Oughta Be a Movie: a Sugar-&-Spice romantic comedy (7 page)

“Ahh. Your lifestyle’s threatened. You could be the next to fall?”

“Not much chance of that.”

Ali had the distinct impression he wasn’t saying he’d do what it takes to avoid that horrible fate. It felt like he was saying he wouldn’t be that lucky. Chase? “And why
is
that? Maybe you just haven’t met the right woman.”

“When one of your better known
dating
skills is sliding out of a woman’s house before the morning-after pancakes hit the griddle, ‘right women’ aren’t really all that interested. Not at our age, anyway.”

She smiled at the image he painted and had no doubt that he had the sliding-out-of-there skill perfected to an art form. “Maybe you need to discover the lady’s favorite pizza toppings before you sample her pancakes.”

His bark of laughter drew a few glances then his hand squeezed her shoulder. “There’s a novel idea.” He looked at her closely. “Last time I noticed, you were a cute kid, collecting bugs and blowing things up. How’d you get so wise?” He swiveled their barstools so they were almost facing each other and leaned in. “And so sexy. What are
your
favorite pizza toppings?”

She laughed at the obvious flirtation. “Doesn’t work that way. You have to use your powers of observation.”

Instead of a retort, Chase slid back, looking over her shoulder.

“Collins.” She turned at the sound of Ben’s voice. Ben’s irritated voice. Had she ever heard that voice before? “You moving in on my date?”

Whoa.
She checked to see how Chase was taking the words, the tone. With a small smile, a shake of his head. Amused? Resigned?

“Nah, just keeping things warm for you.” He stood up. “I don’t start fights I can’t win.” He nodded at Ben, then turned to Ali. “Save me a dance later if it’s okay with Harrison.” And with that he walked off.

Ben sat down on the empty stool, but still didn’t say anything to her. When he spoke, she wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself. “I never thought I’d be competing with Chase Collins for a woman.”

“He wasn’t—”

“Yes, he was.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not porcupines.”

That got his attention and at least a half smile. “Did you say porcupines?”

“Yes. Have you ever thought about how they mate?”

“Very, very carefully?”

There it was. The first real smile since he came back into the club.

“Exactly! Think about it. None of the guys are going near the female without an invitation.” At his nod, Ali went on. “When she lets them know she’s in the mood, they have to fight to be chosen. That way she gets the biggest and strongest.”

“Or the horniest.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe. Anyway, when there’s only one left—and he’s probably pretty beaten up with the other guys’ quills sticking out every which way—he goes to the female and pees on her.”

His surprised laugh was more of a snort, but she finished her explanation. “If she’s impressed, he’s golden.”

At that, he started laughing so hard Ali thought he was going to fall off the barstool. He braced his arms on the bar, dropped his head, got himself almost under control, and then started laughing all over again. It took him a couple of tries, but he finally stopped laughing and wiped the tears out of the corners of his eyes. “Kinky little bastard, huh?”

He stood and turned her barstool around. Hands at her waist, he lifted her and set her on her feet, still smiling, leaning in until his forehead touched hers. “Just so we’re clear here.” Then his cheek slid against hers until his mouth was at her ear. His tongue traced the shell, and she shuddered. “I’m
very
fond of kink.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “But not that one.”

Fond of kink?
She needed to think about his words, but his lips skated down the side of her neck, and her neurons were misfiring. Other cells, however, seemed to be firing just fine. He kissed her on that spot where her neck curved into her shoulder. The soft kiss became a nip then a bite that hurt a little. But then it didn’t. When his tongue soothed the spot, her back arched, pushing her breasts against him, and she heard a sound like a puppy that wants to be cuddled and was pretty sure it came from her. She should explain about involuntary sexual responses, but did she really need to explain? Ben’s hands tightening on her waist left little doubt he knew exactly what kind of response she’d given him. He was saying something, but all she could hear was a roaring in her ears, almost like…applause.

Applause?

The DJ signaled Josh and Bree’s arrival by cranking up the volume on a cheesy version of “Here Comes the Bride.” Ben stepped back and picked up their beers and coats and gestured to the stage area. “We have a table up front with them.”

The newlyweds barely made it to the table before the DJ was calling them out to the dance floor. “Let’s have the bride and groom kick this party off. And I have it on good authority that this is
their
song.” When the strains of the Steelhead Trout ballad filled the air, Bree gave Josh “the look” that said you’ll pay for this. But the crowd cheered at the sound of “Longtime Coming” with its clever, sexy lyrics that could either be about how long it had taken the guy to get the girl he loved or about their long, slow lovemaking.

