Superfan

by Sarina Bowen

  “Dude, are you okay?” another voice asks. A young guy in an apron appears, carrying a black rubber mat behind the bar area. “That looked rough.”

  Ralph rolls his eyes. “Looked worse than it was,” he lies, trying to save his dignity. “And it’s your fault, anyway.”

  The guy laughs. “Let’s put these back down before I’m responsible for your death.”

  Ralph ignores him. “Would you like a beer?” he asks me.

  I glance at the pile of mint leaves on his cutting board and hesitate. “Sure,” I say. But the mint looks so fresh and pretty.

  “I could make you something different.”

  “Beer is great. A cold…”

  “—lager,” he finishes. “No glass, no opener.”

  When I look up to flash him a smile, my heart does a little somersault. Those kind eyes are smiling at me, too. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “It’s really no problem.” He turns toward the beer cooler. “You’re an easy customer, trust me.”

  But I really meant—thank you for remembering. As he leans down to grab a bottle for me, I find myself admiring the strong muscles in his back. Stop it, I admonish myself. It only gets worse when he turns around and places the bottle in front of me. I’ve never seen hands like his. I didn’t even know wrists could look muscular.

  Even so. Ogling him is not why I came here. I pull out my keychain opener and remove the cap from my beer.

  Ralph discards it, gives me another pleasant smile and then picks up his paring knife again.

  I take a sip, wondering when he’s going to mention my show at the Coconut Club. He was there. I saw him.

  He separates some mint leaves from their stems and says nothing.

  I last about seventeen seconds. “Well?”

  “Well?” He looks up. “Sorry?”

  “Jesus lord.” I close my eyes and then open them again. This is not going how I’d hoped it would. “What did you think?”

  “Of…?” His amazing eyes are studying me.

  “Forget I asked.” I take a swig of beer.

  “Think about what?” He pushes the cutting board aside, and his smile turns knowing.

  “My set at the Coconut Club! I saw you holding up that wall in the back. Don’t lie.”

  He tips his head back and lets out a sudden laugh. “I’m so busted. I loved your show, but I didn’t expect you to spot me.”

  “You loved it so much you weren’t going to say anything?” The sentence sounds crazy to my own ears. I put down the beer. “You know what? Never mind. I’m just being psycho right now. This town is getting into my head.”

  “Listen, girly.” He braces both (muscular!) hands on the bar and looks me right in the eye. “I loved it so much that I don’t even know what to say about it. From that moment at the beginning—when you shut that asshole’s maw? To the part where you made a lady cry.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t look away. And I never wanted it to end.”

  I give him a slow blink, just trying to take that in. It’s so much more than I was even hoping to hear.

  “Shit, Delilah. If that set doesn’t win you whatever contract you’re looking for, they don’t even deserve you.”

  Something warm and unfamiliar settles into the center of my belly. “That might be the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Which only means you’re still trying to get my phone number.”

  He laughs immediately. “Can’t both things be true? Both my musical assessment and my interest in your evening plans?”

  “Because you know so much about music.” I flip my hair and take another sip of beer.

  “Look. I don’t know shit about music. But I know plenty about talent.” He leans down on a set of forearms I shouldn’t be noticing. “I know that talent sometimes takes a nap at just the wrong moment, but it never stays asleep for long. I also know that luck matters, too. If they don’t give you what you want, it won’t be your fucking fault.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  But he’s not done. “I saw something else valuable the other night. You’re good in the clinch. And that counts for double, I swear to God.”

  “The clinch?”

  “Yeah. You’re not just good at practice.” He pauses, wrinkling up his interesting nose. “What word would a musician use? Okay—you’re not a rehearsal musician, Delilah. That stage was like your home. Either that or you fake it really well. That’s going to pay your rent someday, I promise.”

  “Wow.” It’s like he looked right into my terrified little soul and found the very thing I needed to hear. Those beautiful eyes of his are practically burning me right now, so I have to look away. “Thank you, Ralph. Really. I really needed that pep talk.”

