26. Like Lovers Do – Tess
Dakota is full of surprises. He’s had a lot of life happen to him for such a young guy. I hate having to pry open old wounds for him, especially about his history of drug abuse, and the death of his wife, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that everything can and will be found out eventually. Things you thought you could keep to yourself, or that you think no one knows about, will become public fodder. Keeping anything from me will only make our lives harder once that happens.
Just knowing what skeletons are hiding in the closet allows me to prepare for whatever hell the public wants to make of them when they do become known. I know things about some well-respected people that would make your hair curl, but it’s all a part of this job. Getting ahead of the story, before it becomes a scandal. If I’m not caught off guard, emergencies can be dealt with. And even with all of Dakota’s skeletons, there’s nothing unmanageable about them.
As a matter of fact, anyone who would try to spin his stories into anything other than the tragedies they are would be vilified for the attempt. He’s had a hard life. And sure, some of the wounds have been self-inflicted, but that only adds to the tragicness of it all. My heart aches for him and all he’s been through, but at the same time he’s earned so much of my respect for how he’s getting through it. He’s chosen to rise above his circumstances and try for better things, to be a better person, make the world a better place. I admire that spirit and wish I had more of that in my own attitude.
When comparing his to what I think is my own hard life, it’s put into perspective. Everyone goes through their own shit, and we all think it’s the worst. Then you hear stories like Dakota’s, and you realize how much worse it really could have been. Not that you feel lucky, that’s not the point. But you do start to feel how alike we all are in our suffering. Because no matter what that shit is you’ve gone through, the emotional reaction and fallout is the same, or at least similar.
We all hurt. We all have been hurt. We all have hurt others, whether it was intentional or not. Pain is universal. Some are deeper and longer lasting, but no less the same. Some people can brush it off, while others dwell on it and marinate in their pain for long periods of time, or even for the rest of their lives. And some just can’t deal with it at all.
Dakota went through all of it but seems to have landed in a healthy head space. I give him a lot of credit for ending up here, when his own life could have ended as just another tragic story. His emotional strength feels limitless.
When we’re done talking, I feel emotionally wrung out, like my heart is both overflowing and empty at the same time.
“Thanks for sharing your story with me,” I say, meeting Dakota’s eyes with sincerity. “I know it wasn’t easy to bare your soul like this so early in the morning.”
And by early in the morning, I mean it’s just before noon. For a rockstar, this is the crack of fucking dawn. And being interrogated about your life isn’t the easiest thing to do no matter what time of day it is.
“I get it,” he nods, tucking a strand of long dark hair behind his ear. “I get why you need to know this stuff. No worries.”
“Well, just know that until something comes out directly from you, or we need to react to something external, what you’ve told me stays between us, okay? Consider me a vault of secrets.”
“Duly noted,” he chuckles, and the sense of relief in that laugh tells me all I need to know about him. He’s told me everything and kept nothing back.
There’s always a worry that there’s something, some small minute detail that’s just waiting in the shadows to reveal itself when you least expect it, and always at the most inopportune time. Not with Dakota. That small release of worry in his tone tells me that he has bared his soul. There’s nothing left to share with me. And knowing that makes me relax a little bit. I’m prepared to deal with whatever the world might throw at him, and I’ll be his most ardent defender.
Let them try.
On Friday, the entire practice space seems to be bubbling with extra energy. There are sparks in the air as if everyone knows Brad and I are having our second official date. Obviously, they don’t, since we still haven’t said anything about it to anyone, but it feels like everyone knows something is going on.
And I don’t care. At least not about the inner circle. Not about the Chaos Fuel family. What I do care about is the public, and what it would mean if their fans found out. Of all people, I know how it would look to an outsider to see Brad hooking up with someone he works with. It will not go well.
So, for that reason, our date tonight is at my place. And I’m cooking us dinner.
I am not the best cook, but I’m also not the worst. I have a few signature dishes that I’ve mastered over the years. I’ve conquered a million ways to spice up ramen, and can scramble eggs like a pro. That just goes with living alone and having to cook for yourself most of the time.
Cooking for two? For a date? That’s a different story. My go-to dish is lasagna. It’s basically foolproof if you get the right ingredients, and the leftovers are often better than the original meal. The problem is that I don’t know how to make a small lasagna for two, so I end up making an entire deep dish pan of it and will most likely be eating lasagna for the rest of the foreseeable future.
