Twenty-Nine
TWENTY-NINE
ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS, SHIT
Kick bumps hips with me as I’m bent over pulling my suitcase out from the bay underneath the bus. I look up at him over my shoulder with a question.
“I can’t eat one more deli tray lunch from catering,” he says with a groan.
“Sliced cheese finally lost its appeal, huh?”
“What do you say we see what St. Louis has to offer?”
It’s a loaded question. Even though we spend every day together, sleep three feet apart, eat every meal together and flirt relentlessly on stage every night, Kick and I don’t hang out. It’s easier to avoid The Big Questions when we don’t allow room for them to materialize.
“Where would we go?”
There’s a twinkle in his eye. “Somewhere that isn’t a venue.”
His offer does sound pretty great. I’m beyond tired of cold cuts and potato salad. I shove my suitcase back into the bay and gesture to myself. I’m wearing denim cut-offs and a hot pink sports bra under a stretched out Weezer t-shirt. “This okay?” I say, gathering my hair into a haphazard knot at the crown of my head.
“You’re perfect.” He holds his phone out in front of him, moving right past the perfect comment. “I found this site that has all the fun things to do in downtown St. Louis. I say we scroll, stop on something random and go do that.”
“I thought you said we could get lunch. Sushi?”
He squints at me. “I don’t trust sushi in a landlocked state.”
“Fair, but doesn’t a spicy tuna roll sound so good right now?”
I know he likes spicy tuna rolls from a conversation I overheard between him and the Vampire Twins talking about desert island foods. He said he loved spicy tuna rolls but didn’t think they qualified since raw fish would be plentiful in an island situation.
“A loaded burger bigger than my face sounds so good right now,” he counters.
“How about we rock paper scissors for it? I win, we find some non-suspicious sushi. You win, we find a sports bar and you can get the biggest, greasiest burger of your dreams with an extra side of mayo.”
“How do you know I like mayo on my burgers?”
“Don’t you?”
Kick rolls his eyes and tucks his phone under his arm. He places his left fist in his right hand. I match him, counting down.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”
He shoots a rock and I shoot scissors.
“Burger it is,” I say as he cries, “yes!”
I follow him around the buses and back into the venue.
“Shouldn’t be we going the other direction?” I ask. “St. Louis is that way.”
“We’re a mile or so from the action. A tour runner can take us over there and drop us off.”
So, this wasn’t a spontaneous lunch invite. He thought about it.
“What were you going to do if I’d said no?”
“Go with Miguel and Mateo.”
I can’t help the twinge of disappointment that shoots through my chest. “You’d really choose to spend the day listening to their theories about why Kiefer Sutherland’s vampire is far superior to Brad Pitt’s vampire?”
“Personally, I prefer Ian Somerhalder.”
“Who’s that?”
He startles, stopping in his tracks. “You’ve never watched The Vampire Diaries ?”
“Cass claims I am pop culture illiterate when it comes to film and TV. She keeps a list on her phone of shows and movies I need to watch before I die. Anyway, why do you have a favorite vampire? Don’t tell me one of your hidden talents is cosplaying as a fanged creature of the night at ComicCon.”
He shrugs. “I went through an Ian Somerhalder phase.”
I’m about to ask him to expound on that multi-layered answer when we find Freddy, one of the runners for today’s show.
“Hey, man,” Kick says, shaking his hand. “Would you be able to give us a ride to lunch?”
“Absolutely. You need a recommendation?”
“Kick needs a burger,” I say.
“Yeah, burger’s good. Love burgers,” Freddy says with a nod. “You like video games?”
“Sure,” I say, assuming Kick does because come on, video games.
Freddy snaps his fingers in the air. “I know the perfect place.”
We follow Freddy out to a black SUV parked in the lot behind the loading bay. I expect Kick to get in the back seat with me, but he climbs into the front. It’s a six-minute drive and Kick and Freddy chat the whole way about St. Louis, Freddy talking a mile a minute about the St. Louis Cardinals and how he’s lived here his whole life and how his parents were both from St. Louis and their parents too. He pulls the SUV to a stop in front of a red brick building on a downtown corner.
“You’ll love this place. Tons of vintage video games, pinball machines, burgers, the works.”
“Thanks, man,” Kick says, opening his car door .
Freddy hands him a card with his number on it. “You guys have fun. Call me when you need a ride back.”
We cross the sidewalk and step inside. A blast of cold air hits us as we walk through the door. It’s more arcade than bar, dozens of vintage arcade consoles lining the walls on the three sides not taken up by the bar. Down the middle, flanked by tall tables and chairs, are rows of back-to-back pinball machines. The lights are low but it’s still bright, the bar glowing from within by millions of blinking lights.
“You should know,” Kick says, “I am amazing at pinball.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It could be, Goldie,” he leans down so we’re nose to nose, “if you think you can handle me.”
