Chapter 5
On a whim, I asked Braden after the interview if he wanted to grab a bite to eat.
I kept it sounding casual…because I didn’t want my true feelings known: I was starting to fall for the guy.
Sure, I’d had a crush on him a few years before, because he was cute as hell and hot on stage—but I’d kept that at bay when he and Dani started dating.
And I knew what a standup guy he was, thanks to hearing it from my best friend, which made him all the more appealing.
But when talking to him during the interview, I felt like I really got to know who he was deep down—and the fact that he trusted me sealed the deal.
I totally understood that Dani’s heart was entangled with Zack’s and that was why it hadn’t worked for them, but Braden really was one of a kind, and any woman would be lucky to call him her boyfriend.
But it was a professional boundary that I couldn’t cross, even though I wanted to.
Before Dean, I’d had a rule of not sleeping with rock stars, because then I would just be the “easy reporter.” Then I’d stupidly fallen for Dean when it felt like we’d gotten to know each other—and he’d turned out to be the exact kind of man I’d wound up with in the past. The exact wrong guy.
So, in terms of Braden, I wasn’t worried that he’d be another version of Dean.
But going to dinner would technically break my no rock stars rule.
It didn’t help that I hadn’t even thought about dating since kicking Dean to the curb.
But there was more to it than that. Braden was Dani’s ex…and that could make it even stranger if we were to date.
I knew already that Braden was not a Dean kind of guy…and I also didn’t imagine he was the type of man who’d treat me like dirt if we were to have a fling.
But I still wasn’t going to go there. Instead, I imagined we could become good friends, and dinner would help with that.
When I asked, Braden agreed…and I couldn’t help but hope and think maybe there was a spark that wasn’t just coming from me.
Just friends, Roxy. Stop going there.
“I’m kind of underdressed compared to you,” he said.
As we exited the conference room, all my items in a bag, I said, “I need to run home and drop my things off—and I can change into something more casual. Do you want to meet somewhere? Or…you could ride with me if you don’t mind swinging by my apartment?”
He seemed to contemplate it for just a split second. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just meet you there. Should we plan on an hour from now? And where do you want to go? I’ve been in L.A. a lot over the last few years, but I still couldn’t tell you a favorite restaurant or anything.”
The reporter in me asked, “What kind of food do you like?”
“All kinds…but I’m partial to Italian.”
“Oh. There are so many choices for that, but there’s a great place on Hillhurst not too far from my place. If you want, I can pull it up on your maps app.”
Without hesitation, Braden handed me his unlocked phone and I looked up the restaurant in question. He asked, “Have you eaten there before?”
“Yeah. Carryout. They’re my favorite Italian nearby.”
“Favorite? That sounds great. I guess I’ll do a little exploring and then head over.”
“If you want to wait, we can, but I shouldn’t be long at all. The restaurant’s, like, five minutes away from my apartment. And I’m just gonna drop this stuff off and put on some jeans and different shoes. We don’t have to wait an hour unless you’re not hungry yet.”
“I could eat. That sounds good.”
“You sure you don’t want to just hitch a ride with me?”
I could see it then in his warm brown eyes—he was considering it, but something was holding him back…and I respected that. “That’s okay. I’ll just call an Uber.”
Grinning, I said, “Then I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets there first.”
Braden’s eyes crinkled with his smile, and I felt my heart ping again. “Deal.”
With that, I headed to my car and got in.
Normally, I rode my bike to work, but because I was dressed in one of my nicest outfits, I protected it by riding in my car.
Then the only potential problem was traffic.
But it didn’t take long to get home, and I was again grateful that I had an assigned space at my apartment building and there were always a couple of extra spots, so I didn’t have to waste time trying to figure out where to park.
When I got home, I quickly changed clothes into what I’d normally wear—jeans and boots and a t-shirt that showed off the tattoos on my arms. I would usually wear a band t-shirt, but I didn’t want to make Braden feel weird by wearing another band’s shirt and I didn’t want to make him feel even weirder by wearing one with Once Upon a Riot.
