After the concert, after everyone has left, after they are done with discussing the details for tomorrow's event, he casually invites her to stay and help him finish up the champagne. As if it's still part of her job. Not a perk, a responsibility. He still imagines her in her perfect little Catholic school uniform, although she gives off the attitude of wearing a nun's severe black habit.
Champagne never gave him a buzz, so he still drinks it. It's the one alcohol that he still allows himself. Well, and a beer every now and then. But only when he's smoking a joint.
It's more out of habit to offer the rest to her, girls like champagne; it makes them bubbier. And it works with her. They've been flirting heavily in the past week. She even has been taking the lead. Maybe the rock star pheremone has gotten to her.
He approaches her, leading with his lips. A smooth, clean move that usually ends up in a kiss. But she's too giggly. He giggles a bit himself, more as a rescue than a genuine laugh.
"What is it?" he asks finally. The more he looks at her, the more beautiful he sees her. Young skin, pale against her dark hair; her smirk and the playfulness of her expressions. Levels of complexity in her eyes they he hadn't noticed before.
"You're the Rock Star. I can't do it. You were my boss, my rude boss, and now you are this rock star. All those women!! I just had no idea!"
"It's past midnight, would you kiss me if I went back to being your rude boss?"
She giggled at that even more; this was beginning to feel like rejection.
"I mean, lately, it seems like you want to . . ."
"Oh, I do!! I'm not backing out, or being a cock-tease or anything, I just have to stop giggling"
"Because from what you said the other night . . ."
They had come so close . . .. staying up late, planning the logistics for the concert/fundraiser. Getting him ready to be a star took more planning these days. Especially in that house still haunted by his ex wife. #2. How he used the word "Punk" to describe her. Or Goth. And how she misspelled "skeleton" on the wall of the Halloween room. Which ruined all pretensions to seriousness.
The girl had gotten a tour the first night they had gotten together to mail out "Save the Date" postcards. They had begun to make out stuffing envelopes for the detailed invitations. And just this week, the reminder donations had to be out exactly the night before the concert, by request of his boss. What had changed other than his incredible performance onstage? He found the same old fear of failure factor, present in his touring days. Not being able to live up to the rock star role in the bedroom. He was even intimidated by himself. But even Cary Grant is not Cary Grant all the time, and he had to figure out a way to stop being himself in the moment.
After a few more minutes of hesitation nuzzling, he got a brilliant idea.
"Why don't YOU be the Rock Star?"
What?
You just played an incredible concert and I am the star struck fan!
He dropped to his knees in a sexy, worshipful gesture.
More giggling.
But there was a certain light in her eyes.
How about if I go outside and come back in. Seriously! Give yourself a minute to prepare!!
While he was out of the room, she grabbed a feather boa, left behind by a rich and sloppy drunken admirer of too many years who had talked her way backstage and then up into the hotel room by doing god-knows-what to all the Security men. He recognized her and excused them for a period of no longer than 10 minutes. She was shocked when she imagined what actually happened. The boa ended up on a lamp. The hotel room had a certain Zsa Zsa Gabor overdone glamor which matched the groupie, and she played up the setting. Even adopting a terrible an inconsistent accent.
And so they began a charade, him declaring himself as "Roomservice" in a deep tone. A fan's story of sneaking into her hotel room.
She began to enjoy it.
And laugh like a woman in charge of herself.
Champagne never gave him a buzz, so he still drinks it. It's the one alcohol that he still allows himself. Well, and a beer every now and then. But only when he's smoking a joint.
It's more out of habit to offer the rest to her, girls like champagne; it makes them bubbier. And it works with her. They've been flirting heavily in the past week. She even has been taking the lead. Maybe the rock star pheremone has gotten to her.
He approaches her, leading with his lips. A smooth, clean move that usually ends up in a kiss. But she's too giggly. He giggles a bit himself, more as a rescue than a genuine laugh.
"What is it?" he asks finally. The more he looks at her, the more beautiful he sees her. Young skin, pale against her dark hair; her smirk and the playfulness of her expressions. Levels of complexity in her eyes they he hadn't noticed before.
"You're the Rock Star. I can't do it. You were my boss, my rude boss, and now you are this rock star. All those women!! I just had no idea!"
"It's past midnight, would you kiss me if I went back to being your rude boss?"
She giggled at that even more; this was beginning to feel like rejection.
"I mean, lately, it seems like you want to . . ."
"Oh, I do!! I'm not backing out, or being a cock-tease or anything, I just have to stop giggling"
"Because from what you said the other night . . ."
They had come so close . . .. staying up late, planning the logistics for the concert/fundraiser. Getting him ready to be a star took more planning these days. Especially in that house still haunted by his ex wife. #2. How he used the word "Punk" to describe her. Or Goth. And how she misspelled "skeleton" on the wall of the Halloween room. Which ruined all pretensions to seriousness.
The girl had gotten a tour the first night they had gotten together to mail out "Save the Date" postcards. They had begun to make out stuffing envelopes for the detailed invitations. And just this week, the reminder donations had to be out exactly the night before the concert, by request of his boss. What had changed other than his incredible performance onstage? He found the same old fear of failure factor, present in his touring days. Not being able to live up to the rock star role in the bedroom. He was even intimidated by himself. But even Cary Grant is not Cary Grant all the time, and he had to figure out a way to stop being himself in the moment.
After a few more minutes of hesitation nuzzling, he got a brilliant idea.
"Why don't YOU be the Rock Star?"
What?
You just played an incredible concert and I am the star struck fan!
He dropped to his knees in a sexy, worshipful gesture.
More giggling.
But there was a certain light in her eyes.
How about if I go outside and come back in. Seriously! Give yourself a minute to prepare!!
While he was out of the room, she grabbed a feather boa, left behind by a rich and sloppy drunken admirer of too many years who had talked her way backstage and then up into the hotel room by doing god-knows-what to all the Security men. He recognized her and excused them for a period of no longer than 10 minutes. She was shocked when she imagined what actually happened. The boa ended up on a lamp. The hotel room had a certain Zsa Zsa Gabor overdone glamor which matched the groupie, and she played up the setting. Even adopting a terrible an inconsistent accent.
And so they began a charade, him declaring himself as "Roomservice" in a deep tone. A fan's story of sneaking into her hotel room.
She began to enjoy it.
And laugh like a woman in charge of herself.
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