Chapter Twenty I Know What I Like
Chapter Twenty
I Know What I Like
Beverly
Everyone is trying to grab Griffin while he’s in town: publications asking for exclusive interviews, musicians requesting he record a guest track on their next album, and conversations that go nowhere but leave the person with a grin on their face because they just talked to the Griffin Harvey.
I understand now.
I’d never seen Griffin perform on a stage before, but that—that—was something I didn’t expect.
The confident croon of his voice, the sensual strum of the guitar, the way he closed his eyes—either for fear of the crowd or the stage ledge, I’m not sure.
But it seemed like a religious experience. I sure felt blessed, anyway. Amen.
Griffin doesn’t win the award for Best Song Written for Visual Media.
But he just smiled and said there were better movie songs anyway.
Beau would have had a meltdown, and the fact that Griffin didn’t had me hugging him for probably longer than I should have.
Once the awards wrap up, we bypass any further interviews by sneaking out some back door through the kitchens and into our blacked-out limo.
Inside, I finally meet Jimmy, a man with slicked-back hair and all the scoffs and eye rolls of a man raised in a big Italian family in Boston. He replies with a lot of “Yeah yeah yeahs” when all the guys give him conflicting, over-the-top stories of why they avoided interviews.
“Jim,” Poe croons, “would we lie to you?”
He throws his hands in the air. “You are lying to me right now!”
The limo erupts in laughter—including a beaming Griffin—as we cruise down the road to a destination I do not question.
He seems comfortable with his bandmates.
It’s obvious in the way he’s quicker to show that half smile and how he glances over at me with it still plastered on his face, as if gauging whether I’m having fun too.
He watches me take off the diamond choker necklace and tuck it into the box like Greta instructed me to, still smiling, like he’s blissfully drinking in the night.
It’s full of boisterous laughter over nothing.
Insults as a love language. Ragging on poor old Jimmy.
When Poe cracks open a bottle of champagne just for the heck of it (“Poe, we didn’t even win anything!
”), he pours a flute for me, Royce, and himself.
Adding in the drinks from tonight, I don’t know how many alcoholic beverages Poe has had.
But Griffin and Dom stick to their water, and I take the offered plastic flute, tap it to Poe’s, and throw it back.
Three flutes later, our limo pulls up outside a building with sleek spray-painted black brick.
There are no signs or entryways, so for a second I assume we’re lost. But when Jimmy opens the building’s side door for us, I’m showered in bright-purple lights and strobed blues.
Neon signs descend from the ceiling. Every inch of floor is crowded with people.
All at once, it hits me what place this reminds me of.
It looks exactly like the club where I found Beau cheating.
Somewhere, a confetti cannon blows. I jump, stumbling back into a hard chest. Griffin’s palms clutch the silk of my gown, holding me upright. My brain is already bubbling from the booze. He strokes my back, as if calming a spooked horse.
We ascend an iron staircase to an upper floor overlooking the bar, and a crowd of people mingling at high tops.
My stomach drops at the recognizable faces—not anyone I know personally, but faces adorning movies, streaming platforms, and online viral videos.
Everyone looks like they’re in the most interesting conversation in the room, but I don’t know how they’re hearing each other.
The music is so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts.
I breathe a sigh of relief to realize this isn’t the same place I found Beau.
That club was more public. This feels exclusive, somewhere the wealthy and famous frequent to avoid the prying eyes of the public.
But it doesn’t stop my brain from cranking out the memory like a film strip, repeating over and over and over.
Beau’s hand on that woman’s thigh.
The way my heart sank into my heels.
Poe singles out a group of sectional sofas, three-seaters, and chaises. These types of collective arrangements are scattered throughout the floor, separated only by sheer curtains.
Dom, Jimmy, and Griffin relax onto a couch as Poe disappears back down the stairs with Royce in tow.
I plop next to Griffin in the most ungraceful way possible.
It’s a deep couch that he manages to look natural on, but I struggle to find a position that feels anything less than awkward.
I settle on crossing my legs and using my palm to cover the large slit reaching my upper thigh.
“You all right?” Griffin asks loudly over the music.
“Mm-hmm.”
“What’s wrong? Your face is doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The cartoon thing,” he says with a crooked smile.
“The cartoon thing?”
“You broadcast what you’re thinking.”
“I’m just…overwhelmed,” I respond.
He leans in as if he couldn’t hear me, so I repeat it, almost having to yell in Griffin’s ear.
