“Shit. Already? Let me keep my illusions a little longer. Please.”A date. I can’t do a date.“What if we call it a drink?”
“We can call it a drink.” He laughs. “Well, Ididcome by weekly to see you at the café because I was curious. You’re hot, and talented, and I want to know more. Is that so hard to believe?”
“It is when it’s me.” I glance away. He doesn’t know the first thing about me or my mistakes that I’m trying to make up for.
“Ah, c’mon. Don’t sell yourself short,” Ben says, squeezing my hand, looking seriously at me. “Life’s hard enough as is with people wanting to do that for you. Last thing you need is to be hard on yourself, too.”
“Well…old habit.” What to say that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous? “You know, that life thing’s intense sometimes.”
Understatement, Charlie. Seriously.
“Oh, I know about that. Well, think on it and let’s go into the shop and I’ll get some strings and then you can tell me where you’d like to go next. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds great,” I admit with a smile.
We go in. Soon, Ben’s browsing strings and chatting away to the man behind the counter. I take the opportunity to absorb the sight of him instead of the music gear that would ordinarily hold my attention. New priorities today.
Ben’s bundled in colors from his woolly hat to his striped scarf over his black leather jacket. He has an easy energy, magnetic, falling into conversation with strangers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They’re laughing and I’m smiling as I watch him. Maybe he’s flirting, but I think that’s just the way he is: open. It’s a remarkable thing.
How does someone move through the world with such ease? Like there’s nothing to lose? I’m desperate to hold on to this moment before he inevitably disappears, because it’s too impossible to dare dream that this is anything more than a fantasy, some kind of extra Friday night manifestation due to a warp in time and space somewhere. Because gorgeous, funny men don’t happen into my life. It’s too dangerous to hope for more, even with our obvious chemistry. But it’s even scarier to think this isn’t a dream, but my actual life, and now Ben’s the new wildcard.
After Ben buys his guitar strings, he turns to me. “Wanna go for a drink?”
“A drink?” I ask, as if I’ve never been asked for a drink before. It’s taking a long moment to grasp the idea that Ben Campbell wants to spend more time with me. I glance at my watch, memory flooding back: I’ve got rehearsal later. But…we’ve been practicing for ages. And frankly, there will be more rehearsals, but only one afternoon with Ben.
“Hold that thought.” I text Briar that I can’t make it as he watches me curiously, and I smile. “Yeah. I’m up for a drink. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
After another stomp through the snow, we end up at the Crobar in the late afternoon. It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall rock club in Soho famed for its metal music. All kinds of acts have played here, from tiny upstarts to festival headliners. Though neither of us is a metalhead, there’s a lot of technical finesse in heavy metal with its roots in jazz. We’re both more of the rocker sort, with Ben definitely having far more chops. I’m casual, jamming with other uni students and the occasional gig—he’s the real thing, a true showman. He’s got a couple of albums and tours under his belt. The blues influence with his guitar-playing’s obvious, and God, his fabulous voice. There’s little wonder why his band has already been successful.
The last few hours have been surreal, like I’ve woken up in someone else’s life. There hasn’t been time to take stock. Not really. But I’m enjoying the impromptu holiday from the usual. Even if it’s a Saturday. I’ll catch up on everything else tomorrow, including mundane things like laundry and readings, though uni’s now just out for the Christmas break. Meanwhile, curiosity’s got me in its grip. I’ve already established he’s more than hot. He’s intriguing. And he must be feeling the same, because he’s here with me and didn’t stand me up after the stockroom tryst. Which was more than hot. But he’s funny too, and talented, and I can’t help but wonder what pints with Ben Campbell might be like.
We’re snug in the dark cavern of the bar, which is moodily black and sticky in the day as we work on our pints, second round in. The lights are low. Framed memorabilia hang on the walls, spotlit like the bar. Others have sought refuge here from the snow and from shopping, and maybe transport’s stranding people and maybe it isn’t. I’m enjoying not knowing and our shared suspension of reality. It’s cozy in here, even if it’s too early for the evening’s usual live music.
Ben and I have had just enough to drink to take the edge off, and we’ve started rounds of questions, like a speed date, or something equally ridiculous. Like I know anything about dating, other than I have a ban on the damn thing.
These are just ordinary, run of the mill questions. Nothing to get fussed about. It doesn’t mean anything. We’re just passing the time.
“Since we didn’t meet online, I have no vital stats on you.” Ben leans toward me, ever so slightly. His pint is between his hands. “No intel. Though you’ve given me more info than Grindr. I already know firsthand that you’re top shelf.”
I laugh, heat rising in my face. “Well, cheers for that. Spoiler alert: I’m not on social media. You can’t stalk me online to find my secrets.”
“What?” He clutches at his chest in shock, grinning. “Be still my beating heart. You’re not on social media? What century are you from?” He leans in even more, arms on the table, hand on his drink. “I’ve heard about people like you. Tell me everything.”
“I don’t need internet voyeurs picking through my digital garbage.” I shrug a shoulder. “Who wants that?”
“Well, I was rather looking forward to rummaging through your virtual bins, Charlie. I’m just going to have to work harder, that’s all. Now tonight I’ll have to do something else. Like…”
“You’re simply gonna have to ask, I’m afraid. And I may give you answers. Or I’ll give you such a pack of lies you’ll be marveling about it into next year. That’s a promise.”
Ben laughs with delight. I do my best impression of being calm, collected, and cool, though in fact I’m not one of those things. Michael’s told me I have a great poker face, which is my usual uniform for getting through most family things, and convenient for other situations.
“Are you in the witness relocation program?” Ben’s scarf hangs loose around his neck as he pulls the ends off from the table where it had been dangerously close to absorbing his pint. “Diplomat’s son?”
“No and no. Keep going.”
“You’re a world-famous criminal?” he asks. “Since you seem to know so much about them.”
