Playing For Keeps

by Weston, Dani

  “I don’t know what you like to drink in the morning, so I ordered one of each.”

  Normally, I would reach for the mimosa, preferring the tickling, lifting bubbles for brunch. But my stomach still felt like fireflies were flitting through it, so I passed on the champagne in favor of the tea packet marked “Calming Blend.”

  Kevin’s forehead wrinkled at my choice, but he didn’t comment on it. He hadn’t said anything at all since we got here, beyond justifying his ordering methods. His silence was intense, captivating, disruptive of my nerves.

  “I’ve never been here,” I admitted, searching for something to say. I didn’t want to ask all the questions swarming in my head for fear of looking needy, unsophisticated, uncertain.

  “I don’t come here too often,” he said.

  “Right.” My voice came out a little stiffer than I’d wanted it to. Or maybe I did want that tinge of sharpness. Maybe I wanted to let Kevin know I wasn’t just his plaything, even if he was this year’s Sexiest Man Alive. Even if he had people groveling at his feet to do his bidding. Even if he held my musical future in the palm of his hand.

  And had done other things with the palms of his hands.

  And, for some reason, my tone worked on him. He raised his arm to rest on the table and laughed. A slow, chesty sound. I liked it. I relaxed enough under his smile.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is…unusual for me. I don’t mix business and pleasure. I don’t know how to.”

  I blinked at him and sipped my tea. Set the mug back on the table and traced the line of the handle with my fingertip. I asked, cautiously, “How much of a mix is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. He brought his hands together and rested his elbows on the table in an inverted V. “My family’s from northern Louisiana.”

  “Yes…it’s nice to have that in common.”

  “I think we’ll discover more things as time goes on.” He leaned back against the booth. “I bring my home state up because I want you to understand something. The music you play? It speaks to me. My mother owned a café. Smokey Sal’s. Named for my grandmother. She played the blues and every Saturday morning I’d get up at the crack of dawn to help Mama fry sausage for her famous gravy and cut potatoes for her home fries. But what I remembered best was that every Saturday morning she’d put on these old vinyl records of Grammy playing her music. She was never big-time, Grammy, but the locals knew her songs. She toured with other southern musicians. She even had a romance with one. I didn’t learn about that until I was older. It wasn’t my grandpappy, it was someone else and apparently it ended in a grand, passionate fashion.” Kevin laughed. “But those Saturday mornings…we’d sing. Mama danced while she folded biscuits. When I heard you play, not at the meeting, but at the club, I went back to those Saturday mornings. You have a sound. A certain sound.”

  I fingered the linen napkin on the table. “Local Jackson taught me well.”

  “I liked what you told me about Local Jackson at the meeting with your band. I like that we both come from that place.”

  I knew he didn’t mean Louisiana. Not specifically. More that we both came from the old school, that we both loved and respected the people who’d made music before us and honored that by merging it into the music we made now. At least, I did. I felt a river of boldness flow through me.

  “So why make the music you make? The thin, poppy stuff?”

  He looked away for a second as the server—no, three servers—brought trays loaded with plates. Conversation between us lulled as the plates were packed onto our table. My eyes widened.

  “Hungry?” I asked Kevin.

  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered one of everything.”

  To my surprise, I discovered that I was famished. We’d worked hard last night and, dinner seemed so long ago. All the food looked so good. Thick slices of custardy French toast covered with fruit, cream and caramelized nuts; eggs benedict with smoked salmon, crab, avocado and a hollandaise sauce so fresh I could smell the bright lemon; briny shrimp over a bowl of buttery blue cheese grits; rustic breads with warm goat cheese, roasted vegetables and fresh herbs; slow roasted short ribs in a rich wine sauce. Salads and steaks and preserved duck and flavored foams and crystalline bits of food I didn’t have a name for. I hardly knew where to begin.

  “What’s your favorite?” I asked, debating between the eggs benedict and a seared ahi tuna and caviar tower thing with vegetables that looked a little like asparagus.

