“I agree. You do seem full of wonders. And there’s a lot to admire about a man who can think on his feet.”
Something in my gut thrills, a secret part of me that actually does care very much about what other people think. Whathethinks. And that secret part of me is all-in with the rare attention. It’s got to be the banter, even with feeling rough. There’s something brilliant about the unexpected simple pleasure of trading nonsense with a stranger on an otherwise dull morning.
If only I could figure out why he looks so familiar. I must have seen him play at some rock club. Maybe at some armpit of a dive in Camden or off in the far-flung reaches of Brixton. If only I could remember which gig. Obviously, he’s hot. And distracting. That’s two points for science. It can’t be a past hookup because I wouldn’t forget him.
Forget all of that. I need to get through the next few crucial seconds without shaming myself by pushing my average-to-subpar social skills over into total disaster.
Of course, nobody’s particularly arsed about the ex-virtues of one Charlie Renfrew.
“Right, where were we?” I flail about in the conversation, unsettled by his rapt gaze. Quickly, I look down, anywhere but at him. The tenner is still on the counter. “You’re not paying. I insist, man.”
His gaze only gets more intense, if that’s possible. “I feel terrible about giving the staff a hard time and coming away with free food and drink, and you get nothing out of it,” he says. “It’s a tip, then.”
“No tip. Besides, I’ve got a gig later and I’ll get cash from that. And I wouldn’t say I got nothing out of this. I learned about the criminality of hipster monster enclaves, probably in urban settings. I mean, that’s good stuff, right?”
“Right.” He’s looking far too amused. “Gig, huh?”
“Yeah. My band.” Unnerved, I’m fresh out of witty banter, or even the non-witty banter I’m also very capable of providing.
“What’s your band called?”
“Err, The Screaming Pony.”
He grins broadly at me, nodding his approval. “Good name.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, I guess I’ll need to find some other way to spend my money.” He’s about as irreverent as Jasmine from a couple of moments ago. The cheeky bastard. He pockets the money. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You can come back and spend it some other day.” Hopefully when I’m not on shift, because I’m fairly certain I’ve made an utter arse out of myself. No need for a repeat performance.
Quickly, I make myself busy by neatening things around the till.
He doesn’t move.
Why doesn’t the arsehole step to the side and wait for his order like any other sensible human? I glance at him. “You can wait at the other end of the counter. You don’t have to watch me clean.”
“I know.”
Our gazes linger, and despite my head aching and my embarrassment levels being at an all-time high, I don’t want this moment to end. At last, we exchange nods before he steps back and heads to where Lars does his thing behind the counter.
Then, it hits me why he looks so familiar but out of place: he’s Ben Campbell, the frontman of one of London’s hot upcoming bands, Halfpenny Rise.
Oh, help.
He’s fire on the guitar, of course. And vocals.
And he’s even more stunning in person than in the gig photos I’ve seen online or in the couple of live shows of his that I’ve caught around London.
Bloody hell. I’ve made a complete fool of myself when I ought to be licking his boots. Or have him lick mine. Whatever. I’m not fussy. As long as there’s someone licking something, I’m in. Especially if it involves music. And him.
My eyes widen. Wait. Fuck, did I actually just tellBen Campbellabout my band?
There’s no way to come back from the disaster I’ve made of taking his order, never mind asking him about what it’s like fronting for Halfpenny Rise or how to play lead guitar like he does, in a way that tears my heart out and shoves it into my mouth for the finale under some epic pyrotechnics display.
At any rate, Ben Campbell’s now safely over in Lars’s queue to pick up his drink, at the far end of the counter behind the pastry display. And Friday, the authorized night for fun, is nothing but a memory. The window for fun has closed.
“I would rather like to order a coffee,” says a silver-haired woman curtly, with no time for my waywardness. She stares hard at me, as if she’s had a private tour of my thoughts from the last five minutes.
