Is Teague going to have to go back to school? I thought he’d be a shoo-in for a solo career now that License to Game is on the slow slide into not existing anymore, since he’s “the hot one” and all. But it seems like he’s gotten way more invested in the business side of music. Or can he just learn all that shit on the fly? I don’t know, man. And I suppose I should get more of my ducks in a row on that because Zane’s been doing more shit by himself, Christian is off with Dylan and they’re gonna do just fine because Narrazio is already showing up on charts and shit, Benji’s… I don’t know, doing activist stuff with Jordan, which is cool. I’ll show up and do whatever he tells me to. But otherwise…yeah. Ducks. Why do they say that, though? Are ducks famous for walking in rows? Or infamous for not? Because that seems like more of a cat thing. Cats aren’t nice; Fiona and I are totally on the same page about that one.
Until I can get home and run around with Fi, though, I should pay attention to the hot redhead on the screen because she’s talking about the difference between Roth IRAs and regular ones, and I can never remember which one is which. Maybe I need a mnemonic device. What’s with those silent letters? Like pterodactyl. Knight. I mean, come on, English, go home, you’ve been drunk for hundreds of years.
So, yeah, totally going to call this Dempsey Lawrence. Because unlike me, she’s kept the gym full of kids interested without swearing—not even once!—and she managed to keep all her clothes on. How do people do that?
Dempsey
* * *
It’s a good thing I’ve had plenty of acting experience because it takes all of that training and know-how to keep the smile on my face through the thank-you-for-having-mes and goodbyes after I’ve wrapped up my talk.
The speaking in front of people isn’t the problem; I could do that all day, especially with an internet connection separating us. No, the problem is the creeping unease that one of the people in the audience is going to recognize me. Say something. And then the vertigo I experienced earlier will look like a metaphorical walk in the park.
These kids, though, they’re too young to recognize me. Unless they’re into watching “vintage” TV. Which…Spencer’s Woods wasn’t even great when it was on, so why would a person torture themselves with it now? Nick Fischer was probably in that generation, but I wouldn’t be surprised if anything and everything went in one ear and out the other with that guy. Because if he’d recognized me, I doubt he would’ve kept it to himself. No, it was fine. Everything went fine.
I end the session, flick off the monitor, unplug the camera, and shake out my hands, which have started trembling. Consciously unclench the muscles in my shoulders and my jaw and tip my head to the side, using my hand as a weight to put a gentle stretch on my neck, and after a minute switch to the other side. That’s better, to a degree. And then my doorbell rings.
Wash must be here, ready to make me sweat all the remaining anxiety and adrenaline out because I have figured out how to schedule this shit. When I know I have a stressful client call or a big presentation that’s going to fire my anxiety up, I get my personal trainer over here afterward to run me hard, so all I can think about is how tired I am and not the million terrible ways things could’ve gone wrong.
I check the peephole, but of course all I can see is Wash’s broad chest, covered by a T-shirt from his latest Iron Man. That man is hardcore.
“It’s me, poptart. Lemme in so we can get started. I know Oona’s coming over after this with a bottle of Vouvray, and before she gets here, I aim to get you sweating good.”
I swing open the door and greet him with a glare. “You’re so wrong.”
One of his thick eyebrows bows, making a dark arch, and I can’t hold my snort in as I gesture him over the threshold.
“She’s bringing sake and sushi, obviously.”
Yes, we switched our usual Monday macaron and tea date to this evening. I doubt everyone has their ex-financial planner over for weekly chats, but I do a lot of things most people don’t. Having Oona over is probably one of the more normal things I do. That and have a shrink—though one who pays house calls (thanks, Vivian!)—and a personal trainer since I live in LA. Wash used to train actors—the ones who get those roles where they have to gain like thirty pounds of muscle—and occasionally he still does, but mostly his clientele these days consists of people who want a combination of personal training and self-defense. Whatever the reason he’s shifted toward that line of work, he’s fantastic. I have every faith that he will, in fact, run me ragged, so though my mind may wish to replay any possible nightmare scenarios from today—even though the stressful part is over, jeez, brain give it a rest—my body will veto that plan in favor of passing out from exhaustion. Although hopefully not before I indulge in all of my usual extracurriculars.
