working on settling my nerves, and he probably thinks I’m… Oh God! What if he thinks I was pooping? So attractive. Even more humiliating is that according to my current reasoning, he must have thought the same thing the last time I left him waiting outside a restroom!
Men do basic things in the bathroom: pee, the other, and if you’re extremely lucky, a quick swipe of their hands under water, wiping them dry on their pants—done.
That’s all the knowledge he’s equipped with, so he’ll have no choice but to conclude, once it’s clear I didn’t actually “fall in,” that I must’ve been pooping. How do you explain to an insanely gorgeous man that you don’t have nervous bowels, he simply makes you nervous? I scan my options, of which there are none. No back entry to the restroom and absolutely no chance of being able to reach the window, let alone hoist myself through it.
Maybe he got distracted by one of his frequent “fly-bys” and left.
I like that option least of all.
I peek around the door, and of course he’s propped against the wall, arms crossed and staring right at me, a glorious, smug smirk alight his handsome face.
“Come here,” he mouths, coaxing me out of hiding with a sexy crook of his finger and raise of his chin.
Denying that—not an option. I’m blushing feverishly, scorching heat on my neck and cheeks, as I amble toward him, eyes focused on my feet. When I’m near enough to smell him, his own scent that never quite left my nostrils and brain, I stop, still gawking at the floor.
“I wasn’t pooping, I swear.” I cringe at my astounding grace, dying a little inside as the words fall, unapproved, from my mouth.
His laugh is loud, joyful, and sincere, the first time I’ve heard it exactly like that, and I bask in it before realizing he’s laughing at me and shrink further back into my shell.
“I know.” His voice is deep and unarming as he leans in and tips up my chin. “But that was classic, Teaspoon. Been needing a dose of your special brand of humor so bad. Thank you.”
So glad I could be of assistance.
“No, you were adding mascara and lip gloss, neither of which you need. And”—he leans nearer and inhales—“putting on some smelly good. You don’t need that either, especially since you weren’t pooping.” He takes my hands and rubs his thumbs along my knuckles. “Washed these at least twice too. Am I right?”
I nod, diverting my eyes from his all-seeing ones.
“You done stalling? Ready to go have that talk now?”
“Sure.” I gulp, nerves fully reinstated. “Should I tell Landry? Do we know where they went?”
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe my brother escorted her into the men’s bathroom.”
“The bathroom? Why not go to their apartment?”
“Sometimes you just can’t wait.” He grins and shrugs one shoulder.
“Or you can.” I grimace. “I don’t care if you’re Long Dong Silver and repeatedly growl the sexiest words I’ve ever heard—being bent over to stare into a public toilet has got to kill the mood!”
“Oh shit,” Rhett wheezes, laughing so hard it’s soundless, his breath caught in his chest.
“Are you okay?” Should I… pat his back, do the Heimlich, what?
“Fuck.” He comes around, still gasping for deep breaths. “You’re hilarious, Teaspoon. And you can stop worrying. I’m sure he’s got her up against the wall.”
Still not even remotely sexy. Mid-heave, I change the subject. “So how was it, seeing Liz?” I toss the question out there and walk around him, back to the bar, our knees touching when he joins me.
“If we’re starting the twenty-one questions portion of the evening, I have a really important one,” he says.
“Okay.” I fiddle with my hands. “What is it?”
“Could you love me in a Bentley?”
I roll my eyes and laugh, delighted and temporarily relieved. “Only if you could love me in a bus,” I tease him back, glad he’s forgotten about “the talk” for the time being.
“You got it.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a 50 Cent guy. Rubik’s Cube, I swear.”
“Most of that album has killer rhythm. Manufactured and no real instruments harmed in the making of course, but good beats nonetheless. And now that you’re relaxed, tell me what you wanted to talk about. You didn’t think I forgot, did ya?” He leans back, arm stretched across the back of my chair.
“I was sure hoping.” I sigh. This is the perfect time to just say it, but I’m having trouble digging up the courage. Talking to him, his dark blues eyes constantly engaged, a smirk always hinting at the corner of his mouth, an undeniable virility his perpetual cloud… I don’t want to risk him never treating me to all that ever again, even if just on the occasional visit.
I would miss it.
I would miss the thrill of the possibility.
“Reece?” He shatters my disheartening thoughts with his murmur, his forehead now resting against mine. “You came back to me. Tell me why.”
Did I? No, I came back to Las Vegas. To do what’s right.
Who am I trying to kid? You can say you eat Cracker Jacks because they’re fabulous, heaven in your mouth all on their own, all you want. Everyone knows you’re looking for the extra surprise in every box before the first bite.
Much like Ozzie, and obviously Rhett, I can’t fool myself either—I’m here for the extra surprise.
