“Look, I’m not going to…,” I began to tell him before he interrupted.
“Hey, settle down. You’re coming to my house. You’re my agent whether you want to be or not. You better get to know me and Battery’s music. You can’t very well represent us if you can’t even recognize our music when you hear it. Besides, I think you’ll come to like it,” he clarified. He was right, damn him.
“Sorry,” I said on the defensive again. “You’re not going to make me listen to your albums, are you?” I asked. James had me on edge almost constantly. If he wasn’t making me wet just being himself, he was hitting on me or bringing out my temper. Then he’d say something reasonable and I’d feel bad for getting angry. Then I was all hot and bothered again.
“All night, little girl,” he said calling me by his pet name. I wanted to find that demeaning and I promise you, I tried, but it was growing on me. I let it pass. James was being James and my job wasn’t to babysit him or turn him into a gentleman. I was his agent.
“Great,” I replied not disguising my displeasure at the prospect of listening to Battery’s brand of noise all night. James laughed and looked as if he knew something I didn’t. We left his steakhouse and repeated the greetings but in reverse. Monica handed James a plastic bag, the cheesecake I assumed. Everyone had hugs and goodbyes for James and included me as if I was part of the family. James handed the valet another hundred for having his pickup already waiting. James let the valet help me in and I was annoyed at myself for being disappointed James hadn’t assisted me.
I found the whole restaurant experience rather confusing. James wasn’t a complete jerk, but he could be rather abrasive and rude at times. Nevertheless, everyone at his steakhouse seemed to love him. He seemed to have a lot to affection for them too. Again, I saw a side of James I didn’t expect, completely the opposite from the man that swore I’d be begging to have sex with him. When I thought about his softer side, I almost believed that I might.
We drove west to the coast and then along the ocean on Highway 1 into Malibu. James pulled up to a gated house along the ocean and the iron gate opened for him. Inside the tall exterior walls beyond the gate was a Spanish style house with a red tile roof. Okay, it was a mansion. Not the rock star haven I might have imagined, but a lovely, well maintained and landscaped yard surrounding a rather large two-story house that could have easily been home to a well-to-do family. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it.
We pulled up to the front of the house on a large covered driveway. Wow! I’d never been in a house like this and I wondered what I’d find inside despite the well-maintained exterior. I half expected a huge man cave filled with tacky furnishings, posters featuring bikini clad woman and empty pizza boxes. I couldn’t have been more wrong. James’ house was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Rich wood, marble floors, soaring ceilings and a wall of windows overlooking a beautiful pool and the Pacific Ocean. I immediately went to the windows, drawn to the amazing view. I looked out over the water and then at James, finding the home and the man incompatible.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. Nothing in the house spoke of the abrasive rock star that lived here.
“Thanks. You look surprised,” he said as he offered me a bottle of water he had retrieved after putting the cheesecake away.
“I guess I am. This isn’t what I expected,” I admitted.
“Come with me,” James said and his hand found the small of my back again as he lead me away from the windows. I allowed him to do it, mostly because my temper had been quenched by the meal and the beautiful view. However, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it when James touched me like that.
We approached a set of French doors at end of the expansive living room and as James opened them, I saw the man cave I expected but it wasn’t tacky or unkempt. The room was all James Turner. It screamed rock star but in a classy sort of way. Guitars hung on one wall and a collection of amps sat below them. A sofa and ornate table anchored the wall opposite the guitars and against the far wall was a large, oak desk and leather chair in front of another bank of windows. Concert photos and platinum albums hung everywhere. Memorabilia sat on selves, mostly music related.
“This is home,” was all he said and offered me a seat as he went to the sofa. I followed but something caught my attention. A poem, handwritten on a cocktail napkin, hung framed on the wall. I stopped to read it.
She awaits in my mind, a vision, a goddess, a haze.
I am no good, not worthy of her but nevertheless I crave.