Chapter 12 Owen #2
Sam is, of course, already making himself comfortable on the sofa. Frankie stands exactly where she is. I casually walk past her, pick up my shirt from the back of a chair, and take my sweet-ass time putting it on and buttoning it up.
“Is that cheese?” Sam asks, staring at the small charcuterie platter on the dressing table. “Can I have it?”
He doesn’t ask if he can have some cheese. He wants all of it.
“You can try some, see if you like it.”
He scoffs, as if he’s ever met a cheese he didn’t like, and waits for me to carry the platter over to him on the sofa.
“I’ll get it,” Frankie says, bringing him napkins and the cheese and cold cuts. “How do you get a mouse to smile?” she asks him, sitting on the sofa now and giving him all of the eye contact she refuses to give me.
“Say cheese,” he says, smiling.
“Smart.”
“Hey, what does the cheese say to himself when he’s looking in the mirror?” I ask Sam as he’s stuffing two pieces of sliced cheddar into his mouth—one on each side.
He shrugs.
“‘Lookin’ Gouda.’”
Both he and Frankie just shake their heads, not looking at me.
“What’s a pirate’s favorite cheese?” she asks—to Sam only.
He shrugs, but he’s smiling at her when he does it.
“Chedd-arrrrrrggghhh.”
Sam laughs with his mouth full of cheddar. It’s a disgusting, happy sight.
“What do you call cheese that isn’t your cheese?” I ask, totally not out of desperation.
“Nacho cheese!” Sam replies.
“Hey, yeah!”
“You’ve told me that one a hundred bajigglion times.”
“You never remembered the answer before.” I want to turn this into a father-son moment, but Frankie interrupts.
“Hey, I’ve got a funny pizza joke,” she tells Sam.
“What?”
“Aw, never mind.” She waves dismissively. “It’s too cheesy.”
Sam laughs at that. Laughs. Hard. Like it’s hilarious. Like he didn’t find that joke totally unfunny when I told it to him over the phone the last time we were in Tampa.
This is not what I need right before the first show of my tour—bombing in my own dressing room in front of my little asshole travel companions.
The Rocky theme, “Gonna Fly Now,” starts playing on my phone.
Shit.
“Uhhh… Are you listening to the Rocky soundtrack to get psyched up for your show?” She grins and finally looks at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“You got a problem with that?” I snap.
She’s taken aback by my tone. “Not really, dude. I listen to it too, sometimes.”
“You do? Before a show?”
“In the car on the way to a show. Obviously I’ve never had a dressing room-type situation.”
I nod. “You will.”
The impish grin becomes a half smile. Everything about her relaxes all of a sudden. Her brown eyes soften, sparkle with gratitude. I don’t even know what to do with that look from her. She’s so pretty.
We just stare at each other from across the room for what feels like an eternity, and then the phone in her back pocket vibrates. She tears her gaze away from mine, pulls the phone out, and stares down at it.
I really need to go over my set list. I walk over to the dresser to fuss with my hair and read through the bullet points.
“Shhhhark farts!”
I look back at her. She appears to be shocked about something, and it’s definitely not how amazing my hair looks right now. “What?”
“Um. Why did I just get a text from my mother informing me that she and my dad just picked up their comps for your show?”
Strange question.
“So you know they’re here, I’d imagine.”
“But why are they here? I didn’t tell them I’m in town, and I definitely didn’t tell them I was here with you.”
“You didn’t? Why not?”
“For reasons. What the fffff…” She glances over at Sam. “Fart nugget!”
Sam laughs at that. Because Frankie Hogan is hilarious.
“Calm down. What’s the big deal?”
“Nothing! There’s no big deal.”
“So why wouldn’t you tell your parents that you’re here?”
“I just…” She gets up and starts pacing around, dragging her fingers through her shiny dark hair, messing it up and sending frantic waves of sexy-lady hair fragrance my way. “Flurg! How did this?…”
“Martin must have told your mom about this show. Your mother is his sister, right?”
“Yes.” She covers her face with her hands. “Mothertrucker!”
“He asked me to comp them.”
“Uh-huh.” She nods, vehemently, uncovering her face and fake-smiling like a lunatic even though her eyes are all watery. “That’s great. That’s totally fine. They won’t be able to meet you after the show though, unfortunately.”
“Oh really? Because Martin asked if they could come backstage after, and I said of course. They’re on the list.”
