by Elle Casey
“What happened to the soda?” I ask, swirling the liquid around as I stare it, wondering why there aren’t any bubbles of carbonation.
“It’s there, it’s just flat.”
“Flat?”
“Yeah. That’s the secret. Flat soda.” He holds his bottle up to his mouth, placing his index finger against his lips. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”
“Or you’ll have to kill me?” I say. Why busting out the most over-worked joke on the planet seems like a good idea, I don’t know.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Kill you? No. But other things, maybe.”
My heart is instantly racing. He’s got promises behind those eyes and I’m so very tempted to find out what they are. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Run away! Go to bed! Stop drinking Frankenstein concoctions! Remember what you’re here for!
A smile moves across my face as I recklessly ignore my common sense. I try to save myself and whatever pride I have left by moving away from the bar. Turning my back on Tarin, I go over to the big couch that faces the television and video game closet.
He joins me, dropping down in the middle before I can sit. I’m forced into the corner to put some distance between us. I look over at him as I take another sip of my drink, wondering if he sat there intentionally to make sure we’d be close.
“So … truth or dare?” he asks.
I have to force the liquid down my throat. My first instinct is to cough and spray it out everywhere.
“Say what?” I finally ask. My pulse is so out of control, I’m convinced he’ll see my artery pumping in my neck if he looks too closely.
“Truth or dare. You know how it works, right?” He winks at me.
He’s winking at me! Why does he have to be so freaking hot all the time, dammit! And he was right earlier in the car … Injury = bad boy = sexy. I feel like a cavewoman, my internal dialogue completely devoid of intellectual thought. It crosses my mind that I’m having a walking, talking functional breakdown of sorts. I can act like everything is normal on the outside, but inside my life is falling apart. The rules are crumbling along with the walls that separate my heart from my work.
“Yeah, I know how truth or dare works,” I say, trying to act cooler than I feel, “but I haven’t ever actually played it before.”
“Oooh, good. I have a virgin on my hands.”
I know he doesn’t mean it the way I’m taking it, but his thrill at getting a crack at a virgin ‘like me’ is exhilaratingly hot. I’m no virgin, but he’s making me feel like one as I blush and stammer my way around a response.
“That’s … funny … ha, ha … virgin…”
“You want to start? Cause if you do, fair warning, I prefer dares.”
The smile won’t stay off my face. It easily betrays my interest in his silly games and loaded words. He so has me in his trap. I feel stupid, like the worst kind of bimbot. I wonder how many girls have fallen into this mess of sexy before me. Now at least I know what drives them to the flame. We’re all just a bunch of moths eager to get set on fire. I’ve been around celebrities for most of my adult life, and this is the first time I feel like I’m out of my league. I cannot let him know that or this whole gig will be over before it starts.
Even the simple act of him raising his soda bottle to his lips has me wanting to do and say stupid, stupid things. His fingers with tattooed letters on the backs of them, the way his muscles pulse under the ink on his forearms, how his strong jaw moves as he lets the liquid slide down this throat… He could have anyone, be anywhere … but he’s here with me. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself, because tonight, I have no brain.
“Fine. I’ll go first,” I say, pausing to gulp some more whatever he calls this mess of a drink. Frankensteins brew. “Truth or dare?” I ask, grateful for the buzz that’s taking hold. I’m a complete lightweight and the cocktail is working it’s magic. Thank God.
“Dare, of course.” He takes a sip of his drink. There’s twice as much liquid in his bottle as I have in my glass.
“I dare you …” I can’t think of anything that doesn’t involve him getting naked. I’m freaking out like a fan-girl on Tarin-crack. I blurt out the first non-sexual thing I can think of. “…I dare you to write a song about hot dogs!”
I cringe at my total and utter lameness. Hotdogs? Are you serious? What are you … ten?
He stares at me for several seconds with no expression on his face.
“Hot dogs,” he finally says.