So I rifled through one of my drawers, finally settling on one of my newest tees, and one I loved because of its message.
On the back, it listed in order women’s rights in the United States by date, starting with 1900, twenty years before females got the right to vote.
What little I knew about Braden, I knew he might appreciate it. At the very least, he wouldn’t hate it, I thought.
Last, I smoothed my hair down and pulled it into a ponytail, letting the purple streaks stand out proudly.
I also considered riding my motorcycle to the restaurant, going as far as picking up my helmet—but then I changed my mind. If Braden accepted a ride back to his hotel room, having him on the back of my bike would feel pretty awkward, and I didn’t have any practice with passengers on it.
When I left my apartment, I felt really good about the day so far.
Braden’s interview had gone really well, and I knew I could craft it into an article that fans would want to read but that he would also feel good about.
I knew several reporters who loved when they could say gotcha!
And, sure, it got them a good story. One good story—because, once you bit a rock star, you wouldn’t get a second chance.
Not only that, but they talked amongst themselves.
It wasn’t like we had millions of them to interview.
There were a couple of reporters I’d read when I first started writing for Ferocity who no longer wrote for the rock scene.
One had moved on to a general celebrity gossip magazine and the other had disappeared.
I didn’t want that to be me. I’d worked hard to earn a solid, trustworthy reputation, and I knew one poorly written article that made someone look bad could destroy it in seconds.
Sometimes that meant holding back a lot of truth. I’d interviewed a band just the month before, one with a huge reputation for being party animals —and, when I asked about that, I discovered that not one but three of them were struggling with addiction.
No one who read my article would have known that from what I’d said.
It was more than just wanting to protect my reputation, though.
I respected these musicians and loved their work—and, even though I didn’t consider most of them friends, I treated them like I would a friend.
Being honest and respectful, honoring their wishes.
And every month, I got more and more exclusive interviews and Ferocity sent me to more events and paid me better, so I knew my approach was working.
When I got to the restaurant, I peeked inside and didn’t see Braden waiting for me. Unfortunately, I didn’t have his phone number to text him to see if he was near the back where I couldn’t see or if he was instead stuck in traffic. I should have asked.
A host by the cash register near the front door asked, “Do you need a table or did you want to order carryout?”
“Actually, I’m meeting a friend here, but I don’t know if he got here first. Have you seated a guy with long brown hair? Um…wearing an off-white sweater and jeans?”
“I don’t remember seating anyone with that description—but you’re welcome to look around if you want.”
As tempting as that sounded, the layout of the restaurant would have meant a lot of back and forth—so I said, “Thanks, but I’ll wait for him outside.”
And I did. No sooner had I exited the restaurant than a small white car pulled up in front and Braden exited from the back. He asked, “Have you been waiting long?”
“No. I went in to see if you were already there since I couldn’t text you to ask.”
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah. I’m feeling pretty hungry.” And so in we went—and were seated quickly near the back. We were early enough that the restaurant wasn’t packed yet but I knew it would be soon enough.
As we opened our menus, Braden said, “Smells good in here.”
“Yeah, the food is amazing. They make really good calzones and salads.”
Braden grinned as he turned a page. “This reminds me of my favorite restaurant back home.”
“Really?”
His face was lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. “Yeah. Angelo’s. If you’re ever in Dalton, I’ll take you there.” Then he frowned, his eyes focused on the menu. “But why would you ever go there?”
“To visit Dani maybe.” Jesus. As soon as that was out of my mouth, I regretted it. “Shit. Sorry.”
“No, don’t be. I really meant it when I said I don’t feel any ill will towards her. And I know you’re friends.” He glanced up at me for a second. “I just have some lingering, um, shit I need to work through.”
I nodded, wondering what kind of shit he meant. Romantic feelings? Longing? Anger and resentment? But I wasn’t about to ask. Our interview was over and that kind of nosiness would be impolite at best.