“That really is Bree’s favorite song. That album came out the week she and Josh had their first date. And she’s like a fifteen-year-old fangirl about that band. Knows every member and their stories. Knows who wrote which song. How they got their big break.”

Ben nodded and pointed across the dance floor. “Let’s stand over there.”

They were seated right by the dark stage and only three feet from the dance floor. “I can see just fine.”

“Humor me.”

She waited for an explanation, but he didn’t offer any. Curious, she followed him.

About a minute into the song, Josh spun Bree around then pulled her back in before dipping her. At the same time a voice was shouting over the music, “Hey, hey.” Ali couldn’t figure out where it was coming from; then the music screeched to a stop. That voice again, “That’s
our
song.” Josh didn’t pull Bree to her feet until the spotlights on the performance stage came up.

Ali looked over and did a double take. “Oh my gosh, Ben. That’s them. I mean it’s
really
them!”

She looked over just as Bree gave Josh a puzzled look until he turned her to face the stage. Then Bree froze as Steelhead Trout took up the ballad. Her head turned back and forth between the stage and Josh until she leaped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips and grabbing his face to kiss him. Josh managed a quick fist pump in Ben’s direction without dropping her. Then a couple of seconds later, Newell Tremont, the lead singer, pointed a cocked finger at Ben and nodded in his direction.

Ali watched as Ben nodded back. “It was you.
You
did this? That’s why you needed to get here early?”

A small tilt of his head, one shoulder raised—he looked half embarrassed.

“Ben?”

“All I did was make a call. It was Josh’s idea.”

“And with
one
call you have probably the hottest band in the country playing at a private wedding party?” When he didn’t answer, she prodded, “Ben.”

“It wasn’t anything.” At her skeptical look, he explained more. “Josh and I were talking about the wedding. He wanted to do something big for Bree, but didn’t know what, and he joked about hiring Steelhead Trout to play, so I…” Ben huffed, hesitated. “Newell told me one time that he owed me. So I called him.”

“Newell, huh? Why does he owe you?”

This time he sighed before answering. “Five, five-and-a-half, years ago, they were playing a place north of here, out on I-45, when I was in town. Josh and I heard them. They were just an Austin band then, playing small regional clubs. Still doing mostly covers—best covers I’ve ever heard. Everything from Fats Domino to Bublé to McGraw. But the stuff of their own—that bluesy, edgy, crossover stuff—was amazing. At Christmas that year, I was in Austin for a couple of days and caught them again at a club there and talked to Newell between sets. Bought the CD they’d cut. Then it was just one of those right-place-at-the-right-time things. Back in LA at a New Year’s party, I got in a conversation with this casting coordinator about how this director he was working for wanted an actual band with a very specific sound for
September Morning
.”

“That movie was their big break.”

“Yeah. What the guy described was exactly their sound, so I sent him their CD the next day. He called Newell, mentioned my name. They got the job. Ended up with a recording contract. Their big song from the movie won Best Song; they mopped up at the Grammies. And you know the rest. My part was
really
not a big deal. I knew somebody who knew somebody. But they were grateful. When I called Newell about the wedding—on a long shot—they were going to be in Austin for a few weeks between studio recording and going back on tour next month.” He shrugged again. “They said yes.”

Ali tried to wrap her head around this story. Tried to picture what Ben’s life was like. He calls a big name band, and they not only take his call, they use their downtime to do him a favor. He casually calls Newell Tremont by his first name. Not name dropping but because they’re friends. Not exactly like life in the teachers’ lounge between fifth and sixth period.

Ben nudged her out of her thoughts, pointing to Bree who was motioning them onto the dance floor. He took her hand and spun her around and back into his arms.

“Show off.” His only response was a chuckle before he pulled her closer.

Forty-five minutes later, winded and thankful for a slower song, she breathed in slowly. “This must be different from the parties you’re used to.”

He leaned back to look at her when he answered with a question. “The real ones or the fake ones?”

“There are fake parties?”

“More fake ones than real ones.”

“And what’s the difference?”