  I make the mistake of looking up at him again, and, for a split second, I see pure yearning. It’s like our souls vibrate at exactly the same frequency. And I have no idea what to do with that.

  Ralph doesn’t either, apparently. He sighs quietly and goes back to work, adding mint leaves to a pitcher where limes and sugar are muddling together.

  “Is that a pitcher of mojitos?” I ask. I inhale deeply and take in the scent of mint and lime. “Wow, I miss those.”

  “Want one?” he asks me. “I could make an extra.” He reaches for a glass, but I’m already shaking my head.

  “No thank you. I had a bad experience once. It was here at the festival last year, actually.”

  His hand freezes on its way to the glass. “Wait. You were here last year, too?”

  “Yes and no. I came by myself to try to do some networking. I had to wait tables just to afford to hang around for six weeks. I worked at Pizza Palace, trying to upsell wings at every table. This is where I met Brett Ferris.”

  “At the Pizza Palace?” He snorts. “Unlikely.”

  “No!” I laugh. Because Brett wouldn’t be caught dead in there. “I mean here in Darlington Beach. I introduced myself to him after another artist’s set, and after I talked his ear off for a while about song-writing, he agreed to let me audition for him.”

  “As if that would be a hardship,” he mutters under his breath.

  I reach across the bar and poke him in the arm. “It was business, Ralph. I didn’t show him my tits to get the audition.”

  He flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you did. It’s just…” He clears his throat. “You’re a couple now?”

  “No,” I say immediately.

  He raises his eyebrows, disbelieving. The whole freaking town watched Brett plant that kiss on me. I knew it.

  “It’s complicated with him,” I admit.

  Ralph goes back to his work, not saying anything. Where Brett lacks discretion, this guy has it in spades.

  And when I said it was complicated, I meant it in the most literal way. I’ve been corresponding with Brett about music for a year. And I’ve seen him at various music festivals, where we’re all business.

  But when I came to Darlington Beach a couple of weeks ago, he offered me the guesthouse at his parents’ place. I accepted because—hello, free room. But he also made it clear that he wants us to be a couple. And I don’t know what to think or do about it. I’m on the one-day-at-a-time plan.

  “You’re not sure about him, then?” Ralph finally asks. There’s something in his delivery that sounds hopeful. And maybe a little smug.

  And he’s right. I’m not at all sure about him. “People say awful things about women who date powerful men.”

  “So that’s another vote in my favor.” Ralph spreads his strong arms in a gesture of greatness. “Pick me, and nobody can ever claim you were using me. I’m as washed up as they come.”

  I laugh suddenly, and so does he. And I swear it’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.

  Ralph goes back to his pitcher of mojitos, finishing it off with ice and soda, then passing it to a harried waitress who runs in from the patio.

  “Better start another one,” the young woman says. “I got a feeling that table will be here a while.”
/>   “Sure,” he says, reaching for the mint.

  I take a deep breath as he begins to chop. Without missing a beat, he hands me a sprig. I pluck off a leaf and roll it between my fingers. “So what’s your story?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can sense bitterness in people, Ralph. It’s my super power. You’re a good bartender, but you don’t love it. Plus, you just gave me a big speech about talent. What’s yours?”

  He glances up at me, and I see him thinking hard. “I don’t think I’d enjoy telling a pretty girl about all my failures. And I’m sure I’ll figure my shit out eventually. My plans for after graduation didn’t work out. Suddenly, I’m in need of a Plan B. But I never made a Plan B, and now I’m regretting that choice.”

  Wow, I know this song so well I could have written it myself. “You didn’t make a Plan B, because that felt like cheating on plan A,” I tell him. “You thought that if you made a Plan B, then it would mean that you doubted yourself. And the universe would make sure that Plan A never happened.” Source: all my life choices.

  “You seem to know a lot about this,” he says, reaching for the limes.

