I shake my head and work on peeling the label from my beer bottle. “Taking a break.”
“Your call or hers?”
“Hers, but it’s fine. I thought a lot about what you said, and it was hard to pinpoint why we were together. A break is probably the best thing for us right now.”
“Plenty of fish in the sea,” Evan says, though it’s lukewarm. I know he’s a changed man now that he’s married with kids. Dating random women isn’t part of his lifestyle anymore.
“I did make a new friend,” I offer.
“A female friend?”
I hold back a grin at the thought of Billie. Yes, she is very, very female. I have to physically stop myself from drifting off into the thoughts I’ve had about her ever since our night together.
“Okay, so I’m going to assume yes,” Evan says. “Who is she?”
“Billie. We met doing the PR thing with the Crush Foundation Music Workshop at the boys and girls club I told you about before.”
“Oh? You’re teaching kids how to play guitar, right?”
“Right. It’s actually a lot of fun. I’m really liking it.”
He makes a surprised face.
“What?”
“Well, now, Cal,” he says while taking another pull from his beer, “I just haven’t seen you get excited about much since you got to Vegas. And here you are grinning over a girl and telling me you’re having fun with a volunteer gig.”
My mouth pops open. I’m not sure how to respond, but he’s right.
Evan Kazmeirowicz gives me a wide grin and claps me a hard one on the back. “Be careful, young keeper; someone might think you’re happy here in Las Vegas.”
I meet Billie at a tiny, dimly lit LA restaurant that looks like a whole lot of nothing compared to some of the flashy places I’ve seen in Vegas. She’s already there when I arrive, looking amazing in black jeans, tall boots, and a black and white plaid shirt. Her hair is in a long braid. There’s something wild about the way she looks. She’s really put together, but she still looks like she’ll fit right in at a rock concert. Maybe it’s the gleam in her dark eyes or the mischievous way her mouth curves. Whatever it is, I have to hold myself back from kissing her right here in front of the hostess.
“Hey,” she says with a little wave and a big smile. “Glad you found me here okay.” I could find you in a crowd with no problem at all.
I look around at the simple environment. “I thought I had the wrong place when the cab pulled up here.”
“I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s delicious. Your belly will be happy after you eat here.”
“Okay. I trust you.”
She grins and gives the hostess a thumbs-up. We follow, heading back to a two-top table in a secluded alcove. I pull out her chair, and she sits, thanking me.
She chooses the wine, and then we look over the menu for a few minutes. I find my eyes sliding frequently to take in the fullness of her lips, the prominence of her nose. She’s such a unique woman, beautiful in a way I can barely process. I want desperately to unclothe her again, to take in every inch of her body. I want to hear her crying out when she’s coming like she did during our night together. It’s all I can think about.
She asks what I’m having, and I force my mind back to the menu. I rattle off the first thing I see. “Good choice,” she tells me.
After our order is in, she focuses her attention on me. “I’m getting the feeling your mind is somewhere else tonight, Cal. Would you rather not go to the show?”
I recoil, surprised by the question. “What? No.”
“You just seem…distracted. If you don’t want to go out, I understand.”
“No, I want to go out,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry, I—”
“You what?”
“I’m finding myself distracted, that’s true. By you. By how you look tonight. I think you’re really beautiful, Billie.”
Her cheeks alight with color as she grins and swats at me like she’s swatting away the compliment. “Oh. Well, then.”
“Let’s talk about something,” I suggest. “Music? Since we’re going to a show?”
“Well, I like rock and alternative primarily, but I’ll listen to anything that’s musically or lyrically interesting,” she offers, the blush in her cheeks still clearly visible. Compliments make Billie blush. Duly noted—as I make plans to give her more compliments throughout our evening. Seeing Billie blush really works for me. A. Whole. Fucking. Lot.
“Do you find yourself listening for the drumbeats in songs since you’re a drummer?”
“I used to.” She twirls her braid in her hand and I’m fascinated. “It was all I could hear when I was first learning, and I’d put on my headphones and try to match beats. I taught myself to play that way. Now, though, unless something is particularly interesting or complex, I try to let go of the layers and hear the whole song. What about you? Are you a guitar-riff kind of guy when you listen to music?”
“No. I just enjoy music. Playing the guitar was something I did just to see if I could do it. I found that I had an aptitude for it so I kept playing, but I’m not very creative, so I can’t write. I can only repeat what I hear or play from sheet music.”
“Interesting,” she says with another rotation of her braid, the electric purple of the last two inches or so of her braided hair flashing as it whips through her fingers.
She rattles off a long list of bands she loves. Some I’ve heard of, and others are more obscure. We have plenty in common, though, and I find that I enjoy just talking with her. I’m loosening up in Billie’s presence in a way I don’t usually loosen up with people. She does most of the talking because, let’s be honest, I’m not the best conversationalist. Either way, it feels comfortable and good to me in a way I can’t recall because I’ve never experienced it before. I would know if I had. I might suck at sharing my feelings and emotions, but I am crystal fucking clear on when I’m feeling relaxed and comfortable and good all together at the same time.
The room is warm and candlelit, and Billie’s cheeks are flushed as she pours herself a second glass of wine from the bottle we ordered. I’m still sipping my first and she offers me a pour, but I decline.
“Not a wine guy?” she asks.
One side of my face scrunches up ruefully. “Not really, no. More of a beer guy.”
“That seems right to me. Well, order a beer then.”
I shake my head. “I’m good with this wine you picked.”
Our salads come and I ask her about her family, to which she makes a face, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
“My parents are both in the entertainment business here in Los Angeles. You’ll meet them this weekend if you’re still up for the role of fake boyfriend?”
“I’m still up for it, though I don’t really know why anyone like you would ever need a fake boyfriend. I’m sure you can get a real one on your own.”
“Oh, the sweet things you say,” she says with a laugh. “It’s not that I can’t get a boyfriend. It’s that I don’t have one at the moment and my mother does not need to be meddling in my love life.”