“Real parties aren’t that different from this. Or maybe six or eight people having dinner together, cooking burgers, catching a no-name band, playing Trivia. Fake parties are where you go to see and be seen. Screenwriters are C-listers if we’re lucky—or broody or eccentric. Maybe you get to a B-list party if you’re presentable enough to be tapped as a plus one for some up-and-comer. It’s all for the cameras.”

“But it looks so glamourous.”

“Nah. Occasionally you get to meet someone you’ve admired. Even talk to them for a while, but it’s mostly tedious and generally boring. Not the most fun part of the job. But I’m not complaining about what I do. Besides, all jobs have boring parts. Doesn’t yours?”

She thought about it. “Rarely boring. Frustrating, aggravating sometimes. I’m not a big fan of paperwork.”

He spun her around again, catching her with her back to his front, wrapping their linked hands around her waist. His other hand, on her hip, moved to splay open on her stomach, pulling her back against him. “I’m having teacher fantasies. You at your desk in horn-rim glasses, grading papers.”

“I don’t wear glasses.”

He chuckled. “Don’t mess with my fantasy.”

Dipping his head, his lips barely touched the side of her neck, and she was breathing too fast again, but not from dancing. When he brushed a light kiss under her ear, she shivered. And swallowed. And tried not to squirm. As the song faded out, instead of letting her go, he pulled her tighter. She was so over her head here.

Looking over to their table, she noticed Bree and Josh sitting down. “I’d better go check in with Bree.”

He didn’t let her go, but whispered, “Or what? You’ll be like the Maid of Dishonor?”

Impossible not to smile. “
Bridesmaids
, Chris O’Dowd as Nathan the cop. I love that movie.” His arm relaxed, but he didn’t release her hand as he led her to the table. She and Bree talked through a couple of songs before heading to the ladies’ room.

Walking back in, she saw Ben and Josh in what looked like a serious conversation. She couldn’t see Ben’s face, but Josh’s expression was thunderous. Only a couple of steps from the table she caught a few of Ben’s words, “…never hurt…respect.” His voice rose as he spat out three more words, “Leave it alone.”

At that moment, Ellie Grantham, a friend of hers and Bree’s since elementary school stopped them to tell Bree how wonderful the wedding had been and to give her version of Bree’s expression when she realized that Steelhead Trout was actually playing. “Priceless.” The three women visited a little longer, talking about mutual friends and who was having babies. Ali didn’t have much to add to that.

When she turned back to the table, Josh was sitting alone. Looking around, she located Ben talking with Cyndy—aka Sin—at the bar. Should she wait for him at the table or go to the bar? At that moment, Cyndy saw her looking that way and moved closer to Ben, putting her hand on his arm, her expression a challenge. That tore it. Ali walked toward them and was only a step behind Ben when Cyndy focused on him and asked, “Do you still live in that cute, blue bungalow? We had so much fun there.” On the last words, her hand began stroking his arm as she looked at Ali with a condescending smile.

“No. I bought a place five years ago.”

Ali could feel her face flush and was about to turn around and go back to the table where she should have gone in the first place when Ben looked over his shoulder and saw her. His quick smile just as quickly turned thoughtful, probably wondering if she’d heard Cyndy’s remark.

The other woman was locked and loaded and not deterred in the least by Ali’s presence. Why would she be? Ali was out of her league. Cyndy’s next exclamation was almost a purr. “Ohhh, I’ve gotta get myself back out to LA and check out your new place. See what
fun
we can have there.”

Ben didn’t respond to Cyndy, just took Ali’s hand as the band started a new song and said, “This is the last song on this set. Ali and I have some things to do if you’ll excuse us.” He was walking away and tugging her along before Cyndy could say anything else.

Clearly Ben had done a lot more than “keep up” with an old high school friend. If he’d moved five years ago from the house Cyn remembered, it had been a while. It shouldn’t matter, but around girls—women—like Cyndy, Ali never fit in. Kinda like the world is a tuxedo and she’s a pair of brown shoes. Odd that in high school she hadn’t cared. So why did she care now?

Ben’s hand moved to her back, and he steered her to the dance floor. If she were cool, she’d make some clever but ladylike remark about what a bitch Cyn was, but at the moment not one cool, clever word came to mind. And the words that did come to mind were definitely not ladylike. She peeked at Ben’s face and could see his jaw twitching. Then he was pulling her away from the dance floor and toward the hallway leading to the club offices. As soon as they were away from the crowd, he turned her around to face him.

“Ask me.”