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“Yeah, but maybe they’re assuming that because of the way you’re acting.”
“Is this a chicken-egg argument?” I finally relent with a smile. What came first, the chicken or the egg?What happened first, me acting like a Ben’s assistant or people treating me like Ben’s assistant?In retrospect, I’m not sure.
“Look, I don’t know, maybe I should have done a better job of integrating you into conversations instead of just making the first introduction and then leaving you to fend for yourself,” Ben says abashedly, running his hand over his scruff. “I’m sorry, Lace. I guess you were so confident after the interview today, I didn’t think you’d need any help. I just wish…” His voice trails off as if he’s hesitating whether or not he should say something.
“Yes?”
“I just wish you wouldn’t be so sensitive about it.”
I feel a knot form in my stomach and I grit my teeth in annoyance.
“I think any girl you brought here would be offended by people assuming she’s your assistant,” I reply archly, trying to keep the ice out of my voice.
“Yeah, but you know, it’s weird with our situation.”
Situation. The word hangs heavy in the air between us. He used it earlier before too, sending me into a tailspin. Situation. Not ‘relationship.’
“We’re playing it safe right now,” Ben rushes on, “focusing on the professional side of things. Once the media hubbub dies down, then it will get easier.”
“Will it?” I ask, truly wondering if this is the case.
“I’m sure of it,” Ben replies, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around me in a big bear hug. He doesn’t try to kiss me or make any other more intimate gesture. I guess a hug is safe enough in his view but more than that would have his #SiblingFckr set in stone.
“Okay,” I sigh. “Why don’t we get back out there,” I point to the main room, “and you can try to convince me that this is the best place in LA.”
“Is that a challenge?” Ben asks with a grin.
“Yep. You may have won me over, Benjamin Colt, but this piano bar has yet to convince me. Show me I’m wrong.”
“You got it,” Ben replies eagerly, grabbing my hand and pulling me back toward the main room. But just as we’re about to step into the main room, he drops my hand, glancing briefly over his shoulder with an apologetic look. I can see the thoughts on his face:#SiblingFckr #IncestRocker. Well, I can’t fault him for wanting to make sure that stigma doesn’t follow him for the rest of his career.
Back out in the main room, Ben steers me toward the center, to the piano. Of course, we immediately run into some of Ben’s ‘friends’ again. But I can tell that this time he makes a point of not only introducing me to them but also engaging me in the conversation. He tells people I’m an awesome poet and that I could write song lyrics, creating a discussion that I can actually take part in. He also gets me another vodka soda from the bar. I can tell that he’s trying to be more inclusive and more attentive to me, and that’s all I freaking wanted.
Was that so hard?
Despite the fact that he’s trying harder, I can’t shake the memory of his words or forget the harsh tone he’d had when he used them.Don’t just stand there like a wallflower. The phrase echoes in my mind, over and over. Despite my irritation, I can tell that Ben is trying, so I try too. I chatter with his music industry people. I dance with him by the piano. I even sing along when he takes a seat and plays a peppy version of Elton John’sRocket Man.
After he’s done playing, Ben comes over to me with a big smile.
“So, are you sold on this place yet or what?”
“Okay, I am having more fun now than I was before,” I admit.
“Yeah, see? You’ve just got to go for it. Everybody here is a little wild, but that’s the fun of it. You get to be wild too,” he says.
“It’s definitely a good place to let loose,” I acknowledge. I’m not sure if it’s the second drink that has me more relaxed or if the mood of this place really is infectious, but Iamstarting to enjoy myself here. I can certainly see the allure for a guy like Ben. It’s got music, fun, and friends—even though I’m still questioning whetheranyof these people are reallyfriends-friends.
“Hey, Ben! Ben!” A burly man with a large beard and wild long hair pushes his way over to us. “Long time no see, man! Where have you been?”
“Ah, just taking some time off to write some new material,” Ben replies, shaking the man’s hand happily. “Hey, Hurricane, I want you to meet Lacy, she’s an awesome poet who I’m trying to get into songwriting,” he adds with a wink to me.
I pause, slightly star-struck, as the huge bearded guy extends his hand to me. It’s Hurricane Jones, guitarist and lead singer of probably the best-known heavy metal band in the freaking world. I mean, I don’t listen to heavy metal music, but Istillknow who he is. I’d wondered why he looked familiar when first came over and now I have no doubt. I’ve seen plenty of his head-banging music videos and clips of his live shoes.
“Nice to meet you,” I squeak out the words as I take his large burly hand in mind.
“You too! Hey, don’t let Ben here drag you to the dark side of songwriting. Poetry is cool stuff. The world needs more poets.”
“Thank you. Do you write too?” I ask curiously.
