Finally, Best Song in an Animated Film comes up, and we whoop and holler when they show the little clip of LtG’s song which was in a movie about axolotls. I don’t watch a lot of animated movies, but I might make an exception for this one.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this? It’s so freaking cute.”
Nick shrugs. “I don’t know. We recorded that song like two years ago for them to use and then it came out before we started hanging out, and it’s not like axolotls come up a lot in everyday conversation.”
“Neither do most of the things you talk about.”
“That’s true, I guess. But seriously, axolotls are pretty fucking rad. They can regenerate body parts and they’re basically the Peter Pans of amphibians because they never grow out of their larval stage. Also, they’ve got that frilly shit on their heads.”
I’m about to remark that he also has some “frilly shit” on his head and maybe it’s time for a haircut, but they’ve handed the presenter an envelope, so instead, I hush Nick. “Ah, listen to that drumroll! Is that live?”
“Yeah. At this one, it is. Some of the awards shows have recorded shit, but this one they’ve got a live orchestra. It’s cool.”
We sit on the edge of the couch, and even Fi perks up a bit.
“And the winner for Best Song in an Animated Movie is…License to Game for ‘I Want to Live Forever with You’ from Chinampa Kingdom!”
The cameras zoom in on Zane and Teague and Christian and Benji and Jordan and they’re all ecstatic. Clapping, cheering, fist-pumping, and we’re doing the same here. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun watching an awards show and that includes the ones I attended in the flesh when I still did that kind of thing.
Nick and I are on our feet, and that makes it easier for me to give him a giant hug. “Congratulations, that’s super-exciting. Did you guys write that yourselves or did they have a song for you already?”
“They actually had one for us, but Christian didn’t like it, so Zane wrote a better one. I helped a little. Mostly by telling Zane it sucked until it stopped sucking.”
I suspect he did more than that, but I’m sure he also told Zane the song sucked because that’s how Nick rolls. And no doubt he was even more enthusiastic when the song was awesome, because that’s also how Nick rolls. “Well, however it happened, it obviously worked. You’re going to have a new award to put on your shelf.”
After Zane makes a little speech, the guys get ushered off the stage and some kind of tribute segment starts for someone I’ve never heard of. And then Nick’s digging his phone out of his pocket. It’s ringing. Not that Nick never gets calls while he’s here, but it’s usually a text, and half the time when someone calls, he doesn’t pick up.
This time, though, he looks at me, vaguely stricken. “It’s Benji.”
Ah. Of course it is. Of course they want to celebrate with their bandmate, their bestie.
“You should take it, silly. Go on.”
“I, uh, don’t suppose you want to say hi?”
Shit. So far, I’ve managed to avoid “meeting” Nick’s friends. He hasn’t seemed super-keen on it either. Which some girls would be paranoid about, worry they were a side piece or that their guy was embarrassed by them, but first of all, Nick is busy and he spends a lot of time with me. And we’ve never said we were exclusive. I suppose we could, but we’ve just…never had that talk. Maybe it hadn’t mattered to him all that much, but now it does? Whatever it is, I’ve got to make a decision quickly.
Most of me wants to refuse because I am not prepared for this. But maybe it’s a good thing that I haven’t been able to fret and agonize? Also, I look about as fantastic as I have in the past five years. Plus, they’ll probably be too busy to talk for long, so maybe this is the best way to get this out of the way.
It’s still with my heart in my throat that I nod and choke out, “Yeah, okay.”
The way Nick smiles, though, like the sun bursting through the clouds and then getting scattered all over by a prism, makes it worth it. And then he’s plopping onto the couch, accepting the video call, and yelling into the screen. “Benji, my man. I hope you didn’t break my shit already. You better bring that fancy-ass award back for me in one piece. Don’t let Jordan take it either. Hey, is everyone there?”