  “I’m a girl without a Plan B. Plan A is taking so much longer than I thought.”

  He glances up at me, and the kindness in his expression hits me like a wave all over again. “People say the music industry eats its young.”

  “That’s true,” I agree. “With gusto. And extra hot sauce. At least you have a college degree. I don’t even have that. And I don’t have any family to fall back on. Not that I want to give up, but I bet everything at this roulette table, and I still don’t know how it’s going to work out.”

  He studies me for a moment with serious eyes. “Don’t give up, Delilah. Not yet. Promise?”

  Something passes between us again that’s bigger than flirting. For a songwriter, I’m a pretty cynical girl. I don’t look for love stories on every street corner. But Ralph has the strangest effect on me. When he smiles, it makes me want to write sappy songs and believe things that I don’t usually believe.

  “I promise,” I say, sounding like a soap opera character.

  Ralph gives me a smile that I feel everywhere. Then he goes back to work.

  I pull out my notebook and flip through my songs in progress. I appreciate how empty the bar is. Ralph is busy making drinks for patrons out on the patio, but there is literally nobody on either side of me. It’s like I’m at a library that serves beer.

  Wait. There should be libraries that serve beer! I scribble that down on my notebook page to think about later. You never know where you’re going to get an idea for a song.

  A lovely hour passes this way. When my beer is drained, Ralph asks me if I want another.

  I shake my head.

  “Glass of water?” he asks.

  “Well…” I’m embarrassed to tell him how deeply my phobia runs. “No thank you.”

  He puts an empty glass on the bar. Then offers me the soda gun. “Are you sure?”

  This guy. I take the gun and point it into the glass. One of the buttons is labeled “water,” so I press it, quickly filling the glass. “Thank you,” I say, feeling ridiculous. I already know this man isn’t going to slip anything into my drink. And yet I can’t bring myself to let anyone serve me.

  So I tease him, instead. I reach over and press the button again as I’m handing it back to him, drenching the back of his hand.

  “Now you’ve done it,” he says, grabbing my wrist and wielding the soda gun like a weapon.

  Caught, I let out a high-pitched shriek that I’ll probably be embarrassed about later.

  But he doesn’t spray me. He just lets go of my hand and laughs. “You’re lucky you have that notebook, girly. I don’t want to wreck the next Grammy-winning song.”

  That shuts me up, because it’s rare for anyone to show so much faith in me. Except for Brett, of course. He’s the first man who ever said, “I think you could go all the way with your music.”

  And speak of the devil. His voice is somewhere behind me now and getting louder. “The tracks are good, Arnie!” he barks in a voice that’s too loud. But that’s Brett for you. “You get them in front of Chet by next week, or I’m taking them somewhere else!”

  The whole world suddenly hopes that Arnie gets the tracks in front of Chet just to save our eardrums.

  He strides up next to me, still yapping into his Bluetooth. And he actually snaps his fingers at me, the way you’d summon a dog.

  Okay, that’s mortifying. When Brett and I are alone together, he seems driven and a little eccentric. Out in the world, he just comes off as rude. “I have five more minutes,” I point out calmly. Even though Brett is pretty much in charge of everything that happens with my nascent career, I make a point to never take any shit from him. “I need to finish my water.”

  Scowling, he checks his gold watch.

  “Go outside,” I insist, reaching out to give him a gentle shove on his khaki-clad hip. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Chet needs to hear these sooner rather than later,” he bellows. But at least he turns toward the door.

  I don’t glance up at Ralph until he’s gone. My bartender doesn’t say anything, but it’s so obvious he’d like to.

  “You don’t like him,” I say pointlessly.

  “Maybe I’m just jealous.” Ralph wipes down the bar where I splashed the water.

  “No,” I press. “You think he’s an arrogant, entitled asshole.”

  “Well, now that you mention it.” He grins down at the shiny wooden surface.