Wash rolls his eyes and shakes his head and then gives me a friendly light punch on my biceps. “Then you better go get changed because you’re finishing this workout I tailored just for you before you can reward yourself with a dragon roll. I don’t care if it takes all night.”
I sure as hell do since I’ve got some plans for later and hopefully I won’t be too worn out to enjoy them. While back in the day I would’ve propositioned someone like Nick because he was kinda hot, apparently famous, and charming in a fuckboy buckethead kind of way, that’s not a thing I do anymore. My liaisons are much more carefully orchestrated. Regardless, I need to scamper upstairs and get into my workout clothes before Wash starts assigning me extra burpees for being a delinquent.
3
Nick
* * *
Three days later, I find Dempsey’s card in the pocket of some jeans I forgot to throw in the wash. Normally that wouldn’t be possible because Magda is a sorceress when it comes to taking care of my shit, but she’s on vacation, gone to Minnesota to see her new grandkid. I told her I’d be fine. And…I’m fine. Ish. Might’ve eaten pork rinds and cheap beer for dinner more than once, but it happens to all of us.
Probably not Dempsey Lawrence, though. That woman seems like she’s got her shit together in a serious way. Like in a kale-eating, yoga-doing, retirement-fund-having kinda way. I wonder if she has glasses. I like girls with glasses. Maybe she’d wear them when she was making salmon or quinoa or some shit that definitely isn’t pork rinds for dinner.
I shove some crap off one of the chairs in my bedroom and pick a tennis ball out of a basket beside it. Sometimes people think it’s some sort of design statement that I have baskets and bowls and trays of balls and other knickknacks around my house. It’s not. I need something to do with my hands, and playing with balls and cubes and fidget spinners, or hell, this is probably some kind of blasphemy but I’ve even got some rosaries—those babies are fantastic for fidgeting. Do nuns have ADD or are they all too busy with Jesus? And how weird is it that nuns marry Jesus? Like, how is that even possible? I thought Christians weren’t so keen on that whole marrying more than one person thing—polygamy, that’s it—but Jesus has like a million wives? Doesn’t seem fair at all.
I could sit, but that’s a no-go right now, so I take a lap around my room, which is littered with so much stuff I have to dodge piles of god-knows-what.
Magda’s gonna be wandering around the house tsking so hard when she gets back. But at least this happy accident gives me an excuse to give Miss Dempsey Lawrence a call. Eh, more like Ms.—wait, is she married? I didn’t notice a ring, but I wasn’t looking. I guess I should come up with an alibi for why I’m calling. Wait, that’s not right. A cover story. That’s what I need. Alibis are what your buddies give you when you’ve killed someone. And maybe what some other guy’s buddies would give him if he cheated, but no fucking way is that working around these here parts. Teague’s got a thing. We might be rock stars, and up until about a year ago we might’ve all been fucking around kind of a lot, but one thing we weren’t doing is cheating. Because Teague’s our friend and his dad cheating on his mom fucked up their family pretty good back in the day, so it’s an absolutely-not around
here.
Teague. I should call him. And the other guys. But I’ve been avoiding them. Not that they’ve noticed, because they all have better things to do which is part of why I’m avoiding them. I don’t need to hear about that. But I do need to hear Dempsey Lawrence’s no-nonsense voice from the other day.
Need might be a strong word, but I’m gonna go with it because I’m not the one who’s good with words. That’s Zane. But I am good at putting myself out there and not too worried about making a fool of myself. Which was useful in the early days of the band and in getting my friends laid. And in getting me and Benji more broken bones than is probably advisable over a lifetime. But yeah, I don’t need an excuse to call Dempsey. I’ll just call her and ask her out. And if she says no, well, then she does. I’ll find another redhead to fuck who could maybe talk sexy about 401ks and shit.
I dial her up, punching the numbers on my cell, and it rings twice before someone picks up.
“Dempsey Lawrence, how can I help you?”
Right. This must be her work number.