Other faces crowd the screen, and they look so excited and friendly and like they’re all so thrilled to talk to Nick. He has so many people who love him, which makes me happy. And only a little jealous. Then he’s waving me over, and it kind of makes me want to die. Or sink into the floor. Do anything but talk to people. But Nick doesn’t ask me for much. I can do this one thing for him, so I nod before swallowing and forcing myself to take the few steps necessary to slide onto the couch and tuck myself under his arm.
“Dempsey and I watched the whole thing. Hey, Zane, I told you it didn’t suck anymore!”
Fiona jumps in my lap, and she feels like a shield. Not exactly Vibranium, but fifty pounds of muscle, bone, and fur sure feels damn close. I can do this. I can do this. Just smile and breathe.
11
Dempsey
* * *
Three weeks have passed since my little heart-to-heart with Oona, and over a fortnight since my way-too-brief sleepover with Nick before he had to go back to Miami. I told Oona we weren’t serious and that it wasn’t a big deal that he was out of town, mostly so she wouldn’t worry any more than she already does, but…shit. Shit, crap, and hell. It is a big deal having Nick away, and for some reason that’s making me twitchy. I don’t know why; it’s not like we’ve known each other long enough for him to be part of my routine. Before he went on tour, he’d come over a few times a week, that’s all. No bigs. Even if we had been together for longer, I suspect “routine” is a dirty word for Nicky.
But whereas I am generally quite content to be alone, ensconced in my little house with only the company of my many movie subscriptions and the internet, or work I have to do and visits from Oona and Wash and Vivian and Jake, I…miss Nick? Is that what this is? This vague soreness and restlessness? This picking up my phone to call or text or chat and then putting it back down because I know he’s busy doing press and radio contests and, yeah, his actual shows?
Or maybe this is just horniness? It feels related. Though not quite the same. But feelings can change over time. Maybe I’ve matured and all of this is just an indication that I really need to get laid. Which, it has been a while, comparatively, since Nick and I got together, so it wouldn’t be shocking. If Nick were around, I wouldn’t hesitate to ring him up for a booty call. But he’s not.
We haven’t discussed being exclusive, and given Nick’s attention span, I’m basically expecting him to flake on me any day now. For all I know, he could be fucking some LtG groupie at this very second. It’s not as though he is or ever has been a monk. Why should he be? He probably has people crawling all over him in every city where they play. And while the rest of the guys have settled down—or, at least, settled in—to their current relationships, there’s no reason to believe Nick would follow suit simply because we’ve hung out a bunch of times. And have had mind-blowing sex regularly. And I’ve met his dog. And his bandmates. Not like we could’ve just gone out to get a drink, though.
There is one way to tell what’s going on. An experiment, really. Because science is logical and I need to apply some logic to the decidedly illogical way I’m feeling.
I swipe across the screen of my phone and select a contact. It doesn’t even ring before Jake’s smooth voice is suffusing my brain like a cup of my favorite tea on a rainy day.
“You’ve reached Jake Halston. Please leave your name and a number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
It’s almost a pity this isn’t a recorded video message because I can see Jake in one of his playful moods, winking at the camera. Ridiculous man.
“Jake, darling. It’s Dempsey. Are you free tonight?”
I hate leaving voice messages, and I press the button on my phone
to hang up before I say anything I didn’t rehearse. Something like, “I met a guy, and I’m not sure if I actually like him or if I just need a good deep-dicking? Thought you might be able to help me figure that out. Cool. Thanks. Bye.”
Dempsey
* * *
Three hours later, I’m sitting on my couch patting the remaining serum from my Korean sheet mask into my skin and desperately craving a smoke. It’s funny. It’s been a long time since rehab, and I don’t really crave any of the other stuff I used to do. I can have the occasional drink without slipping back down into the bad place, and as to the other stuff—which was basically anything I could get my hands on—I haven’t touched it since. Luckily Oona made sure I stayed in the program until I really had my shit together and gave me a place to stay until I was settled. Which was above and beyond the call of duty for an ex-financial advisor, but guilt will make people do funny things.
