Page 56 of Taming the Rockstar

He opens the refrigerator to reveal rows of neat bottles of fresh-squeezed juice, ginger shots, Perrier, various hot sauces, and fresh fruit. He hands me a Perrier, twisting open the cap for me. I take a sip.

“What kind of host am I? Do you want a glass or anything, ice?” He opens a drawer below the refrigerator showcasing half a dozen different forms of ice, not only cubes but pebbles, sticks, and round pink balls.

“The pink ones are grapefruit infused.” Vince blurts.

“Sure, I’ll take some … grapefruit ice,” I say.

He grabs a glass from the cupboard and a handful of ice, pouring the rest of the Perrier bottle in.

“Now, do you feel right at home since you’ve got a complimentary sparkling water?” He jokes.

“All I need is for your bed to move on its own, and I’ll be all set,” I volley back.

“Shit! That reminds me! What’s on your rider?” he asks. I think he’s joking for a minute, but he’s serious.

“For real, if you’re staying here all week, I want you to be comfortable. What kind of snacks do you like to have when you’re at home? I know you like that weird vegan creamer for your coffee; I can run out to get some tonight, but what else?” he’s rambling again.

He wipes his hands down the front of his jeans, and it occurs to me that Vince might be nervous.

“Oh! Wow. I really should have thought this through. Y’know, no one’s ever asked me that in five years. Um, I like fruit in the morning. Coconut yogurt, a good smoothie bowl, oatmeal, that kind of thing. And, snacks-wise.”

“Red Vines!” Vince interjects, “You like Red Vines! And salt and vinegar chips! And fruit leathers!”

“Are you listing every single snack you’ve seen me grab from a gas station?”

“Maybe.”

“Vince, I don’t think anyone’s ever paid this much attention to me in my entire life,” I say.

Once I turned seven, my mom taught me how to make Mac and cheese and set me loose on the world to wreak havoc at Allison’s. I’m not used to being doted on.

“Well, they should! You’re amazing! Right, Violet?” I turn around to see that Violet follows us into the kitchen, her serpentine tail thumping against the granite kitchen island.

“I want this week to be special for you. You deserve a break.” Vince says sheepishly. I close the distance between us and kiss him, slipping my tongue into his mouth. He moans.

“It’s already so fucking special,” I say.

“And I’d love any of what you listed; just don’t go out of your way, okay? We have all week.”

“That we do,” Vince mumbles against my lips. We press our foreheads together, and I lose myself in his green eyes. He grins goofily.

“I gotta show you the rest of the house … and the bedroom.”

“Oh, I want to see the bedroom. Let me guess, you have a mirror on the ceiling.”

“I’m a rockstar, not a porn star.”

“Same difference.”

“Rude.”

“And true; now show me the rest of your magic mansion or whatever.” I peek into the dining room. Vivid wallpaper showcasing vines and forest creatures adorns the walls, a sort of whimsical goth nineties vibe that would be right at home in a Tim Burton movie, with a stately oak dining table tying together a vast assortment of vintage chairs, some with wooden backs, and some with embroidered re-upholstered forest scenes.

For a moment, I think Vince has a bear head mounted on the north wall, but when I step into the room, I realize it’s a jackalope.

“You kill that thing yourself?” I ask.

“I found it in a vintage shop in Scotland in the nineties.”

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