Page 52 of Dirty Like Me
I finished putting the bacon on to cook and dug the last item out of the bag, tossing it at her. “I brought your shoe.”
She caught it and fumbled, but recovered. “Oh. Sorry I left it in the light fixture. What a tool.” She was blushing again; it was good to see some color coming back to her cheeks.
“No worries. I’ve never had a girl do the Cinderella dash on me. Kind of made me feel like Prince Charming.” In truth, I’d been more than a little disappointed to wake up and find her gone.
“You really didn’t have to bring it. I left the other shoe there anyway.”
“I’ll have Maggie track it down.”
“Please don’t. These things were designed by a woman-hating sadist.” She tossed the shoe on the couch behind her, watching as I sautéed the onions and mushrooms I’d already diced up at home. “What the heck are you making?”
“You’ve never seen an omelet in the works before?”
“Just surprised Jesse Mayes knows how to make one.”
I ignored that and cracked a bunch of eggs into the bowl, mixed in a splash of cream and the rest of the diced veggies, and poured the whole thing into the sauté pan over medium-low heat.
“Keep an eye on the bacon.” I handed her a fork and helped myself to a tour of the living room. Katie didn’t even have to get up to join me, just turned around on her stool.
It was a small place, something like the first apartment I ever had, shared with Jude, Brody and Zane just after high school, when we were busting our asses to get club gigs. Just before we inked our record deal. This place was a hell of a lot cleaner, though. Smelled better, too. And the living room wasn’t crowded with unmade futons and music gear. It was just as old, just as plain, but well-kept. There was nothing on the walls. There was, however, an album collection that filled a couple of bookcases and took up one whole wall.
I perused the vinyl, noting the overwhelming array of classic rock. “You like any music from after you were born, sweetheart?”
“Sure. Just don’t collect it on vinyl. I grew up on classic rock and it’s pretty much in my soul. That started out as my dad’s collection.”
“That’s cool.” I thumbed through the albums, all neatly alphabetized by band. “My mom had about three albums when I was a kid. Sugar Ray, Snow and Limp Bizkit.”
Katie laughed. “And one wonders where his love of music came from…”
I thumbed from Deep Purple through The Doors, the egotistical ass in me unable to resist checking to see if she had any Dirty vinyl. She didn’t. I fired up her turntable and put on Waiting for the Sun, dropping the needle onHello, I Love You. When I looked up, Katie was watching me and hugging herself.
“So where did Jesse Mayes learn to make a proper omelet?” She twisted her bottom lip between her teeth, a sweetly unsure expression on her face. “I would’ve thought you had a celebrity chef on retainer or something.”
Right. So that was it.
She was freaked out about the whole celebrity thing. And since she didn’t give a fuck aboutmycelebrity in particular, my best guess was that she was freaked out about where she fit into it all. And how it was going to fuck with her life.
Couldn’t say I blamed her for that.
“I sometimes cooked for me and my sister when our mom was working, which was always,” I said as I went to check the omelet. “Believe me, I tried to get her to cook, but she was like six, so unless we wanted to live off toast and maybe mac ’n’ cheese, I had to do most of the cooking.” I poked the bacon, separating some strips that had stuck together. “How crispy do you like it?”
“If by crispy you mean burnt, then yes, please. And by the way. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate the food. But are you ever gonna tell me what you’re doing here? And don’t say making me breakfast.”
“I’m here to get your answer about the tour.”
“I gave you my answer.”
I locked onto her blue-green eyes. “You gave me a year’s worth of cinnamon gum and told me to fuck off.”
“I did not tell you to fuck off.”
“I read between the lines.” I opened the container of cheese I’d pre-shredded and dumped it over the omelet, turning down the heat. “Assuming you like triple cheese on your omelet, same as your pizza?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Man,” I muttered. “Chicks must hate you.”
“Excuse me?”
