5—Oklahoma City （Still Larinda’s Bus）
Wow. Now that was a kiss. Five minutes after Val leaves, I’m still collapsed on the couch, tingling and quivering everywhere. Kissing him made me feel… authentic. Safe and free. Val takes the performance out of my existence and lets me be me when we’re alone. I wasn’t even sure who that was until we started exploring the possibilities together. There’s nothing hotter than someone who truly sees you.
I know he’ll be right back but I’m already regretting sending him away. I miss his smile, his kind eyes. I really miss touching him—not that I can afford any more touches if we’re going to obey the rules. It was nearly impossible to stop once we started. He felt as good as I expected, so good that my fantasies are going to be brutal from here on out.
My fingers itch to clutch his shirt and drag it over his head. His body is so beautiful with the art he’s inscribed on it. I’ve only seen it a couple of times, always from a distance, and only by accident when he was changing his shirt or tugging off a hoodie. He’s a walking museum exhibit, and I’m growing increasingly desperate to explore that human work of art.
When I hear the knock on the door, I’m on my feet so fast my trainer would think I actually like doing cardio.
Since my driver is resting in his hotel room, I have the honor of opening the door myself which means… crap.
My tingles become prickles at the opposite person I was hoping to see.
“Hi, baby,” Jarvis says with a sticky smile on his face.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Got the memo, sugar doll. Let’s hashtag this out, m’kay?”
Somehow I manage to keep my eyes from rolling as I return to the lounge. If I don’t move, there will be a collision, and there’s only one person I want to be rubbing against at the moment. Spoiler alert: It’s not the one with a two-story wall in his house called “The Me Wall.”
“What memo?” I ask, dropping to the seat adjacent to the main couch. There’s no chance he can sit beside me now. Not that he’ll be doing much sitting in those jeans. Did his stylist sew them on?
He skims his hand over the tips of his gelled hair so as not to adjust a single strand, then attempts to lower himself to the cushion closest to me. Except… called it.
I watch with mild intrigue as he contorts his body so his legs don’t have to bend when his butt hits the cushion. I guess this would be considered sitting? It’s not standing. Or lying down. Definitely not squatting so…
“The memo that you’re having second thoughts about us.”
“There’s a memo?”
“Not an actual memo. It’s an emblem of speech.”
Is it?
He goes for casual arrogance by lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back. But since he also can’t lean, he just looks like he was about to do an ab crunch and forgot how.
(For the record, ab crunches are one of the few things that man does know how to do well. He even wrote a song about it: “Abs and Abby.” It’s as bad as it sounds.)
“I can’t have second thoughts because there were no first thoughts,” I say. “There is no ‘us,’ Jarvis. We talked about this.”
His manicured brows knit together. “No, you said you didn’t want to be in a relationship.”
My manicured brows also knit together. “Yes… exactly.”
“So let’s not be in a relationship.”
I squint back. Are his inside words becoming outside words again? It’s really hard to talk to him when that happens.
“Great,” I say with some hesitation. “Then are we finished here? I was about to work on something.”
“I guess so. Just make sure you cry when you accept my proposal.”
He wriggles in an attempted extraction from the couch.
“What? We just agreed we’re not in a relationship.”
“We’re not.” He adds a wink. That can’t be good.
“So why would I accept your fake marriage proposal?”
“It’s an emblem, remember?”
Yes, I remember, and no, it’s not.
“Oh! Almonds. You mind?”
He fishes through the bowl and pulls out a pack of blueberry. Of course he does. I knew there was a reason I hated blueberry.
“Jarvis. I have no idea what you’re saying. It’s not making any sense.”
“Really? Is it because you want to see the ring first?”
I don’t. I have no clue how he’d access it even if I did.
“You mean, the ring you’re not going to give me because we’re not getting engaged?”
“Tsk, tsk, my linda Linda.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, linda or Linda?”
“Both. That’s not my name and you don’t speak Portuguese.”
“No? Café con leche.” He waves at the cappuccino machine on the wet bar in the kitchenette across from us.
I don’t even know what to do with that.
“Right… Jarvis, I’m serious. Don’t propose because I’m going to turn you down.”
He sighs and rips open the packet of almonds. “I don’t want to do this with you, baby.”
“Good. Neither do I. And don’t call me that either.”
“What?”
“Baby.”
“Seriously?” He throws up his hands. “Then what should I call you?”
“Larinda works great. How about that?”
His eyes narrow as he processes this strange request. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you this past year, but you’ve stopped being you. It’s like ever since that small misunderstanding with the songs, you’ve been a negative noodle.”
“Definitely don’t call me that.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about!”
“No one wants to be compared to pessimistic pasta.”
His mouth opens to respond but I know I’ve outsmarted him when he returns his attention to the nuts.
“And I wouldn’t call trying to steal my songs a ‘small misunderstanding,’” I add.
“Okay, well, I came to smooth things over, but clearly you want to keep things awkward A.F. while we’re engaged. Those press dates are gonna be… hashtag super fun.”
“We’re not engaged.”
“Well, after tonight, I mean.”
“We won’t be after tonight, either.”
“We will, though. It’s not my call. It’s what the label wants. If it’s about the ring, we can pick a different one. You want one of those ones with just the twig bundles or whatever?”
Huh? I shake off the question.
“No, because I don’t want any ring. I told the label and now I’m telling you. We’ll have to find a different PR stunt, because I’m not doing this.”
He crosses his arms. “Why not? You want to be pregnant or something? We haven’t done that one yet.”
“What?! No!”
I cross my arms too.
His eyes narrow.
So do mine. I even lean forward with a menacing scowl in an athletic feat I know he can’t match.
He still tries, and I bite back a laugh as he slips off the couch, sending his almonds flying. Several ping off the “café con leche” machine.
