After our mutual stare-fest is over, I hold the door open, and I’m once again treated to a surprised smile and a stunned “thank you.”
We sit down in a corner booth. She orders Coke, and I get coffee and an order of chili cheese fries. “You want something to eat?” I ask her. I grabbed my hat from my saddlebag as I swung off the bike, and I cram it backward onto my head, to cover up my helmet hair.
“What you’re getting sounds fine,” she says.
“Then we’ll share,” I say. She just nods, and I decide to get a feel for the lay of the land. “So, that guy, Ben. Your boyfriend?”
“No!” she protests, a little too quickly, I think. She seems to realize it, too, and calms down immediately. “No. We grew up together. Our parents are best friends. We’ve lived across the street from each other since kindergarten.”
“He seemed awful protective of you. A little too much for just friends.”
She flicks at her straw with her tongue. It’s hot, and distracting. I watch her tongue rather than her face, and I wonder what she can do with that tongue of hers. I almost miss what she’s saying. “…always been protective. He looks out for me, that’s all.”
I stir my coffee, more to get myself to stop watching her tongue and her lips than because it needs stirring. “Looks at you, maybe. He wanted to kill me when you got on my bike. I did steal you from him.”
Her eyes darken, and she frowns. “Yeah, that’s probably not gonna go over well, later.”
“I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble,” I say.
She shrugs. “Nah. He’ll just be pissy. Why are we talking about Ben, anyway? Don’t you have a pick-up line to use on me?”
I grin. “I already used it, sweetness.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like it,” she says.
“Yes, you do,” I say.
She opens her mouth to protest again, but the waitress brings over my fries, which become our fries as Kylie reaches out and snags one. She tips her head back and takes a bite, chili and cheese dripping onto her chin. She even eats sexily. It’s unreal. The chili on her chin has to be scorching, and she’s trying to unwrap the napkin, but can’t get the sticky strip of paper undone. I don’t even think about it. I just reach out and brush the chili off with my thumb. Dumbass. But…damn, her skin is soft. And then, deliberately, I lick my thumb. Also stupid, and reckless, and bad for everyone involved.
She’s fixated on me, as if she can’t believe what just happened. I can’t, either. I don’t know what came over me. I’m not the charm-and-smarm kinda guy. A girl hangs with me, she knows what’s up. Mom and I, we’re nomads. We don’t stay anywhere long. So any relationship I have is, by nature, short-lived. Not gonna waste time on silly mush bullshit, like making a chick think I love her.
So why did I do that, touch her with my thumb that way? Sure, she’s hot, but it’s not like I’m staying in Nashville for long. A few semesters, finish out the degree. That’s it. So…what the hell, Oz?
I got nothin’.
“Where are you from, Oz?” she asks, by way of breaking the awkwardness.
I hate that question. “All over the place.”
“Your dad in the military or something?” She says it so innocently, no way of knowing how bitter I am about the topic of fathers.
I shrug, trying to keep the ever-present fury from my voice; it ain’t her fault. “No. Just Mom and me. And we just move a lot. Various reasons.” I don’t know why, is the real answer, but I’m not about to say that to this chick.
“You never knew your dad?” She levels a look at me, wiping at her cheek with her napkin. Her eyes are assessing, reading me, piercing me.
I shake my head. It’s all she’ll get out of me. “You got both your folks?”
She nods. “Yep.”
“What do they do?” I’m not just asking to get her off the topic of dads; I’m genuinely interested. Another bad sign.
Her eyes light up, and I envy her that joy. “They’re musicians. They’re Nell and Colt. They were signed to Columbia for a while, but they’re indie now. They have their own record label, and they actually just signed their first new artist.”
I’m a little impressed, actually. I know Nell and Colt. I’m a metalhead and will be till the day I die, but I’ve got a secret soft spot for singer/songwriter music. Thanks to my Mom, mainly. So we have music we can listen to together. She’s into hip-hop and pop and country, a bunch of stupid bullshit that I can’t stand. I had to find middle ground, so we could listen to music in the car on cross-country moves. Nell and Colt are pretty big in the singer/songwriter world, actually. I call it coffeehouse music, the kinda stuff you hear in little one-off hipster joints where they do art with the latte foam.
“I’ve heard of ’em,” I say. “I like ’em.”
Kylie blinks in surprise. “You—you have?” Her gaze flicks to my shirt, which features a skull with a rose growing from it, and a raven perched on the skull.
I wink at her. “I’m full of surprises, sweetness.”
She sighs. “Stop winking at me. And stop calling me ‘sweetness.’”
“You know that’s just gonna make me do it more, right?” I wink at her again, exaggerated. “Sweetness.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “Who even winks, anyway? I mean, really? Winking? Isn’t that for creepy uncles?”
I laugh. “I’m not a creepy uncle. But maybe you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. That’s why I said it. Duh.” She stuffs another cheese fry in her mouth, and again chili smears on the corner of her mouth.
I can’t help it. My hand reaches out by itself. My thumb touches her cheek, but her fingers encircle my wrist. Our eyes lock, my gray-brown eyes on her bluest blue, electric, fiery blue.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
“Why?” I match her volume; I don’t know why.
“I don’t like it.”
“You lie, sweetness. And why are we whispering?” I say it all sotto voce, and I know I sound stupid, using lines like that on her, but they just slip out.
I shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be acting like this chick could ever mean anything to me, or I to her. She’s got rich, famous parents. I mean, they’re not famous, but if you listen to the right kind of music, you’ve heard of ’em. They’ve even gotten some country station cross-over airplay. The point is, I’m a nobody drifter, with a nobody drifter mom. And Kylie? She’s got roots here in Nashville. Friends, family, the works.