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I rack up the balls and grab a cue, handing the other to Vince.
“Well, if you’re so good, you can go first.”
Vince leans over the table and steadies the cue. We match each other game for game, almost telepathically anticipating each other’s moves. Finally, at the end of the second game, Vince says, “If you lose, you have to kiss me.”
“What is this, elementary school?” I ask.
I aim my cue for the final ball, and I miss, but I don’t care. I walk around to Vince’s side of the table and loop my arms around his neck, standing on my toes. He cranes his face down toward me and captures my lips in his. He tastes like lime and the ever-present cigarette smoke. His hand finds the small of my back. I groan as I suck on his bottom lip. He slips his other hand into the back pocket of my jeans and squeezes my ass.
“Oh, I knew it! Apollo, you owe me $50!” Henry calls. We jump apart with a start.
“I lost a bet!” I accidentally yell.
“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days?” Apollo teases.
“Good for you two!” Henry says with a happy nod.
“I’m happy for you,” Apollo adds.
“But it’s … we’re,” I try to find the words, “… nothing serious,” but my mind is on the fritz.
“Keep it on the DL,” Vince supplies.
Henry and Apollo nod. “Obviously. The press would have a field day with this one, especially with what happened with you and Eve!”
Fuck. The press.
I only interact with the media in the most tertiary way, through cc’d emails for upcoming shows and fielding the occasional media request. But I keep forgetting that the lore surrounding the Imposters is a veritable media machine encompassing decades of gossip that their hungriest and most loyal fans crave. I wonder if I’ll have to invest in a pair of oversized sunglasses.
I rarely check social media, but I saw that the press eviscerated Vince after his breakup with Eve. Every third post says something about his ‘womanizing’ past, and my mom texted me the next day asking if he was ‘really that bad.’ Suffice it to say, the last thing I want is a dozen journalists probing into my and Vince’s ‘relationship,’ if you can call it that.
“Our lips are sealed,” Henry reassures us.
“Thank you,” I reply.
For a moment, Henry stares at me like he’s trying to figure out how and why Vince and I got together in the first place, but the neon jukebox in the corner quickly diverts his attention.
“Oh, no way!” Henry exclaims.
He and Vince rush over to the corner, and Vince starts digging through his pants pockets for quarters. They load up the jukebox queue with a ridiculous array of songs about sex, tractors, and sexy tractors.
As the twang fills the room, Vince grabs my waist and spins me around. We stumble onto the small dance floor in the center of the bar. Priya tries to teach us all how to line-dance, and we fail miserably.
Vince stomps on my toe, and I hop around, accidentally kneeing Henry. Soon, the three of us can’t stop laughing. Priyais grumbling about how this is why she never had a chance as a pop star.
The rest of the night is a blur of laughter and music. When a slow song comes on, I rest my head against Vince’s chest and listen to his heartbeat beneath the linen. I don’t have the energy to contemplate what will happen next. I love where I am now, drenched in the hazy light of the bar, enveloped in Vince’s solid frame.
Chapter 8
Vince
New York, NY
We have a rare day off in New York, and I fully intend to take advantage of it.
I start the day with an ever rarer, exciting interview with a meditation magazine I enjoy. It’s the fastest I’ve ever said yes to a media request. I give the journalist my email at the end and tell her to reach out if she’s ever in California.
I flop back onto the king-sized bed and let my arms splay out, stretching fully for the first time in days. Lyndsey booked us a hotel to correspond with our off day, so now, not only do I have time to myself, but I also have enough space to turn around when I shower. I can’t comprehend the luxury of it all.