“Shrek!”
Okay, I do not need this right now.
“Can I talk to you outside for a minute?” I take her arm and pull her toward the door. “Sam, we’ll be right outside in the hall.”
Sam is too busy sucking Brie off his fingers to care what the crazy adults are up to.
The hall that leads to the stage is empty. I shut the door behind myself, stand in front of her, lean in until she’s backed up against the wall, and whisper-yell at her, “What is your problem?”
“Nothing. What? I just don’t want them to…”
“To what? Meet me?”
Her jaw tightens. Her nostrils are flaring. She straightens her spine, her shoulders, and stares me straight in the eyes. “Yes, Owen. I don’t want them to meet you. Why should my parents have to meet you? Not everything is about you.”
“No fucking kidding. Apparently everything is about you now. What is your problem with me, huh?”
“What are you—? Calm down.”
I slap both my hands against the wall on either side of her head, but it doesn’t seem to startle her.
“You calm down, Frankie. Answer me.” I lean right down into her face, and she isn’t even blinking.
“Why am I the worst stand-up comic in the history of comedy? Why do I have the most hideous face in the history of faces? Why am I the enemy of Frankie Hogan?”
Her voice is low and steady. “You seriously need to calm down and get into performance mode, Owen.”
“I can’t get into performance mode until you tell me what’s going on, Frankie.” I stare at her mouth. Her lips part, the tiniest bit, and I feel something huge open up between us.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she hisses.
“You’re driving me fucking insane.”
She grabs my face and kisses me.
Every single electrically charged atom of tension that has crackled and sparked in the air between us—from that comedy club three years ago through Twitter and every single room we’ve been in together—is suddenly released in a nuclear explosion of hungry lips and tongues.
My knee goes right up between her thighs, and she squeezes around it, bearing down.
My hands are in her hair, and when she bites my lower lip and then sucks on it, I groan because I can’t have a fucking eggplant emoji in my pants like this right before I have to go on stage.
But her hands slide up into my hair now, and she’s making these cute little crazy kitten noises while she kisses up my jaw and across my cheek, and then she moans into my mouth, and I grab her ass because that fucking ass.
“Fucking hell, Frankie.”
“Fuck you fuck you fuck you.” Now she’s rocking back and forth against my thigh. Jesus. “Why is your thigh so fucking muscular? What are you? A gladiator?”
“What are you? A cowgirl?”
She nips at my chin with her teeth. “You shouldn’t shave before a show, you idiot.” She drags the tip of her tongue up from the cleft in my chin to my upper lip and then goes in for such a deep kiss that I forget to breathe.
She is so wild and hot and sweet, I forget to say, You shouldn’t give me a raging hard-on right before I go on stage, you ruthless succubus-witch.
I forget that she’s the nanny and my manager’s niece.
I forget that the creation of this beautiful, crazy universe between us will inevitably end with her hating me and my son hating me and me hating myself, because the warmth of her and the taste of her and the dazzling, bewildering intensity of this kiss is the best thing I’ve experienced in years and years and years.
Frankie fucking Hogan.
The Tampa Heckler really does want my pecker.
She pulls away from me so fast, pushes me away like she’s waking up from a fever dream.
Or maybe she read my mind just now.
“Shit,” she whispers.
“Fuck.”
“Shit!”
“Fuuuuck.”
“You have to go on in like twenty minutes.”
“Oh, do I?” I try to pace around, but it feels like there are three legs in my pants right now. “Fuck.”
“Oh no.”
“How’s my hair look?”
She glances up at my hair and bursts out laughing for a few glorious seconds and then covers her mouth and shakes her head. Shaking the good thoughts away again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah. That was the worst.”
She looks down at the furious bulge in the front of my jeans, covers her mouth again. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah. Just—you know what, just get Sam and go to your seats.”
“Yep. On it.”
I give her a look.
“I mean, not on it anymore. Not going anywhere near…”—she gestures toward the bulge—“it.”
“Seriously, just—”
“Yup. Going. Break a leg!”
She opens the door to the dressing room, leaving me to limp around the hallway.
A stage manager appears at the other end of the hall, his eyes widening when he sees the disheveled mess of a boner I am right now.
“I’ll be ready,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
At least I’m not nervous anymore.
I look down at the front of my jeans. “Joke’s on you, asshole.”