  “I like sweet for breakfast,” Kevin answered, angling a plate with a napoleon-like pastry on it, all layers of flaky dough, crème patisserie and tropical fruits. I nodded absently, then met his eyes. The depth of them startled me and as they swept over my face, down my neck, and then over my chest, a knowing glint in them, I realized the sweetness he was talking about wasn’t the food.

  I looked away quickly and cleared my throat. What was it about Kevin that knocked me off-kilter? He wasn’t much older than me, if at all, and his gestures were subtle enough to not feel heavy and clumsy. Actually, he was more real than I ever thought he would be. I wasn’t the kind of woman who usually let a man get to her like this. I liked to flirt, to take charge. I took pride in my strength, my ability to be unflappable. And then this silly pop singer goes and cracks my glass with a look. What was I so scared of? Somewhere, deep down, there was worry that he was playing a game. That there was no such thing as “real” Kevin. That it was all an act to get me into bed. But then…why would he need to bother? He could have any woman under the sun.

  And maybe that was why I was feeling so insecure.

  “I’m a fan of savory, myself,” I said. I reached for the tuna and caviar tower and took a bite of the weird vegetable. It was crisp and bursting with a salty, sea flavor. I loved it immediately and promised myself I would find more. But Kevin was watching my lips as I took another bite and my neck flared with heat. It was funny how the more simple things, like breakfast, were the most intimate. He was making it difficult to eat. I set down my fork.

  “We’ve had lots of fun,” I said, wiping my hands on my napkin. My tone was sharp. Relating a level of strength I didn’t quite feel. A level I just wanted to have. So I pretended. “And I’m impressed by how much food you’ve decided to waste, but you’re right. We need to figure out the business versus pleasure thing.”

  I switched my drink and took a sip of the Mimosa. I needed a little liquid courage after talking like that to someone who could destroy my dreams.

  I paused. When did I get so set on realizing these dreams? Bea was the one who pushed us to see Duncan and Jimmy Keats. I, on the other hand, had settled on my path. Was doing well in my business classes. Had a stack of MBA program applications on my desk in my room at Delta Gamma right now. Was it possible I was kidding myself? That I was doing too good a job of ignoring the little flame of hope lit in my belly? It hurt to fail. Everyone knew that. So maybe I was being proactive, pretending I didn’t want this music contract to shield myself against the worst possibilities. And suddenly, the way I sighed at and snarked at and had been impatient with Bea made me feel like a monster. She’d hoped. Every step of the way. And that was courageous. She was stronger than us all. A rush of love for my best friend brought a smile to my face.

  Kevin set his silverware down, too. “I would answer your question, but I’m too intrigued by your smile. What is going through that beautiful head of yours?”

  “Do you toss out compliments like you toss out food?”

  “No. Money is easy for me to come by. Sincerity costs more.”

  My glance drifted down to his full lips and I thrilled with the memory of what it was like to touch them, to press mine against them. I looked down at my plate.

  “Why am I here?” I said, quietly.

  “Do you want the easy, money version or the hard, sincere version?”

  He was playing with fire. I was playing with fire, sitting here, taking even two seconds to ponder my answer. My response should hav
e been quick. Impersonal. This was business and it should be kept that way. But my eyes deceived me again, working their way up his chest and slender neck, over his strong jaw and that mouth I wanted to hear tell me I was beautiful again.

  I thought about Bea. I owed her so much. I licked my lips and nearly faltered at the ghost of a smile that played in the corner of Kevin’s mouth.

  “The money version.”

  If that wasn’t the answer Kevin wanted, he didn’t let on. He wiped his mouth, drank some coffee, and cleared his face of any playfulness.

  “I know Bea is the mouthpiece of the band,” he said. “But I also know you write the music, and that matters to me, more. I want to give you ladies a shot. But there’s a lot of work to do before I’ll consider signing you to anything. I do actually need to see you dance, like it or not. And there needs to be some reimaging of all of you. I’ll pay for all that, as an investment on my own interest. You will never owe me for it. It’s a better deal that you’ll get with any other producer. Then we’ll hit the studio and see if our styles and interests click where it really counts. If it does, then Ladies in Waiting just might become my first real project. And right now, with how big my name is? You’ll rocket to the top.”

