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“Which are both qualities your manager shouldn’t be,” she chirps back at me.
“Well good thing you’re not my manager anymore,” I assure her, although that’s a lie. There is nothing good about her not being our manager anymore. Nothing at all.
She bites her lip, looking like she wants to retort but then that beautiful smile covers her lips. It’s in her eyes too. A real smile. She is so damn pretty when she smiles.
She pats the space next to her on the couch. I don’t have to be told twice. I make my way to her, trying not to notice her checking me out with her side-eyed glance. My t-shirt—black of course—is tight across my muscles, I may or may not have involuntarily flexed as I sat down.
“See something you like, Miss Cannock?” I ask her, tongue in my cheek. She shakes her head at me but she’s still smiling.
“I’ve never had a problem with spending my days looking at you. You know that, Mr Baines.” Her eyes find me. “Neither have the rest of the female population, your face has kept me in a healthy wage for a long time so thanks for that.”
Is she flirting with me? I’m not sure if I can tell anymore.
“Pleased to be of some sort of service.” I laugh nervously. She shuffles in her seat but then she kicks off her patent black heels. She curls her feet up on the couch next to me. It’s a move she’s done a million times before when she’s wanted to get comfortable. It’s one of those stupid things I’ve always wanted her to do in my house. I want her to be at home here. I keep my hand steady on my glass as she takes a large sip out of hers. It’s already nearly empty.
“Do you want another?” I nod at her glass.
“No. I want to be sober when I do this.” Her eyes find mine.
“Do what?”
“When I tell you the truth about how you made me feel that night.”
I gulp. It’s a loud noise, that almost rattles around the room as Ali clears her throat. The Sonos speaker system in the living room is treating us to my current playlist and not even that could cover my gulp.
“Max, I know I just said not to talk about this, but it’s why I came here. To clear any foggy air between us. To be able to see you in a crowded room and not freeze in panic like I did the other night.”
“You covered it pretty well if you were nervous, Ali.”
“Please, let me finish. Okay?”
I nod, adjusting myself onto the sofa, trying not to look so starched and stiff.
“Max, when we first met you were like a rabbit caught in the headlights. You and your then two and shortly after that three best mates. You were only nineteen when you were pushed into a world of fame. Of sex and drugs and alcohol—Rock ‘n’ roll. You were scared, but you had this resolve, this streak of pride. That whatever you were given you could do, that you would do because you tried so hard to be the best. You were spunky, yes, but that’s only because that’s what the label made you. You were a young kid from London who constantly talked about his mum and his little sister and how they’d ‘go crazy if they could see this.’ I always admired you, Max. Admired how tough you were, because this world is not easy, not everybody is cut out for it…” she pauses, her fingers running up and down the stem of her nearly empty wine glass. My eyes are wide as I watch her.
“I always felt lucky because I knew the real Max Baines. You let me in to see you. The real you. Not the act you play on the stage to the masses. The broken lad from South London with the big heart behind that bad boy exterior. I watched with wide eyes the revolving door of beautiful women in and out of your dressing room and I never let it hurt me because I knew they didn’t even get a glimpse of the real you. The boy I thought I knew.” She clears her throat. I know she’s not done though. I watch her, study the way her full lips form each word, her brow furrows as she speaks. Her accent is proper middle England, she could hold herself in any room. My South London drawl always labels me instantly as being a poor boy from Crystal Palace.
“Max, when we were in San Diego, I knew how broken you were and you came to me, I genuinely thought that maybe we were old enough, there was enough water under the bridge, your career was established enough for us to maybe think about how we could make it work, this strange push and pull we’ve always hidden. But then you proved me wrong by the time we got to Los Angeles.”
Those last words sting. They physically hurt me. I feel bile crawling up my throat as I watch her glassy eyes, she wipes a tear away as she puts her wine glass down on the coffee table. Instinctively I lean into her, my hand on her chin tipping so her eyes have to look directly at me. Her skin is so soft under my course, calloused fingers.
“I’m still him, Ali. I don’t know where he’s gone, he’s hidden underneath these layers of wanting to be a big bad rock star and Britain’s biggest fuck up. But that small-town wannabe wide-boy. The one with the big heart. He’s still here. The guy who sat in that bar in San Diego and told you the truth about how scared he was, about how you seem to be the only constant in his life. He’s me. He might be scared, but he’s still here.”
She pins me with one look. One look of those beautiful, bold green eyes. I’m not sure if I’m in control of my body or not. Either way I’m leaning in and pressing my lips to hers.