Anyway, by then, I’d lost most of my friends. Which sounds awful and it kind of was. But it was more realizing that the people I’d spent my youth and money and time and energy on hadn’t actually given a shit about me. They’d cared about what I could do for them, what I could get them. They wanted to be associated with Lauren Dempsey, and not because they cared.
The craving for cigarettes, though, has never really gone away despite the fact that I quit years ago and haven’t had any since. It’s easy to keep them away from me since it’s not like I’m going to walk down to the corner store and grab a pack, and the people I see regularly know not to cave even if I ask. Which I haven’t, for years. But now…now I’d like the feel of the slim tube between my fingers, the smoke curling into my lungs and giving me that relaxing and yet stimulating mild high. Yes, I would very much like a smoke. Which is extra strange, considering most people want a cigarette after they’ve had sex and not in place of the sex they didn’t actually have.
And yet even if I offered to double Jake’s generous remuneration, he wouldn’t get me any. Because he likes me and we’re friends, and he doesn’t want me to die alone of lung cancer. When he’s not fucking women with more money than time or interest in finding someone to screw—or in this case, peeling off his own sheet mask after his client has punked out on the agreed-upon deep-dicking—he’s a graduate student in public health. Which is also why he’s religious about prophylaxis, god love him. He’s got a whole bag of ways to make sure his clients don’t get knocked up and no one involved gets STIs.
I huff, and Jake looks over from where he’s rubbing the leftover essence into his own skin. He’s been looking vaguely concerned since he arrived. Not like it’s the first time I’ve answered the door in yoga pants and an over-sized hoodie, but it is the first time I’ve apologetically asked if we could just talk instead of screw. He’d responded with an easy “yeah, of course,” but I couldn’t miss the narrowing of his eyes. And he’s let me talk about everything other than the real reason that we’re sitting here doing skin treatments instead of fucking. Thanks, feelings, for cockblocking me.
“I might have a problem.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Jake’s face immediately creases in concern, which is so sweet of him, but is going to undo all the good that snail mucin and bee venom just did him. We usually talk about movies or he’ll ask me for financial advice or he’ll tell me about a new restaurant that does takeout. Sometimes he’s talked to me about who he’s dating, but for obvious reasons, I’ve never reciprocated. He’s probably thinking I’m having an issue with a client or maybe with my meds because both of those topics have been fair game in the past. But my clients are all fine-ish, and my meds feel pretty well-balanced and have for a while.
I roll my lips between my teeth and preemptively glare at him. Jake is handsome, because of course he is. Former model who tried to make it as an actor but couldn’t land anything better than a couple of commercials so he went back to school. But Hollywood’s standards are basically impossible, so he’s actually very easy on the eyes. Dark hair meticulously shaped into a fashionable undercut, high cheekbones that could cut glass, and bright blue eyes. Yes, he’s quite pretty.
“Yeah. I met a guy.”
Jake lets out a whistle, and I roll my eyes and feel the blush flood my cheeks. Fucking hell. I’m telling him about this why?
“Now I get why we’re having a spa day instead of what you usually pay me to do. So tell me about him. How did you meet?”
What might be an innocent question in the course of a normal conversation between friends is tinged with more genuine curiosity. Which is valid. How did I meet a man? And just wait until Jake finds out which man. This is going to be fun.
“His name is Nick. He’s a musician. He has a really sweet dog who he loves, and they’re so freaking cute together it’s almost disgusting. He’s funny, like, makes-me-laugh-out-loud funny. And…zany? He…” How to say this? “He makes my world feel bigger.”
Jake leans back against the couch and puts his feet on the coffee table, crossing an ankle. “Damn. Sounds like this guy is really something. And yet, I’m here instead of him because…? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you know you’re one of my favorites and I would’ve been happy to give you your money’s worth. But…”
“I bet you say that to all the girls. But anyway, he travels a lot.”
Jake is not at all fooled by my dodgy answer.
“Okay, but you don’t call me all that often. Like, every three, four weeks. Maybe. So unless you have a rotating stable of stallions to help you out—”
“Pfft.”