  He wasn’t being boastful when he mentioned his popularity. No, it was just a fact. And he wanted to use it to make my band something great. Our path was paved with gold. My brain swirled with possibilities, each one glittering with light bulbs and stage lighting and effervescent smiles. And great shoes.

  “I need to talk to my bandmates,” was all I could think to say.

  Kevin nodded to someone in the distance and within seconds the servers were there, clearing our plates. “I wouldn’t have expected anything different. In the meantime, consider what the hard, sincere version was.”

  He held my gaze, emphasizing the word “hard” and I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. I wanted him to tell me that version, right then and there. Wanted him to take control in a way I never allow anyone else.

  I pursed my lips and thought about how the hard version could never work. How it would be too difficult to manage business and pleasure. Even I knew that. Our fun was over. It had to be. “I’ll have Bea call you. And when I call you? It’ll be by the name Jimmy Keats.”

  *

  There were people waiting outside Lalique when we finished out meal and left the restaurant.

  “Jimmy!” Photographers called, flashing camera bulbs.

  “Jimmy!” Women screamed.

  Hands reached for him, grasping around me, shoving me. Restaurant staff interfered, but by Jimmy’s dark expression, they were late.

  “That wasn’t cool,” Jimmy said to the valet driver who brought his car around. To me, he said, “That place is usually classier than that. I’m sorry.” Jimmy slammed my door. I waited for him to take the driver’s seat and tried to parse out my nerves from the screaming and shoving, and my excitement at the celeb treatment. It was confusing to both want and not want it.

  Jimmy Keats dropped me off at home, and when we arrived, I was grateful to escape from the car. The air had been thick with his frustration over the crowds, as well as silent questions and intention, all wrapped in a bow of intense sexual tension. I wanted him to touch me. I needed him not to be so damn sexy.

  Business.

  I was a business major. I knew how I needed to handle things. To handle myself.

  But knowing didn’t make it any easier. My skin itched for his fingers.

  When I closed the Delta Gamma door behind me, listening for the sound of his car fading down the street, I finally let out a breath. Diya, lounging in the front room with a pile of textbooks, saw me walk in. She gave me an unreadable look and tilted her chin towards our bedroom.

  Bea straightened her shoulders when I went in, as though she’d been sitting that way the whole time, even though I could see the pink spot on the side of her face that revealed she’d probably napped half the morning away on my turquoise comforter.

  “I texted you last night and you never texted me back,” she accused, right off the bat.

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Whoa. Where is this coming from? I was busy. I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you were busy. I know who with.”

  “Who, Bea?” My eyes wandered to my window. Testing her knowledge felt strange. I should have been curled up next to her, right now, dishing all the details of my time with Jimmy, not holding back, as though I had something to hide from her. But her accusatory tone made me feel like I’d done something wrong.

  She didn’t like my answer, either. I could see it in the set of her jaw.

  “Why are you keeping secrets from me?”

  That accusation. Again.

  “What secrets?” I sat on the edge of my bed. Why were we playing this game with each other?

  Her chin trembled. “Are you doing this without us? Dumping us…like that other girl group? Remember, a few years ago? They just kicked Bev out.”

  This time, her question genuinely surprised me. I didn’t know what girl group she was referring to, or who Bev was, or where on earth she got the impression I would dump her.

  “Dump you? What are you talking about? Bea, geez, stop beating around the bush and just tell me what your problem is.”

  “My problem?”

  I dialed my tone back. “Okay, I shouldn’t have said it like that, but you keep going on about where I was and who I was with--.”

  “And you still won’t tell me!”

  My temper flared. Bea was sensitive, but this was getting ridiculous. “You seem to know everything, so why don’t you tell me!”

