away from everyone.
The place is beginning to fill up, so finding a quiet space to talk is nearly impossible. I lead her toward the parking lot, where I at least know we won’t be interrupted. I look back at the guys to signal to them I’ll get everything smoothed out. Royce once again proves himself the king of the dickheads as he dry humps the air. John notices and pushes him back into the booth.
“Oh yeah, how tempting. I can’t wait to join the ranks,” she sneers after witnessing the immature Royce-ism. Yes, we’ve actually named the stupid shit he does; Royce-ism is all we could come up with to cover all of his moments which embarrass the hell out of us.
I don’t answer her. Instead, I lightly place my hand on the small of her back and push her toward the exit. The thin, soft fabric of her cotton dress snags on my callused hand, but I refuse to move away from her. I want to savor this small, physical moment, as it might be the only one I ever get.
When we hit cool air and the open space of the outside, she moves away from me to gain some distance. She veers in the direction of her car, but I grab her hand and pull her toward my truck. She looks at me somewhat conflicted, but continues to follow me.
My truck is parked in the back half of the lot; it’s my baby and I don’t trust the parking skills of the rest of society to not scratch it. I always take extra precautions when it comes to Nelly. Nelly is a black 1956 Ford truck I found at a junkyard, rusted out and missing most of her parts. It took several years and a lot of money, but she is now completely restored.
“Holy shit!” she gasps. “How does a starving musician afford a truck like this?” she asks when we arrive at Nelly.
“I get that a lot,” I smirk. “I said I was a musician, but I never said I was starving,” I tell her as she walks around the truck, admiring each polished and waxed piece until she meets me at the driver’s side door.
“Oh, I get it. You’re a spoiled rich kid who has chosen to follow his artistic talents instead of the family business,” she huffs. The comment couldn’t be further from the truth, and it rubs me the wrong way considering her own upbringing.
I lean up against the side of the truck, careful not to scratch the pristine paint job. “Actually no,” I explain. “I was raised by my grandmother on food stamps in a single-wide trailer. I invested what little money I was making once I left home and I did well for myself. I play guitar because I love it. Don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t that kind of the pot calling the kettle?”
Her back stiffens and I raise my hands up in surrender. “I don’t mean to piss you off, Jen. It just seems pretty shitty to knock me for possibly having money growing up, when I know you did.”
“Yes, I had money, Casen,” she admits, placing her hands on her hips. “However, while you earned your fortune probably with the support of your family, when I graduated college I walked away from mine. What I have, I earned on my own.”
“You know, we really aren’t too different from one another. If you weren’t so busy protecting the saddle on that high horse of yours, you would see that.”
“High horse? High horse? I’ve only been reacting to your self-absorbed, arrogant comments which you’ve continuously whirled at me since we met. If anyone has been sabotaging any kind of working relationship, it’s you,” she spits back.
If I think about our few encounters, half of the time it was me who egged her on and acted in a manner, which resembled pulling a girl’s pigtails on the playground.
“I think we are both at fault, yet I also think there is no reason you can’t take the job. We’re grown-ups, and it’s not like you are going to follow us around like some stalker fan. You’ll show up to gigs, take some pictures, and go home…just like any other photo shoot.”
She begins to mull over her options and, no doubt, her thoughts about me.