He grins. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. I mean, I know you’ve got your drawer o’ fun, so I’d think that’d do you until he got back. Pun not really intended, but that was a good one, right?”
“Fine. I maybe, possibly, potentially really like this guy. And this was supposed to be a test. To see if I actually like him or if it was just about the sex.”
Jake clutches his chest, and faux-horror is plastered all over his face. “You were going to use me for research? I’m so insulted.”
“You are not, punk ass. I pay you fairly, I treat you with respect, and I give you snacks. You don’t care why I fuck you.” Or as the case may be, not fuck you.
“No, not really. And I would say you pay me generously. But given how this party never even got started, I’m guessing it’s not just about the provision of orgasms. So do you maybe, possibly, just a tiny bit, have feelings for this Nick dude?”
I pull the strings on my hoodie until there’s just a tiny open space left in the gathered fabric and whine helplessly, tragically, “I think I caught feels.”
Jake—that man who has a real talent for cheesing me off as well as getting me off—laughs. “Oh, wow. But I don’t see why this is a problem. Sounds like he’s a good guy, and I can’t actually imagine you being upset that he travels. I mean, you like your space.”
In an atypical way, I sure as hell do. And right, why is this a problem? I pull my hood open again and shove it off my hair.
“It might not be. But it could be. He’s, um, kind of famous.”
Jake narrows his baby blues. “Wait, where did you meet this guy again? You didn’t say.”
“You remember I had to do that talk at the performing arts high school? He was there, and he saw me and, I don’t know, decided he wanted to take me out.”
“Right, but you don’t go out. So he came here?”
“With his dog. Her name’s Fiona. She’s a super-fat English bulldog whose head is about half as big as her body, and she snores like a chainsaw. She’s adorable.”
“Hold up. Nick is a musician who’s ‘kinda famous’ and he has a bulldog named Fiona? Are you falling in love with Nick fucking Fischer?”
“I think his middle name is Knutson.” Actually, I know it is. Just as I know his birthday is on August twenty-third, and he’s broken his left wrist on three separate occasions. But no need to share any of that with Jake. I’d probably get mocked even more than I’m already being mocked.
�
�Yeah, that’s the important thing here. Holy shit. You’re fucking Nick Fischer of boy band fame.”
“If you start singing, I’m going to thwap you in the face with this pillow.”
Which of course does not stop Jake, because of the aforementioned pain-in-the-ass-ed-ness. And I follow through with my threat, landing a good one right in his perfect face.
Before he can grab the throw pillow away from me, I hug it to my chest, and he shoves hair out of his eyes.
“So I’m still not sure why this is a problem. Is he being a dick about your agoraphobia?”
“No. Not at all. He’s actually been really great. He sends me pictures, and we video-chat all the time while he’s on tour. He’s been a window to a whole new world, and I’m enjoying it. And he’s told me that if I want help, he’ll do whatever he can, but otherwise he’ll stay out of it. He doesn’t guilt trip me. He just…rolls with it.”
“All I’m hearing is that this guy is perfect for you. What’s not to like? Do you find him exhausting? I think I would find him exhausting.”
“I might if we spent months on end together, but honestly, I find him invigorating. He fills up my house with noise and laughter, and it’s like being on a carnival ride. Like it could be terrifying if you didn’t know it was going to stop, but since you know there’s an end point, it’s fun.”
Jake gives me a look. One I don’t like because he’s basically saying, “So what’s your damage, Heather,” but with just his eyes. Hollywood’s loss.
“I guess the real issue is that I worry.”
Jake and I exchange halfhearted smiles. Yes, worrying is something I do. About everything. And Jake gets it—he’s got some of his own anxiety to deal with, but his is more mild and well-managed by meds so he functions pretty damn well in the outside world and only needs the occasional Ativan when the going gets real rough. He compares our anxiety like his is splashing in a puddle and mine is drowning in an ocean. I don’t know that I’d put it quite like that, but if it helps him get his head around it, then I’m good.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 12