“It’s Nick Fischer from the other day. We both did the thing at the high school. I called a kid a piece of shit.”
Way to go, Fischer. That’s probably not the way to a girl’s heart. Women like it when you’re nice to babies. They go all googly-eyed over it. Whatever, I’m awesome with kids.
Dempsey laughs, though, and even though I didn’t get to see her laugh when she was doing her talk, I can picture it, and she looks real cute. “Uh, yes, I know who you are. That was rather memorable. How can I help you? Are you looking for a new financial consultant? Or wanting an audit on your existing arrangements to double-check that your current consultant is doing their job?”
I toss the tennis ball up toward the ceiling. I used to have baseballs and lacrosse balls and golf balls and stuff, but Magda switched them all to tennis balls and fucking ping-pong balls. I guess I break less shit this way? And of course I catch it. Once Benji and I went like six hours tossing a ball back and forth without dropping it, but then Teague wanted to play and he bobbled the fucker, let it fall. We were super-mad, but we didn’t do anything about it because he could squash us both like bugs and not break a sweat.
“No, no, my guy is fine. He’s cool, actually. And from that talk you gave, I bet you’re great at your job, but also I’m assuming you don’t date your clients, right?”
“No, absolutely not. That would be incredibly unethical.” She sounds insulted that I would even ask, and it makes me like her more. LA is messed up and there is all kinds of shit going down that shouldn’t be, but Dempsey seems like one of the good ones. The diamonds in the rough, the wheat from the chaff—what the hell is chaff anyway? I’ll google it later. I’ve got a woman to ask out.
“That’s what I thought. So, yeah, you can’t work for me because I’d like to take you out sometime. Where do you live? I travel a lot with the band, so odds are I’ll be nearby in the next few months. Or if I’m not, I sleep like a rock on planes. Travel doesn’t bother me at all.”
There’s a beat, and I hope she’s not going to hang up on me. I didn’t say anything offensive. Not yet, anyway. And she’s seen me in action. She’s gotta know it’s coming sooner or later, what with the calling a high schooler a piece of shit and all. But maybe she could hold off on deciding I’m a jackass. Maybe I’ll be able to get her to laugh so much it won’t really matter. Some women like funny guys, right? But so far, it hasn’t mattered enough. I can get laid readily, but dating someone’s a lot harder. I’m a go-to guy for fun times, but not serious shit. But I could be? I think?
“I…I live in LA.”
In LA? Then why didn’t she just come to the school to give her talk? Maybe she was traveling somewhere else and couldn’t make it back in time? That room she skyped in from did kind of look like a hotel. But whatever, that’s great news.
“Cool, I’m here for the next few weeks. I know a bunch of spots around, but I’m not picky. Let me know if there’s someplace you’ve always wanted to go and I’ll get us in.”
Except Conrad’s because I totally got banned for life. So anywhere but there. And maybe even there, if I asked really nicely?
I heard about this guy who once accidentally trashed a hotel room by leaving sausage or pepperoni or some other processed meat product on a windowsill and seagulls came to eat it, and they let him back into that hotel. After like twenty years or something, but still. What’s the statute of limitations on stealing—borrowing—an accordion? Wait, that’s not right. Statute of limitations is how long after a crime’s been committed you can still get in trouble for it. I already got in trouble for stealing—borrowing—Lawrence Welk’s accordion, so that doesn’t matter. I bet Christian would know what I mean. Or Jordan. Yeah, Jordan would know because she’s a hotshot lawyer lady. But Benji still won’t give me her phone number. Does he think I’m going to embarrass him in front of his fancy badass attorney girlfriend? To be fair, I might. But—
“That’s really sweet of you, but I don’t think so.”
Whoa, what? Did I just get rejected? It happens sometimes, but not a lot. And way more from other famous people than from civilians. Even if girls aren’t really interested in me, they at least want to go out on a date to say they’ve been out with a rock star. What the hell?
“You seriously don’t want to go on a date with me?”
There’s a huff of a laugh on the other end, and for some reason, I can see Dempsey looking to the sky with those brown eyes of hers and shaking her head. Maybe I could charm her into it? I can be charming. Sometimes. To some people.