  And I have to laugh. “He’s really not that bad. And he’s a bulldog for his artists. I need someone like that who’s willing to browbeat the label into giving me a chance.”

  “His artists,” he says slowly. “You know he’s only one year out of college, right?” Those green eyes lock on mine. “He’s well-connected, thanks to his parents. But still.”

  “How well do you know the Ferris family?”

  Ralph looks uncomfortable. “Brett and I were the same year in school, but I took a gap year before college.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t volunteer more. “And…you guys hated each other?”

  “Well, we were competitors,” he says slowly. “Brett was used to dominating everything from the student council to the tennis courts. And…” He shakes his head.

  “And what?” I wait. “I might sign a contract with him. I need to know the dirt.”

  Ralph chews his lip. “You won’t tell him I said this?”

  “No! I swear.”

  “He’s a cheater.” He leans on the bar and looks down at me.

  “On women?”

  “Oh—not what I meant.” He shakes his head. “He’s a cheater at life. If he sees something he wants, he takes it. Doesn’t matter if it’s not his.”

  I consider this and wonder why I’m not more afraid. Probably because I’m desperate to break through. I’ve seen enough of the music industry to know that sitting quietly in the corner doesn’t work. “Even so,” I say quietly. “Brett was the first one to tell me that I had something special.”

  “That can’t possibly be true,” Ralph says, tossing down his rag. “And even if he was, he won’t be the last.”

  “Maybe. But he was the first one who could do something about it,” I admit.

  “Ah, well.” Ralph props his chin in his hand, and we’re eye to eye. “I understand the appeal, I guess. But you could give me your phone number anyway.” He gives me a sneaky smile. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

  “Oh, Ralph.” I return his smile, but it’s meant to cushion the blow. “You are the nicest guy I’ve met in… Okay, ever. But did you consider what would happen if I said yes? I’d get to date you for maybe three weeks.”

  “Three spectacular weeks,” he interjects.

  I laugh. “Three earth-moving weeks, sure. But it will piss him off.” I jerk a thumb toward the man just outside the door. “Then I’ll still have to g
o back to L.A. and work with that guy. He’s going to figure out how to get my record made. And if that fails, he’s going to make it himself.”

  “Well, Delilah.” Ralph’s expression turns resigned. “You’re definitely in the right line of work.”

  “Why?” I demand, and it comes out sounding bitchy. “You think I’m mercenary? That I’ll do anything to get ahead?” You might be right.

  “Back up, buttercup. All I meant is that you broke my heart in two minutes flat.” He stands up straight and starts wiping again. “That’s a songwriter’s mission, isn’t it?”

  This guy. “Stop being so great, okay? It’s really hard to turn you down.” I drain the water and push the glass toward him.

  “Leave me your number anyway,” he says, pushing a cocktail napkin toward me. “We can be friends.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, ignoring the napkin. “Seeing as I have very poor impulse control, that’s not a great plan.” I take out some cash to pay for my beer. Then I gather up the bits of mint I’ve torn apart and place them on the napkin.

  “Hey,” he says as he makes change for my twenty-dollar bill. “What did you mean before when you said you had a bad experience with mojitos?”

  “Oh.” I frown, because I never talk about this. “Not mojitos—no mojito ever did me wrong. But last summer I had a mixed drink at a party, and…” I fight off a shudder. “Well, I got roofied. Didn’t regain consciousness for fourteen hours.” Somehow I say this in an almost normal voice. But it freaks me out even to this day.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one. The spoon rattles out of Ralph’s hand, hitting the bar and then the floor somewhere below him. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, gaping at me from across the bar.

  Now I’m sorry that I told him. He’s actually turned white.

  “Hey,” I say quietly. “It isn’t what you’re thinking. I woke up among friends in a safe place. But I couldn’t remember anything about the night before. So…” I clear my throat. “It could have been a whole lot worse. And before you judge him too harshly.” I nod toward the man outside. “He does actually have a knack for turning up when I need him most.”