My face is on fire. I’m so embarrassed I want to run from the room and never look at him again. “Never mind.”
He jumps up, putting his drink down on the table. “No, no, that’s fine. You want a song about hot dogs, I’ll give you a song about hot dogs.” He sounds way too happy as he strides over to the far side of the room and takes an acoustic guitar from a stand. Bringing it back over to the couch, he swings it up to land in his lap as he sits. The fingers of his left hand settle under the neck and over the strings while his other hand hovers with a pick, ready to strum out a chord.
Tarin clears his throat and winks at me before starting. “An ode to the hot dog…” Strum, strum, strum…
He begins to sing in his gorgeous, raspy voice. “She looked at meee … and she said to meee … oh Tarin pleeeeasse … would you let me seeeee … your hot dog…” Strum, strum…
He waits for my reaction.
I want to crawl under a giant rock and die. I’d even welcome a painful death at this point. Just put me out of my misery, please!
He smiles and strums another chord before picking up the singing again. “I looked at herrrr … and I said to herrrr … oh Scarlett pleeeasse … I’ll let you seeeee … my hot dog …”
And then he picks up the pace.
“…But only if you promise, to show me, to show me, those glorious buns you got! You got! And only, if you promise, to show me, to show me, what you’ll do with those buns … you got … you got … those buns … you got…” He pauses for a few more chords and finishes it off. “Please, baby, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, and together we could have a hell of a cookout, yeaaaahhh…”
He finishes off with some hardcore licks that I might have seen Eddie Van Halen do on stage once, and then he stops, swinging the guitar off his lap and against the edge of the couch where it leans there mocking me.
Tarin grins like a maniac and then takes a big swig of his soda, burping when he can breathe again. “Didn’t think I could do it, did ya?” He says, very happy with himself.
My mouth opens but no words will come out. I wet my whistle with the rest of my drink to get my vocal chords working again. “Um, I guess I didn’t know what to think. That has to be the lamest dare that has ever been issued in the history of truth or dare and you followed it up with the lamest piece of music that was ever created. I’m pretty sure Jim Morrison just rolled over in his grave.”
“Maybe. But it’s the mark of a true master, to take a lame dare and make it special, right?” He lifts an eyebrow at me and nods encouragingly. “Right?”
I nod. “Yes. You are a true master.”
He gets a devilish look on his face. “A true master? Oh, baby, say that again.” He slides over closer to me.
I panic and giggle at the same time. Bimbot alert. “What are you doing? Go away!” I squeeze into the corner of the couch and hold my drink with two hands at my chest.
“What? No hotdog? No buns?”
I laugh. “No! No hotdog and no buns. Stay over there.” I kick him a few times, but not hard. A thrill races through me when he grabs my foot and puts it in his lap. Scott does this to me sometimes, but it never feels like this when he does it.
Tarin’s staring at the TV in mock contemplation. “Okay fine. I get it. You don’t appreciate musical genius.” He pauses and then turns to me. “But it’s my turn now … truth or dare?”
I swallow with effort, holding out my glass. “Fill me up first?”
He takes the glass from me, hesitating just a few seconds
as our fingers touch before sliding it away from me. “Do you believe in Freudian slips?”
I realize what I said as soon as he brings up the psychology. “No. Not at all. That’s total bullshit.” I’m lying, but he doesn’t know that. I think people accidentally reveal their inner thoughts all the time, me included, and right now my inner thoughts are on one track: the people getting naked one.
“Liar.” He stands, letting my foot drop to the couch. “Another Tarin’s bubble gum special coming up.”
I snort, enjoying my buzz, letting the fact that he’s reading my mind disappear from my brain. “That’s a stupid name for a drink.”
“Shun the drink and you’ll get stuck with beer.”
“Love that name. Love it. Best name eh-var.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He sounds so satisfied, I want to go over there and put him in a headlock. But I don’t, because I know that would be a Freudian slip of another kind.
