“You may be right,” I admit. “I have a thought, so this is me … saying it: I reckon your whole ‘abstinence is easier than moderation’ mindset is how you operate, top to bottom. You’re all or nothing. It colors how you view your career and the relationships with the band and crew. You’re all-in with yourfriends. But no one else gets past the guard stationed at your front door.”
She looks at me appraisingly and then nods.
“Excellent armchair analysis.”
She’s not denying it? She’s not offended? I didn’t want her to be, but I dropped a doozy of a truth bomb. Except, she’s self-aware enough that it’s not a truth bomb at all. Not to her.
“Is that how you see yourself?” I ask.
She shrugs, but it’s in acknowledgment. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but yeah. I told you when you signed on that I don’t do distractions, and when it comes down to it, everything you mentioned serves the same purpose: no distractions, all success.”
“I bet your exes had a field day with that.”
“If I had any, I’d bet they’d agree.”
“‘If?’”I pause, aware she’s about to bust my chops for my one-word answer. “You don’t have any exes?”
She drains the last drop of her Dr Pepper and crushes the can in one hand.
“Sugar, I’ve never even kissed a guy.”
No way.
Has she seen herself? Met herself?
She’s too pretty, too captivating, too … infuriating for that to be true.
“You can’t expect me to believe you’ve never been kissed.”
“I didn’t say that. I saidI’venever kissed a guy.”
“Same thing.”
“No it ain’t.”
Her accent gets thicker the sassier she gets, and the sassier she gets, the more Southern her grammar gets, too.
Knowing she’s retired from a successful legal career for some reason makes this habit of hers …
Hotter.
It’s hotter than a muggy day in August.
“Saying I’ve never been kissed sounds like I’ve never had a shot—like I’m some poor wilting wallflower waitin’ to be noticed so I can finally bloom. That ain’t the problem. I’ve never liked a guy enough to even let him try. I send ‘em packin’ like a bouncer with a blacklist.”
Her words keep pinging off me, refusing to sink in.
But it’s because I’m afraid to really see her—to view her as anything other than a diva or a man-eater, although I know she’s neither.
It’s easier to think of her that way, though.
Because this complex, driven, kind-hearted woman is too nuanced for what I want out of our relationship.
I’m her sound tech.
Her substitute bodyguard.
But she’s like an intricate sonata, with unexpected key changes and complex chords. And just when you think you have a hold on the piece, it surprises you with a new phrase that leaves you fumbling to catch up.