I’m also not the neatest cook. Some people clean as they go – I am not them. By the time the lasagna goes into the oven, my kitchen looks like a disaster area of dishes, utensils, cheese containers, and tomato sauce. Glancing around, and then down at myself, I find that I’m also covered in tomato sauce.
Fuck.
I tried to be so neat, and even had one of my grandmother’s old aprons on, but the sauce found a way to aim around it and hit my carefully selected outfit. There’s even some in my hair. How did that even get there?
Swearing to myself under my breath, I hurry to clean everything up. The kitchen, the dishes, myself. The entire time I’m praying and wishing for Brad to take his time. In my head, I’ve still got at least fifteen minutes.
Don’t be early. Please don’t be early.
The doorbell rings.
Shit. Fuck balls. Criminy on a cracker.
Of course, he’s early.
I rip the apron off, and ball it up, throwing it into a drawer I’ll forget about later. Running down the hall to my bedroom, I nearly bang into the wall as I pull my shirt over my head blindly. I hurry to find another blouse, and button it up quickly, making sure it matches my skirt. Taking a quick glance in the mirror by the door, I do my best to pull myself together, my heart racing a mile a minute.
I don’t even look through the peephole, and swing the door open, my breath labored from running around, but all I see are flowers. Bouquet upon bouquet of flowers. Is this a delivery or something?
“What the?—?”
Brad peeks through between the bouquets, a sheepish grin on his face.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you liked…so I got some of each…”
My hand is on my chest as if it can keep the racing to a minimum, but it’s not working. I can’t believe he bought out a damned florist shop for me.
For me.
After the past week, I thought we might still be awkward alone, but this – this douses all those thoughts. He really has forgiven my mistake, and fucking hell, he’s hitting this date out of the park at the first bat.
“Brad…you shouldn’t have…” I say as I start taking the flowers from him.
“Actually, I can’t take all the credit,” he says, following me into my now spotless kitchen that smells amazing. “It was mostly Charlie’s idea.”
“To buy every flower in LA?” I search for vases in my cupboards. I think I have one or two… I know I don’t have enough for all of these.
“Well, to bring you flowers. Once I got to the florist, and they asked what kind, I kind of went a little crazy.” His cheeks flush red at the admission, and holy shit, I don’t know if I can make it through dinner without throwing myself at him.
“A little? There’s a contender for Understatement of the Year.” I can’t help but laugh as I start trying to cram every flower into some sort of arrangement in the three vases I was able to find. “I don’t have enough vases for all of these…”
“Let me see,” he says, rummaging through the cabinets and pulling out tall glasses and travel water bottles while grinning. “Improvisation at its finest.”
We work side by side in a comfortable silence, cutting stems, pulling off extra leaves, sorting the flowers into various containers. The fragrance of the flowers mixed with the aroma of spicy Italian food is heady, but delightful. There’s a charge bouncing between us as we work. An undercurrent that accentuates our closeness in the small footprint of my kitchen.
“Ouch,” I hiss, as my thumb catches on a rose’s thorn, a small bead of blood rising on the skin.
I instinctively bring it to my mouth to suck on, but Brad reaches over and grabs my wrist, pulling me close. He catches and holds my gaze as he licks the blood from my finger. Heat shoots through me as I watch, the sting of the cut instantly gone, and other sensations jumping to the surface.
“Better?” he asks, still locking eyes with me as he turns my hand, exposing my palm, and proceeds to trace a trail of kisses across my wrist, my pounding pulse nearly evident on the thin skin where his lips brush. His soft beard almost tickles as it touches.
“Much,” I breathe, forgetting all about the thorn, and concentrating instead on his lips on my body. I want them all over me.
Now.
I break free of his hold and grab his shirt in a fist to pull him to me. His eyebrows raise briefly in surprise, but then his lips start to curve into a smile. I don’t let that smile finish as I take his mouth with mine, pouring my need into him with a kiss that could set this apartment on fire.
My hands are in his hair, and his are in mine, our lips locked and our bodies arching into each other with desire. It’s clear that we both want the same thing, and we’re both clear on the timing.
Now.