He comes back and hands me the drink. “Truth or dare. Don’t play games now, this is serious.” He looks serious too.
“I thought it was just a game,” I say, stalling for time. I’m both afraid and excited about what he’s going to make me do or have me tell him. Truth or dare is a dangerous game for amateurs like me to play.
He drops his head back on the couch and talks to the ceiling. “God spare me from girls who cannot handle the pressure of going head to head with The Tarin.”
I kick him, harder this time. The Tarin my ass.
He traps my foot with his hand and clamps it to his side. The warmth coming through his t-shirt goes into my foot and makes its way up my leg.
“Fine. Just do it,” I say, rising to his challenge. Screw not taking risks. It’s just one game. “Ask me again.”
He rolls his head sideways. “Truth or dare, Scarlett. Don’t be chicken.”
“Chicken?”
“Bawk! Bawk!”
“Fine! Truth!”
He rolls his eyes. “I knew it.” He sits up, suddenly way too happy for my comfort. He puts his drink down again and turns slightly to face me. “Truth, huh? You probably thought that was a safe bet, right? That if you chose dare, you’d end up naked or something, right?”
I say nothing. He’s reading my mind again, and the only thing worse than him reading my mind is him knowing he’s doing it.
He smiles with the devil in his eyes again. “You so don’t know how to play this game.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
HE SHIFTS POSITION ON THE couch so he can put both of my feet right at his crotch. He’s facing me completely, close enough that I could reach over and touch his chest. His nearness is making me sweat. It’s making me completely disregard my work, my policy about not getting personally involved, and the danger that a rock star can bring to a heart like mine.
“Truth, Scarlett. Do you like me?”
I burst out laughing. I was so not expecting that question.
He squeezes my feet, a confused half-smile coming out to tweak my heartbeat. “This isn’t a joke. Why are you laughing?”
When I can finally speak again, I shrug. “I don’t know … I guess because I was expecting something so devastating that I’d have to run from the room crying. Instead I’m getting one of those ‘check yes or no’ notes I used to get in second grade.”
“That’s not a big deal to you? Whether you like me or not?”
He looks hurt. I’m so touched by the little boy who’s hiding somewhere inside Tarin that I lean forward and give him my best play-frown. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Of course it’s important.”
He captures my hand - the one I’m petting his face with - and holds it against his cheek. “Okay then … answer the question. Do you like me?”
He’s dead serious and staring into my eyes as he challenges me. All the humor of the question disappears, and I see this as the trap it is. He’s way, way, way too good at this game, and I’ve had way, way, way too much of that stupid drink.
“Uh … okay … the answer is … yes. I like you.” I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let me. He lets it come off his face, but then laces our fingers together. He’s so close I can see the beard stubble growing in on his chin. It darkens his face and makes him seem sinister, but that only accentuates the bad boy image that’s turning my insides to jelly. He looks like a gangster, even while I know he’s an artist; it’s an intoxicating combination.
“You have to give complete answers or you’re not playing fair,” he says. “I wrote a whole song with a kickass guitar solo at the end. Don’t let me down, Scarlett. Give me your complete answer. None of this halfway bullshit.”
I smile, but I’m so nervous my lips spasm in the middle of it, making me look like I’m having an attack. I let it drop away. “That is all of it,” I respond lamely.
“Bullshit.” He squeezes my foot. “I’m going to ask again, and if you don’t answer completely, you have to pay the forfeit.” He shakes his head slowly, as if he pities me.
“Pay the forfeit?” I take a big drink of my new cocktail. This one is stronger than the last one, and I’m glad for it. I take a second swig, this one just as big. The glass is half empty. Or maybe it’s half full. I can’t tell.
“The forfeit is … you have to be my slave for an entire day.”
I snort. “You just made that up.”
“Nope, it’s in the rule book. Look it up.”
I don’t want to look it up. The damaged, tortured part of me wants to be forced to be honest. It’s the only way I can do it. I’m such a jerk.