I have him in prime conversation position—no fortified macho bullshit, just straight up discussion, which I think we’ve both been craving—and I’m wordless.
“What’s something you like to do for fun, to escape everything else, your… remedy?” he asks.
“Sing,” my instinct answers.
“And you’re excellent at it.” He chuckles. “But that might not work for what I have in mind. What else?”
“What do you have in mind exactly?” I ask, a bit worried but oh so free, and I realize I’m completely okay with any answer he gives.
“Just name something else, impromptu, that you could do right now.”
How can I refuse that boyish smile, the clever pride dancing in his eyes? “There’s one thing, but… I
don’t know why I’m telling you this.” My eyes roll themselves.
“Spit it out.” He tickles my sides. “You know you wanna tell me, so say it.”
I’m squirming, laughing and forgetting to feel self-conscious. “I people story. Like—”
“Bet I got it. Let’s see if I’m right. Come on.” He rises, pulling me up by the hand and tossing a few bills on the bar. Placing his hand on the dip of my back, slightly brushing my butt as I move, he leads us to the exit.
“Where are you taking me and why?” I ask with an excitement I can’t conceal. I’m already having fun, whatever we’re actually gonna be doing, ‘cause there’s no way he guessed what I meant correctly from the few words he let me get out.
He looks at me over his shoulder but continues walking us forward, outside now. “If you’re conscious of the effort, it’s work. You and I has yet to ever feel like work, and I’ll be damned if we’re ruining that now. Have a seat.” He guides me down on a bench and joins me, sliding his arm around my shoulders. “So you people watch and make up their story, one that’s probably, hopefully, better than their reality. That about right?”
“No.” I peer up at him, sure my blatant wonder’s on full display. “That’s exactly right.”
“Very cool. Show me. Tell me what you have to say but don’t want to say while you show me. Get lost in your thing and just think out loud.”
He makes it sound so easy. Maybe it can be.
“How about him?” He points at a short bald man wearing purple yoga pants.
“Um, no. Her.” I motion to a young girl with blond hair, about twelve years old, obviously with her parents.
“Okay, her.” He takes my hand and rubs his thumb along the inside of my wrist. “I’m ready.”
I inhale, mentally tracking the lungful of bravery’s path through my body, and blow it out slowly. “That little girl wants to be a star when she grows up. Her whole life, she’s been watching her dad make ordinary people into extraordinary people, and she wants to show him that she’s extraordinary too. She’s been begging him, for as long as she can remember, to listen to her sing. Tomorrow, he’s gonna find himself in a jam and finally give her a chance.”
I wait, but he doesn’t say anything, so I steal a sidelong peek at him. No, he’s not asleep, just silently watching me with palpable consideration.
“Go on,” he encourages.
Looking back at the crowd bustling up and down the Vegas sidewalk in both directions, I spot her. “That young lady—blond hair, tan leather jacket? She’s in one of her father’s girl groups, called My Mama Said. Their first single, ‘When He Looks at Me,’ has been very well received, but no one notices there’s anyone in the group besides the lead singer. That girl gets a solo career almost immediately, and all the promo and hype for the group album is quickly forgotten. So is the girl in the jacket. Almost overnight, her father forgets she exists.”
He tucks me deep into his side and rests his chin on my head. “Hey, this was supposed to be fun, make things easier. Not make you cry.”
I sniffle and peer up to offer him a weak smile. “It was a great idea. Please, let me keep going.”
His brow wrinkles, and he hesitates but nods.
I scan the passersby and focus on a woman standing still and looking into a store window. She’s taller than me and I can’t tell her eye color from here, but I can sense her longing for something she wants but can’t quite grasp. “Her, at the window.” I point. “For most of the last decade, she’s been dancer A, B, and C in some videos, a back-up singer in two quickly failing bands, and the invisible keyboardist/songwriter for one very nasty male star.”
“We should go buy her whatever she‘s eyeing in that store.” He laughs shallowly; he’s very much attuned to this particular round of people story.
“No, she doesn’t want you to pity her. Everything gets better. You see, Nicki—oh, that’s short for her middle name, Nicolette, by the way—Nicki has two very big plusses in her favor.”
“And what might those be?” Yup, he’s keen, his tone low with recognition and cynicism.
“Nicki was always her grandpa’s favorite lil’ munchkin, the only star in his eyes, and he made sure what was his would one day be hers. She just had her twenty-first birthday not too long ago, and that means Nicki can now do what she wants, like recording and going back to using her real name, which is—”
“Reece,” he finishes for me.
I bob my head and keep my stare directed on the woman at the window, bracing for what I know will be the loss of his touch. “Since she’s of age, she’s now in control…” I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut. “Of Crescendo Records.”
