Page 15 of Naked Coffee Guy
“She wouldn’t even be here tonight if you hadn’t ditched me.” His gaze darkens, his hands clenched as he leans against the bar. “Look, you’re obviously mad about something. You wrote a whole goddamn song about me. Mind telling me the sins I’ve committed?”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s for real. I mean, of course he has no idea that he took my home. But does he really sleep easy at night, knowing how many families he displaced just for a stupid commission?
I want to tell him everything, to put him in his place as I shed some light on how his arrogant business moves have dire consequences for the people underneath his feet. That his so-called holy ground is just a battlefield of the bodies he’s stepped on along the way.
But I can’t.
He probably has no idea what it’s like to wonder if today’s the day the streets will kill him. He said he was a former runaway, but it’s obvious that past is long forgotten because his world and mine are in completely different galaxies. If I tell him why I’m angry with him, I’ll also have to explain the sad state of my paycheck, and how this pathetic wage is still a giant step up from where I once was. And while I should be proud of how far I’ve come, I suddenly feel small and insignificant as I stand here in front of him, fighting the urge to shrink under his watchful eyes.
“It’s nothing. The song is nothing. You’ve done nothing.”
“Then why did you leave that night without any kind of explanation, or even your number?”
I fiddle with my straw, hating how even in this moment, I can’t help but notice the way his jeans are slung low on his hips so casually, just waiting for my hand to find what’s underneath. No suit this time, but I find the jeans that much more enticing.
“I just had somewhere else to be.”
“At two in the morning?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Ever heard of bed?”
It’s a double entendre, and I find some satisfaction at the way he licks that lower lip. I’m teasing him, I know it. But in the process, I’m teasing myself. Mac Dermot is not someone that belongs in my bed, let alone my world.
“Look, I tried to let you off easy,” I say, twirling my straw in my glass. “I realized too late that I really wasn’t interested. I’m sure you’re not used to hearing those words, but it’s true. We’re just too different, and I figured it was easier to walk away than to string you along for the rest of the night.”
I start to leave again, and again he stops me. But this time his mouth is on mine, and fuck if I’m not kissing him back. It’s like all my reasons on why this is a bad idea completely evaporate, and I’m left breathing him in like air, clutching him closer, savoring the taste of his tongue dancing with mine. It doesn’t even matter that we’re at a bar in a public space, that people are expecting me back on stage, or that we’re here creating a scene that could catch this bar on fire.
He breaks away and I gasp for air, unsure how I’ll ever breathe again if he’s not there to breathe for me.
“Not interested?” he says. Then he walks away.
He. Mother. Fucking. Walks. Away.
“Holy hell,” I whisper, then quickly look around. There are a few amused glances around me, but no one calls me out. Even Ethan shoots a thumbs up, which receives a dirty glare from me in return. He’s supposed to be on my side. Mac is the enemy.
And the enemy sure knows how to kiss me stupid.
After collecting myself, I make my way back to stage, welcomed by a few hoots and hollers from those who saw the show at the bar. My face reddens, and while I’m dying inside, I wave them off as if what they saw was no big deal. Even though it was everything. Even though my insides are tied up in knots over the complicated feelings I have.
I begin the set with a slowed down version of “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles. It was already on my setlist, and the crowd is obviously eating it up. But I can’t help regretting the choice as the words’ meaning flows through my mind and out my mouth. It’s a fun and flirty song, but the core of it is about the female orgasm. It’s a terrible choice for a song after receiving a kiss like the one Mac gave me.
As if I’m drawn to him, my eyes find Mac again. He hasn’t left but is standing there getting berated by the blonde chick he showed up with. She’s giving it to him hard while he just stands there, taking it. Finally, she throws her drink in his face before leaving.
I’m thrilled on more levels than I can count. I want Mac to suffer. I also want him free and single, even if I can’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. But then I see a few people whispering around the little scene he caused—the second one of the night—and then looking at me, I realize I’m being taken down with him.
They think I’m the homewrecker.
Don’t get me wrong—I am not one to worry about petty gossip or what people think of me. But this kind of drama could hurt my smalltime music career. Short of attempting to save face by telling the crowd everything, I instead abandon my setlist and go with a song I wrote years ago, but with lyrics that ironically fit the current situation:
When you say these things to me
You make me want to believe
But your mouth tells two different tales
What do you mean, what do you mean, what do you mean?
I look at Mac the whole time I’m singing, aware of the shift in the crowd around him. Now, instead of looking at me, they are looking at him. A murmur of awareness rises up to greet me, and I know they know the song is about him.