“Fine. Ask again.” I slam the rest of the drink down and put the glass on the table, wincing at the fire that travels down my throat and into my stomach. It churns and burns down there like lava in a volcano. I pray it doesn’t erupt.
“Do. You. Like. Me? It’s so simple. Just answer the question.”
I take a deep breath and let it out loudly.
He takes my other hand and scoots closer so we’re just a foot apart.
“This is stupid.”
“Answer the question.”
“It’s totally juvenile. We’re adults.”
“Answer the question, Scarlett.”
“We have a business relationship.”
“You will be my slave. And I have to warn you … I’m getting really attached to the idea of ordering you around for a day.”
I think about him doing that, and if there weren’t going to be witnesses to my shame, it might actually be fun. But to imagine his group of bandmates, employees, and Scott as onlookers is to realize … no way in hell will that ever happen. And I might be a wimp and a freak sometimes, but I’m no one to back out of a bet, agreement, or any other kind of challenge.
“Yes. I like you. I like you a lot, okay? I wish I didn’t like you, because it’s really bad for business and really bad for me, but I do.” I sigh loudly. “There. I said it. Is it my turn yet?”
“No, because you haven’t given me everything. Let me help you.” He shifts even closer, staring into my eyes. “What kind of like are we talking here?”
“You already asked your question,” I say. My voice comes out a little weak because I’m getting lost in the dark green of his eyes. His eyeliner is smudged and it makes his irises glow with color.
“This is the same question, I’m just helping you answer completely. I’m doing you a favor since you find the idea of being my slave so unappealing.”
“What’s the question again?” I’m dizzy from the drinks, happy to think I might forget some of this by morning. I’d better forget this crap by morning or I’m going to have to get my money back on this alcohol.
“What kind of like are we talking here?” he says again.
I swallow, the sound so loud I’m sure he hears it. “The kind that is really stupid and dangerous and not allowed.”
“Explain.”
My nostrils flare. I’m afraid. He’s pushing me to say things I don’t want to say. “I can’
t.”
“Let’s talk slavery, then. We’ll start with you giving me an ass massage at nine a.m. Have I told you how much I like ass massages? Deep tissue all the way, baby, none of that feather touch stuff. And I have a hairy ass, too, let me tell you.”
“Fine, I’ll explain. Please don’t tell me about your hairy ass.” I’m barely holding back the laughter. My emotions are a mess. I’m ready to laugh, cry, and yell, all at the same time. There could also be vomiting involved.
I blink a few times, trying to just put on my professional face and get this over with. What a terrible idea this game was. “Okay, here’s the thing … I don’t get involved with clients. It’s bad business first of all, and second … I just don’t. Austin was my first love and my only love. Being with him … it just … messed me up, okay? I got seriously messed up being with him and I can’t do that to myself again. I almost didn’t make it out on the other side.”
He’s rubbing his thumbs on the tops of my hands. It’s strangely soothing, despite the fact that I’m saying things to him that I’ve never said to another human being. I’m not even sure I’ve said them to myself. And now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
“He was my everything. I fell in love with him in junior high. I was there when he picked up his first guitar. Every song he wrote was pretty much about our life together. We were kids, but we loved hard and we loved deep. And there was Scott in the middle of all of it, and he became like my little brother …” I shake my head with the memories, dropping my gaze to our linked hands. “When Austin came into the fame-and-fortune part of the business, I was there. I saw and felt him slipping away, but I didn’t realize how seriously bad it was until it was too late. He wouldn’t listen to me anymore or let me have any influence in his life. His new friends blew me off. His agent acted like I was nothing and encouraged Austin to keep us apart.” I’m upset at myself now. This is the worst part of my memories. “But I just didn’t try hard enough. I should have forced him to listen to me, to do what I knew was right. I should have punched that agent right in the fucking face and told him what I knew was going to happen.”