I wait several excruciating minutes. The only sounds I hear are that of our heavy breaths comingling. I don’t dare look at him to gauge his reaction. I’m afraid of the hurt and disappointment I’ll find on his face. But he hasn’t let go of me, and I’m soaking up all he’ll give me while I can.
“So…” He clears his throat. “Your name’s Reece Nicolette Kelly, I’m guessing from Connecticut originally, still not even close to 5’3”, and you own Crescendo Records, the label I’ve sold three songs to. That about sum it up?”
“Three?” My head flies up and back so I can look in his eyes. “Ozzie checked and said it was only two.”
“I signed the contract on ‘Timeless,’ but haven’t received the payment yet.”
“Nor will you. That contract will be shredded or returned to you, your choice. The payment terms you’ve been being offered are not near what you’re worth, and some contractual points don’t work for me either.”
“Why?” His voice is monotone, no cloaked accusation or anger.
I shift back into the crook of his draped arm, pleasantly surprised that he allows it. “You play this round with me.” I whisper my plea, praying it’s a good idea. “There, that couple sitting on the edge of the fountain. See them?”
“I see them,” he murmurs.
“They randomly met one night, and everything from that point on’s been really confusing. She can’t believe the impact he’s had on her in such a short amount of time and why it’s so important to her that he never think badly of her. She’s scared he thinks that she somehow planted her best friend in his city so she could one night happen to catch him at the door of a club where he doesn’t even work.”
“He doesn’t think that for a second.”
I relax marginally when he plays along, hugging me impossibly closer.
“He knows what Fate looks like.”
“But he told her his name, and she recognized it almost instantly. She wanted to be sure though, before she outed her private affairs, so she did some digging when she got home.”
“Before she left though, he told her about his band, his dreams, even sang her one of his songs. She wouldn’t try to deny being sure then, would she?”
I have to try to answer him twice, the first attempt lost between my rapidly heaving chest and threatening tears. “No, no, she wouldn’t. She should’ve said something before she left. She knows that, and she’s very sorry.”
His lips brush my ear, rubbing back and forth in warm comfort, and a tremor racks through me.
“Is that why she left, she was afraid to tell him? Did she think he’d misplace coincidence as blame on her?” The tip of his tongue traces the shell of my ear. “He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would’ve done that.”
I nod at the couple. “Look, she’s begging him to believe her, forgive her. She omitted, and she knows that’s technically lying, but she’s not a liar; she just needed to get things lined up. And see? Now he’s telling her to stop feeling guilty.” A nervous giggle escapes me. “How could she be sure of his reaction, that he wouldn’t hate her?”
“She couldn’t, until she tried. It’s called faith.” He sighs, his hot breath hitting my skin.
Before I collapse under the weight of his words, I try for levity again. “Let’s not discount his crazy mood swings tho
ugh. Which included leaving her alone to pursue relations with a hussy after sexy dancing with her. Actually, now that I really think about it, wow. Poor girl. Yeah, I totally think he should forgive her. What about you?”
“Look at me,” he growls.
I let my head fall his way, quivering down to my DNA.
“I sold those songs willingly, for the price offered,” he says. “I wasn’t stolen from or duped. You could’ve mentioned the whole double persona, owning a record label part, yes, but it’s not worth leaving without saying good-bye and not a word for four days.”
“She thought—”
“No.” He glides a hand up my cheek and demands my undivided attention. “We did your distraction thing, and it was cool, glad it helped. See why your singing choice wouldn’t have worked? Might’ve gotten awkward for us to sing all that back and forth.”
He laughs, and I sigh minimal relief at the sound; he’s not absolutely furious. Rhett could yodel the Gettysburg Address and anyone within earshot of his throaty, graveled message would listen—but yeah, I see his point.
“We’re doing things my way now,” he decrees in a low rumble. “You left some shit unsaid. You’re sorry, and I forgive you, but truth is, Teaspoon, I wasn’t exactly honest with you either.”
“About what?” I stammer, tension creeping back into my joints. We just full-circled to square one, and the thought of anything destroying our “start over” is daunting. I’m just not ready to give up on what might be.
“I’ve spent the last four days wondering what happened, or didn’t happen, between us… and why I even cared. I wasn’t lying when I said you intrigue me in a way no one has in, possibly ever, and conversations with you are indeed my favorite. But when I said I was glad we didn’t fuck, that was a flat-ass lie. No guy is ever glad about that. Would it be cool to be able to sleep with you and stay your friend? Sure. But, Reece”—he scoots closer, surrounding me, his leg pressed against the mine, his arm around me, his hand on my face—“truth is, I want inside your hot little body so goddamn bad I can hardly think of anything else.”