  “Please. Even if I hadn’t seen him at Filth. Just before you blew the rest of us off. When I let it go because you seemed clueless. When I thought you would have wised up when you realized who he was at the meeting with Duncan. And even if Diya hadn’t told me you’d gone out with him, I would have known. Want to know how?” Bea flung her tablet at me. I caught it quickly, terrified of letting the technology fall on the floor and shatter. The screen was set on a celebrity gossip page. And the top story? Who is that girl with Jimmy Keats at Lalique? I closed my eyes briefly and set the tablet on my desk. Shit, they were fast.

  Bea nodded and crossed her arms. “Why would you jeopardize our chances like this?”

  “Wait. Hold it right there. Is that why you’re upset? You think I’ve ruined everything? I’m not jeopardizing anything.” I sighed in exasperation. “It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell you about it.”

  “Um, you haven’t so far. I just tried to get you to and you wouldn’t spill.”

  “And that means you don’t know everything, doesn’t it?” But she was right. I was holding my secrets close. Partly because I didn’t know what to make of everything, yet. Mostly because of the way she accused me right off the bat. I was being defensive, when I should have been open. The whole time. From the moment I’d discovered who Kevin-slash-Jimmy was. It was hard to put all the pieces together so I could explain things to her. How she mattered to me more than anyone. How I was enjoying myself with Jimmy Keats. How I knew I had to keep my focus on other things.

  “Okay, so I spent a night with a man I didn’t even know was Mr. Current God of the World. So?”

  “And then you were with him again, after you found out who he was. After you should have known better,” Bea said.

  “I didn’t ruin our chances! I’m sorry he saw me first at Filth. I’m sorry it wasn’t you. I know you have such a crush on him—on this part of him that isn’t even real. It’s a celeb crush!”

  “Oh, but you know him so well now. After two dates. Oh my God, Court. You are sooo cool. And my little celeb crush is sooo twee.”

  I plopped down on my bed with a sigh. “That’s not what I meant. Come on, Bea.”

  Bea stood, her hands clasped into fists at her sides. “Don’t ‘Come on, Bea’ to me, Miss I’m So Worldly and Smug Holier Than Thou. Being cynical about everything does not make you better
than us. Yeah, your being with Jimmy could screw up all our chances. Not only that, but it sucks that you have a thing with him that the rest of us don’t. Secrets. Do you think you speak for the rest of us? Do you think that just because you write our music that you get every final say?”

  I spun on Bea. “Maybe! Maybe there wouldn’t be a Ladies in Waiting if not for me and that means something! And maybe I’m not the only one who thinks that!”

  I bit back the rest of my words as Bea’s expression changed. That wasn’t what she had expected to hear. It’s not what I meant, either. Not really. I knew how hard Bea and Kaitlin worked for our band. I valued them so much. She’d wanted me to deny her accusations. Assure her that we were all in this together. That I would put the interests of the band above my own. Prove that I did care, did hope, wasn’t a selfish princess.

  And I’d failed.

  “Bea,” I said, softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Ladies would be nothing without you. It’s just complicated.”

  “It’s harder to take back words than to have just never said them in the first place,” she snapped. “Keep it all to yourself. Whatever Jimmy Keats wants from you that he doesn’t want from the rest of us. Go be his new fling and his bassist or solo artist or whatever fluffy, poppy thing you pretend you hate so much. He’ll find a new one once he gets sick of your crap. You’re full of shit, Courtney Dreger.”

  With that speech, Bea flounced from my bedroom, leaving me feeling about an inch tall. I sank onto my pillows and covered my face with my hands. I hadn’t handled that well. And yeah, there was something right in how wrong it was that Jimmy Keats wanted to be with me, but I couldn’t let that get in the way of my friendships or my band. He wasn’t worth it. I knew that. It was why I told him we had to back off anything beyond business. So why hadn’t I said that to Bea?

  I grabbed my phone, ready to call Bea with my apology. But my thumb hesitated over her number on my screen. Telling her Jimmy Keats and I had agreed that our fling was over cemented my decision to draw that line. And while I knew in my head that I needed to tow that line, there were other parts of me that didn’t want to obey.