“A little help?” he grunts, holding out his hand.
His exposed wrist displays a new bandana, which means he must have a new “cause” to support. Guess the previous fundraiser for his Teacup Poodle’s doggie ropes course is complete?
As much as I don’t want to, twenty-six years of being a nice person force me to take his hand and use all my strength to jerk him to his feet. Besides, he can’t leave if he’s stuck in a bedazzled denim cocoon on my floor.
“Thanks,” he says, but he doesn’t release my hand.
I tug it away, and he returns a pout any three-year-old would admire.
“Wow, Linda. Hashtag ‘sourpuss.’ I don’t know what your problem is but your choices lately are ew. Why are you throwing everything away? Ever since you started working with that loser—what’s his name, Valerie?—you’ve been making a lot of ew mistakes. Your music was so good and now it’s weird. Is that what you want? To make weird music?”
“He’s not a loser. He’s brilliant. And my music isn’t weird. It’s also brilliant.”
“If you say so,” he mumbles. “Tell that to the charts.”
There must be one nut left in the package and he does everything he can to get it. Giving up, he flips the bag and dumps it into his hand, along with an avalanche of crumbs. Those get brushed on my floor.
“That imposter is ruining your career. That’s all I’m saying.” At least he’s moving down the aisle now. “You were the Queen of Country and now you’re barely an Earl-ess or whatever is under that. Duke-ess? Not princess. That’s for sure.”
I glare after him, but he’s finally leaving and I don’t want to distract him from that.
Also, he’s wrong… right?
I mean, sure my music is different. Sure I’ve lost some of my popularity but there’s more to a career than numbers. Well, maybe not according to the label. Or the promotors. Or the press. Or the streaming platforms…
I watch in silence as he makes his way to the stairs, but his icy glare at something below him makes me stiffer than his pants.
“Get the frick out of my way,” he hisses.
Oh no. Val.
“Excuse me?” my producer says.
“You heard me. You don’t belong here. Why are you even on this tour?”
“Why are you on Larinda’s bus?”
“She’s my girlfriend, loser. Now get out of my way before you ruin my career too.”
My heart hurts as Val goes silent. He must be seething, but what’s he supposed to say? He can’t defend himself. He can’t even defend me against the lie about my relationship with Jarvis. No one is supposed to know Jarvis and I aren’t actually together.
Jarvis stomps down the steps, and I wince at the thump of a body colliding with the door. Did Jarvis shove him?!
I know the answer when Val trudges up the stairs a second later.
His expression… gosh.
My chest aches as he pushes the button to close the door with trembling fingers. His other arm clutches the laptop he went to retrieve.
“Hey,” I say softly, rising. “You okay?”
He returns a weak smile. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. Nothing about that was fine. Did he push you?”
“It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles, moving toward the couch.
I intercept him before he can sit and pull the computer from his hand. After placing it on the cushion, I slide my arms around his waist and settle against him. He releases a heavy sigh and hugs me back.
“It’s not true,” I murmur.
He doesn’t respond and somehow I know what he’s thinking. We always seem to read each other’s mind.
It is true. Not the relationship part, but the rest?
My music is amazing. Plenty of critics and fans agree. Industry powerhouse The Tattletale Review even called me “a pioneer.” (Then devoted a thousand words to reflecting on how apocalyptic it was that they could say that about an “insipid” artist like me.) I grinned through the entire article and printed out an excerpt for the wall of my studio.
“Calling Larinda Scott a pioneer is as bewildering as calling a milkshake a culinary marvel, but here we are. The best decision mega-label Lakebend Records made in years was bringing in fresh blood in the form of unknown producer Val Andrews. Dare we say we’re actually excited to see what comes next from the formerly insipid and painfully predictable pop-country star.”
So maybe I had to look up the word “insipid,” but whatever.
Working with Val has given me confidence and drive, while opening up creative wormholes I never could have imagined. I don’t regret a single thing we’ve done, I just wish I’d done a better job preparing him for the fallout. People don’t like change. They say they do, but they don’t really. They want the same thing with a thin fa?ade of different. They want comfortable and safe, formulas and predictability. I knew going into this partnership what could happen, probably would happen when we challenged the mold, but I didn’t know it would hurt so much to see Val get hurt. He’s spent most of his life being pummeled for who he is and what he loves, and now it’s happening on my behalf.
He’s kept his head up through most of the unfair criticism, but I see how it wears on him. Even worse, I suspect the self-doubt runs deeper than he lets on. How could it not when his own parents taught him he’s worthless? I’ve never hated anyone until I met them.
I lean back to study his face. As usual deep green eyes take my breath away. His beautiful soul is right there, on full display, and I have no clue how to resist it. I know we said we wouldn’t—I said we wouldn’t—but I can’t stop myself from leaning in for a soft kiss. He looks startled when I pull away with a shy smile.
“Screw it. No one has to know,” I say.
“Know what?”
“That we’re together.”
“We are?”
My heart beats rapidly as I try to read his expression. “Do you want to be?”
Because I’ve wanted this for so long. Please say yes…
He frowns as he searches my eyes. “Are you sure? If the label finds out, we’re done. You lose everything.”
“They won’t. We’ll keep it a secret.”
His silence is brutal as he turns my proposal over in his mind. I know it’s not himself he’s worried about, and he’s right to be concerned. But I’ve spent my life playing a part to help my career. Maybe it’s time to use those skills to help my heart.
When his lips tip up in a smile, my world goes bright again.
“Then I guess we’re together,” he says.
Squealing, I throw my arms around him, and he laughs as he pulls me tight.
“Secretly, of course,” he adds with a smirk.
“So secret,” I whisper before sealing our pact with another kiss.