Griffin chuckles. “Yeah, this can be overwhelming. It’s not really our scene at all. We used to go to this bar down the street, but we started getting recognized a few years ago. Now we have to go here. Poe likes it.”
“I can tell,” I yell back, watching Poe saunter up the stairs again with a tray of shots.
“Bottoms up, puppet girl!” Poe yells and knocks back one glass without ceremony. I guess we cheers-ed enough in the limo. Royce dumps his shot down his throat, too, but Jimmy holds out a hand in refusal.
“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow,” he says, scrunching his nose. “You aren’t poisoning me.”
“Jim…” Poe coos.
“Not tonight, Poe.”
I look over the railing to the bottom floor, with shifting bodies and confetti littering the ground. I should be at home in pajamas writing scripts or researching.
But here I am—with another crew of musicians.
Though these aren’t half bad, I suppose.
I look over at Griffin. He leans back in his seat, like a king holding court.
His strong thighs are wide, and his arm is slung over the back of the couch, pressing a twitching thumb into the velvet cushion.
A tattoo of a small bird peeks out from his baby blue suit sleeve.
He arches an eyebrow and smiles. My heart pumps an unsteady beat.
“Darling?” Poe extends a small glass out to me. “Shot?”
Finch would tell me to relax.
Nana would want me to let loose.
“Sorry, yes,” I say, grabbing my shot and standing up to snag Jimmy’s abandoned one too. I toss them back one after the other. Poe lets out a cheerful “Oh ho ho! Bev’s partying!” I don’t know what the shots are, but they taste like lemons and freedom. And they sting on the way down.
Standing on uneven floor isn’t fun, so I plop down next to Griffin, bouncing on the cushion and leaning my head back so it rests against his arm.
It’s thick enough to be a pillow but not nearly as soft.
He smells warm—Is that a smell?—but then again, he always does.
Yeah, this position is much better than standing.
He watches my head loll to the side and gives a smile.
I avert my gaze because he’s a bit too pretty, but when I look back, his eyes course over my bare leg sticking out from my dress.
He swallows, his jaw gritted like maybe he’s in pain.
When he meets my gaze again, he licks his lips and clears his throat.
Griffin starts to talk, but all I hear are the bass undertones of his deep voice, shorn from his words.
“What?” I yell.
Griffin smiles, leaning close. His broad shoulders bump against mine as his long hair cascades over his shoulders. It smells earthy. Woodsy, like the pines in Elk Grove and the cracked dirt of a hard day.
“You know, you don’t have to drink when Poe tells you to,” he says, his rumbling tone practically vibrating down my spine.
“He’s so nice about it, though,” I whine back.
“And you’re a lightweight.”
“I am not,” I argue, but maybe he’s right because my head is very heavy and I’d really love some water.
I don’t want to get up, though. I want to bask in the sight of Griffin in this club or bar or whatever it is. Purple lights illuminate the sides of his cheeks, casting his cheekbones in stark contrast, picking out the small scar on his temple, and making his jawline seem carved from marble.
He’s so perfect, and I wish he didn’t look so good and that I wasn’t so…me. I mean, no, I am happy I’m me. I love being me. But I wonder if I’m too ridiculous for someone like Griffin.
Not that it matters.
My job matters. Pitching to Connection matters.
I think I’m drunk.
“I’m gonna get water,” I say, pushing up off the couch.
The rest of the men start to rise, too, with chants of “Let us,” and “We’ll go for you,” but Griffin shakes his head. “I’ve got her.”
Griffin holds my waist in his large hands, the roughness catching on the delicate silk of my dress. I like that he lets me exist and make my own decisions, even though his palms are probably the only reason I’m standing right now.
That’s the thing about Griffin.
He’s supportive.
We’re not in front of any cameras. He doesn’t have to hold my hand. But when I reach out for his as we descend a small staircase, his fingers thread through mine anyway.
He escorts me to the long bar, which has little dotted lights along the edge. I lean on the counter, tracing my finger over them, expecting string lights, but they’re flush with the wood instead.
“Built into the bar,” I observe.
Griffin slowly nods in acknowledgment because I’m a ridiculous woman. A very, very ridiculous woman.
A woman on a deadline.
Why am I here again?
I hold my head in my hands and sigh.
Griffin takes the barstool next to where I stand and rubs my back with his palm.
“You want me to order water, or do you want to?” he asks.
I snort. “It sounds like you’re talking to Ava.”
He grins, and it’s that sly one with half his beautiful teeth showing.