“We don’t have to go anywhere fancy. I like In-N-Out as much as the next guy. Maybe more. I mean, what’s not to like about a place where you can order stuff Animal Style? Or I like the beach. Do you like the beach?”
Maybe the beach isn’t a great idea. Large bodies of water and really poor impulse control don’t mix super-well, and I usually end up injured and/or making an ass of myself. Not that there isn’t the potential for either of those things in any place at any time. What can I say? I have a talent.
“Or, hey, I just got a new car. Want to go for a drive? It’s a sweet ride, and I haven’t put like any miles on it. Do you like Vegas? I fucking love Vegas. We could drive there.”
Hmm, there might be a couple of hotels there that would rather not have me back, but surely someone will take me? I like to gamble, and I have pretty deep pockets, even though my financial planner basically gives me an allowance when I go. That’s cool. I don’t mind getting cut off at some point since it means I don’t have to feel like a total asshole in the morning.
“Do you always talk this much?” Dempsey sounds kind of… Impressed isn’t the right word, because there’s definitely an element of she’s staring but maybe because I’m a car wreck and she can’t look away, not because she’s lusting over me and my hot bod or my sweet ride or the sick time I could show her pretty much anywhere but especially Vegas.
“Yes.”
No sense in lying, because it’s not like it’s something I can control. I mean, I can. If I really have to. Like, in court or something. But it’s hard and I don’t like to, and it kind of feels like I’m suffocating if I try to slow down my brain or keep the words inside. They just pile up, up, up, until I can’t breathe. So, yeah, I can shut my pie hole if I really, really have to even if it makes me feel like I’m holding my breath underwater. But most of the time, do I talk this much? …Yes, yes I do.
She laughs. It doesn’t sound mean, though.
“I do appreciate an honest man.”
“So is that a yes? We’re road-tripping to Vegas this weekend? I can make some calls. Well, texts, because who talks on the phone anymore? Except I guess I’m talking to you. But I don’t usually. It’s way easier to text. Do you text? Or is this your work number? Like a landline? Do you have a cell number where I could text you? Although it’s kind of fun talking to you. Maybe the phone is better.”
“Whoa, there, cowboy. I can
’t go to Vegas this weekend. But I’m flattered by the invitation.”
She could be blowing me off, but her voice sounds like she’s still smiling. It’s weird how you can tell that, right? Without seeing a person? But you can, sometimes. And I like that I can tell with Dempsey.
“Are you busy? Of course you’re busy. You’re a gorgeous girl and smart, and you make a good living. No kidding you’re busy this weekend. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that of course you’d be free. You seem like the kind of girl who makes plans. Do you have a planner? My sister’s crazy about that stuff. Spends hours putting washi and stickers in her bullet journal, which always kind of sounds to me like it’s a hit list. If you met my sister, you’d think that was hilarious, because she’s basically a human dumpling. She’s adorable. Which would probably make a great cover for a hit man? Hit woman? I don’t know. Assassin. Yeah, that’s better. Do you have siblings?”
Dempsey laughs again. Maybe she didn’t believe me that I’m always like this and thinks that this is me being nervous. I’m not nervous. I hope she says yes, but if she doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world and I’m not going to be embarrassed about it.
“Do you mind if I answer you in bullet points?”
“Only if you’re an assassin.”
She laughs again, and I like the sound of it. Like how it feels to get her to laugh. But of course it makes me happy. I fucking love attention. It lights me up inside when eyes and ears and focus are on me. Usually the more, the better, but the weight of Dempsey’s interest is off the charts somehow.
It’s kinda weird since I’ve never actually met her? Not in person, anyway. Usually I have to know someone better before they have that effect on me. But her attention is heavier, pushes against me harder in a way that makes me feel seen, heard, focused on. It’s like it doesn’t follow the rules of gravity or whatever. Was that the one with the apple? I could use an apple. With peanut butter. I hope Magda got the chunky kind. I like both, but I eat the chunky a lot faster. It’s usually the one I run out of first. Did I put it on the grocery list? Probably not. Maybe I should go down to the kitchen and check.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 3