As I tried to decide what I wanted, he asked, “Have you ever had the penne alle arrabiata?”
Raising my eyebrows, I asked, “Which one’s that?” I also noticed that Braden’s Italian accent wasn’t too bad.
“It’s penne with a spicy tomato sauce with garlic and parsley.”
“No, I haven’t had that. I don’t mind spicy, but…you’ll have to let me know what you think.”
“I haven’t decided yet. I’m torn between that and trying the fettuccine alla bolognese.”
“Oh—I think maybe I’ve had that before. I haven’t eaten anything here I didn’t like,” I said.
Braden nodded. “The more I think about it, I think I’ll go with my original pick. I can get bolognese anywhere. What are you getting?”
“Just a pepperoni calzone and a salad.” And, because Braden wasn’t worried about garlic, I wouldn’t be either. “Do you want to split a bruschetta appetizer?”
Grinning, he looked up from the menu. “I think you read my mind. Let’s do it.”
As if the waiter had sensed that we’d made our decisions, he appeared at our table.
“Are you ready to order?” After we both said yes, he asked, “Let’s start with drinks.
What would you like? We have a nice Riesling, Sauvignon blanc, rosé, and, if those don’t suit you, we have other wines on our wine list.”
A wine list that I’d completely ignored.
Glancing at Braden, I asked, “Do you want anything?”
“Maybe one glass—but water too, please.”
“What would you like?”
My eyes widened. “I’d like a glass too—but I defer to you.” I looked directly at Braden, because wines weren’t my strong suit.
“How about the Sauvignon blanc? And, um, we’d like the bruschetta al pomodoro as an appetizer.”
“Very good. I’ll get that started for you.”
It wasn’t long before we placed our entire order and two glasses of wine were brought to the table.
It was probably a bad idea on my part, but, as a rock reporter, I often drank a lot casually—and I suspected, by the time I was done with dinner, any potential effects of the wine would have worn off.
If not, I’d also call an Uber.
“This is really good,” I said.
“The bruschetta or the wine?”
Although I’d been talking about the wine, I realized “Both.”
Braden said, “I want to thank you for the interview today. I’ll reserve final judgment after reading your article, but just the fact that you’ll let me review it before publication has put my mind at ease.”
I nodded, putting my wine glass down. “Good. And if, at any time, you change your mind, you just need to let me know.”
“Thanks.” He put down the piece of bruschetta in his hand, resting it on the tiny plate in front of him.
“I can’t tell you how many requests I had for interviews before yours—and I turned them down because it just felt like they wanted to capitalize on what should have been a private moment.
You know…drama sells or something like that. ”
“Yeah, that’s definitely it.”
“I’ve already seen that kind of thing with Riot—hostile interviewers, bad takes, wrong information, misinterpretation…”
“So why did you say yes to me? Why’d you change your mind?”
Picking up his wine glass, Braden seemed to ponder the question.
“You’ve interviewed the band before—and you never got anything wrong.
Cy was the first one to say something, and then Dani mentioned that you guys had become friends.
I didn’t know it was you at first when my publicist told me about the request—but it was the way you asked.
You’d promised I could have complete control and said you’d avoid sensationalistic reporting—and if I had any boundaries, you’d respect them.
So, a couple of weeks ago, tired of seeing all the bullshit about me being the guy left at the altar, I decided maybe I did want to say something.
And when Pam told me you were the reporter in question, I decided to go for it. ”
“Oh,” I said, picking up the glass of wine, “I really appreciate that. I’ve tried really hard to be someone who can be trusted.
And I don’t want to trash anyone, but I do know there are some reporters out there who, for lack of a better word, are bad interpreters.
They think they know what their subject is saying, but they’re so wrong.
So thank you for giving me the opportunity to prove my worthiness to you. ”
“Well…I knew, no matter what I thought, that it would still be a risk. But I trust you.”
Holy shit. That was serious. And it meant far more than I could say to him right now. All I could do was write the best, most respectful article I could to earn that trust.