There’s no other way to say it. I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to get it on with Kick Raines, fully, like a sex-crazed wildcat prowling for fresh meat. Just grab him in the middle of a St. Louis video game bar and go to town. It’s the same invisible force that’s been pushing me toward him for weeks, whispering in my ear to do it already . Fighting my inner-horndog is a daily struggle, especially when he blatantly flirts with me and bats his ridiculous eyelashes and practically offers himself to me in every subtle way a person can. Cass says it’s inevitable, wonders what I’m waiting for. I’m having more and more trouble coming up with a believable answer.
I wonder if he can see it on my face, how much I want to give in. If he does, he’s hiding it well. I shove the wildcat down, again, and push past him into the bar.
There are a few people scattered around but the place is fairly empty. We find a table and I avoid looking at him, which I’ve decided is the key to the whole wanting-to-jump-him problem. If I don’t look at him, I can remember that we’re partners, that the on-stage chemistry is working too well to mess it up, that the likelihood he wants to be with me in a real way is too unlikely to risk everything else. He just likes the chase, the innocent flirt. He’s never said anything substantial to insinuate he really wants to go deep with me. A momentary release isn’t worth screwing up everything else we have together no matter how great it might be.
And I bet it would be so great.
“Goldie,” he says, waving a hand in front of my face.
“Sorry. What?”
“I was saying there’s a Star Wars pinball machine over there that’s calling my name. Care to make a wager?”
I look over and see the machine he’s talking about. It has a huge image of Luke Skywalker waving a lightsaber. I can’t help but think, what would Mark Hamill do ? “What’s the wager?”
He takes his time deciding, his eyes never leaving my face. I keep looking away, acting interested in the games, the menu, the building, anything but him.
“I got it,” he says, forcing me to focus on him. “I win, you have to ask Deacon Sparrow for his autograph. Not Don. Deacon.”
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most, I am a solid one hundred no way am I doing that.” I’ve heard the things my sister has muttered under her breath about hangers-on who ask for an autograph. Drivers who want one for their kid. Servers who want one for their friend. As the opener of the tour, it would be the ultimate kiss of death if I acted like a fan, which, is probably why Kick’s making it the wager.
“You win,” he says, “we switch bunks.”
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “You would seriously give up your back middle bunk, arguably the best bunk on the bus, over a pinball game I am definitely going to win?”
He shrugs and purses his lips like he isn’t scared of me in the slightest.
“You don’t even know if I’m good at pinball or not. I could be, like, the Pinball Champion of Nashville. Of America. I could have competed in international pinball competitions. I could have an entire shelf lined with pinball trophies at my house. ”
“Then you shouldn’t be worried about a friendly little wager.”
He’s either truly amazing at pinball or is certain I could never beat him, because no way would he willingly give up his bunk.
“You’re on.”
We find the token machine and Kick slides a five-dollar bill into the slot. We rock, paper, scissors to decide who plays first. I win and settle myself in front of the machine. I’ve played a few times, but definitely inflated my capabilities. Still, it’s pinball. How hard can it be?
When I pull back on the plunger, I’m completely in the zone. There’s a second set of flippers on the upper level, which I hit, and immediately get fifty thousand bonus points.
Kick’s standing close to me, eyes on the machine, lighting up my nervous system like he just hit my second set of flippers. My ball pings against the Luke Skywalker stand-up and Mark Hamill’s voice rings out. Use the force. I play so well I get an extra ball, which I can sense worries Kick. By the time my game is over, I’ve scored over ten million points. 10,457,992 to be exact. I pull out my phone and take a photo of my score, just to be safe.
“Your turn, big talker.”
Kick hip checks me out of the way and assumes the position.
He loses a ball immediately and my confidence shoots through the roof. No more sleeping on rolling tires! No more bathroom smells! I will finally have the middle bunk of my dreams!
He keeps his second ball going for a while and eventually hits the top flippers, scoring his own fifty thousand bonus points. His broad hands are cupped around the machine, his middle fingers jamming the flipper buttons lightning fast. It makes my toes curl and the back of my neck burn.
I watch his score climb higher and higher, my dreams of a middle bunk slowly fading away. He ends his game with a score of 10,543,710. I am defeated.
“Best two out of three?” I ask, hopefully .
Kick slings his arm around my neck and pulls me into him. “Let’s get those burgers. You need to load up on protein before you humiliate yourself asking Deacon for his autograph.”
“I am never going to do that.”
My heart thrums as my cheek rubs against his neck. He’s not usually this loose with me, this tactile. He’s always flirty, but not in a physical way.
He keeps his arm around me as we walk back to the table and I wonder if this is a date. Could it be a date? Does Kick think it’s a date? We’re alone, having a meal, touching and flirting. My stomach flips. I shouldn’t be on a date with Kick Raines. We’re professionals. Co-workers, essentially. We’re supposed to keep it about the music, the performance, the show.
But. If I’m already on a date with Kick Raines, I may as well make the best of it, right?