fic: work our way slow to the start
So, this is American Idol fic. I did not actually watch this season of AI. A month and a half ago, monkiedude reappeared online, all twitterpated by some dude named David Cook. I happened to be couchbound by a foot injury (don't drink and walk, people) and spent three days watching every performance, interview, and bit of backstage tomfoolery Monkie could find for me.
And then I wrote 9,000 words of David Cook/OFC. I...did not see that coming!
If you don't know who David Cook is, you can read this as original fiction. Or you can watch this for a (non-singing) primer.
Title: Work Our Way Slow To The Start
Pairing: David Cook/OFC
Rating: R
Summary: In which David Cook drinks beer, talks baseball, plays with children, worries, writes music, wins some karaoke contest, is kind of a jerk, makes a confession, kisses a girl, and sings.
Michelle is seconds away from slamming her guitar down when she remembers two things: she’s not mad at the guitar, and she’s not successful enough yet to go around smashing her instruments. She breathes out hard a couple of times, then carefully places the guitar in its case.
The good thing about being in a band with your sister, she thinks, is that it’s not like you can break up after a bad day in the studio. The bad thing? Only a sibling can stir up this sort of murderous rage.
The anger is still humming in her ears as she hears someone clearing their throat. She snaps her head up and frowns on principle at the throat-clearer, who turns out to be a generic-looking music dude: carefully tousled hair, three-days-worth of scruff, battered boots and jeans, suitably masculine jewelry.
“Hi,” he says, tentatively waving. “Is, uh, Hillary around?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Michelle says. “I think she’s on the phone or something.”
“Oh. Okay.” The guy pauses, seeming lost. “I, uh, I really enjoy your music.”
Michelle forces a smile, but is genuine when she says, “Thank you! That’s always nice to hear. Especially after a day like today.” Plus, if she’s nice to him maybe she can get him to buy her a drink. She could really use a drink.
The guy steps closer, and Michelle notes that he’s a few inches taller than her, which is always a pleasant surprise in LA. Well, at her height it’s a pleasant surprise anywhere, really. “Creative differences?” he says with a smile that shows off his great cheekbones, and Michelle resists the urge to do something stupid like flip her hair over her shoulder.
“Yeah, something like that. Probably more like sibling rivalry. We don’t have a title for the song we’re recording right now, but it’ll probably end up being ‘fratricide.’” She pauses. “Or whatever the girl version of that is.”
The guy laughs, and Michelle decides she’s going for a drink with him even if she has to buy. “Yeah, I’ve got brothers. Never tried to play with them, though.”
Michelle opens her mouth to say, Don’t! when Hillary walks in, still talking on the phone.
“He took you to the emergency room? You have the bubblegum medicine now? Oh man, put your dad on the...” and that’s when Hillary, 35-year-old mother of three and badass rock chick, looks up and squeals. “Charlie, honey? Tell dad I’ll call him back,” she says hurriedly and clicks the phone off, grinning rather insanely at the generic musician guy.
Michelle glances over at him, trying to figure out if he’s someone she should know. Probably not. She refuses to believe she’s farther out of the cultural loop than her older sister.
“Oh, wow, you came! It is so great to meet you,” Hillary says, and Michelle wonders what the hell happened to the woman who told her ten minutes ago that she played guitar like she was wearing oven mitts.
The musician nods, blushes and says, “Thank you. I was so thrilled when they told me you’d called--I’m a huge fan of The MarySues. ”
“Oh, that is so nice! My daughter loves you.” Hillary is fiddling with her iPhone as she talks.
Michelle stares at the guy, who may not be a musician after all. Hillary’s daughter, Serena, is 13. If she likes him, it means he could be famous for any number of things Michelle has never seen or heard. Serena once tried to explain the Disney stable of starlets to Michelle, and left her head spinning. He looks a little old for the tween set, though.
He notices Michelle’s furrowed brow and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m David,” he says, and it finally clicks. Serena has been bugging Michelle about this guy for what feels like months.
“Oh my god, you’re the American Idol guy!” Michelle says before she can stop herself.
He turns even redder and says, “Yes, well, one of them, anyway.”
Michelle cracks up until Hillary smacks her arm. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says. “He’s actually good.” Which, of course, sets Michelle off again.
When she finally collects herself, she looks at the guy--David--and says, perfectly seriously, “I’m so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I love Kelly Clarkson.”
“Oh my god,” Hillary says. “Okay, now that my sister has shown you the family’s douchebag gene, would you mind taking a few pictures for my daughter?”
Michelle rolls her eyes and makes talky hands behind Hillary’s back as she speaks, and David chuckles. Hillary whips around and gives Michelle the stink eye. “You wanna get in the picture or what?” she says.
“Sure,” Michelle says. She walks over and presses her hip to his, draping her arm around his waist. She smiles and says, “You smell nice.” He does, but she has no doubt it’s just his hair product. This isn’t Michelle’s first time at the rodeo.
Faking the compliment is totally worth it for the look on Hillary’s face. Michelle is sure that if the iPhone wasn’t so damn expensive, Hils would have thrown it at her head by now. And, okay, hitting on this guy isn’t exactly awesome aunt behavior, but it is a pretty stellar little sister move.
Hillary snaps a couple of pictures of them then silently hands Michelle the phone. As she tucks her hair behind her ears, Hillary says, “Do they feed you or what?”
David looks startled. “They cater stuff for us, mostly. I dunno, meals just appear in our fridge usually.? I really haven’t thought about it much.”
“So I’m assuming you haven’t had a home-cooked meal since you’ve gotten to LA?”
Oh god, Michelle thinks. She’s such a mom.
“No, ma’am,” he replies with a smile.
“You should come over and we’ll cook for you. My husband makes the best steak tips in Southern California.”
“The smog really enhances the flavor,” Michelle chimes in, because David is blushing. She’s a little worried that her sister’s attempt to adopt yet another musician with baby-bird hair who can’t feed or clothe himself has freaked him out.
“I would...really love that,” he says, smiling again. “I probably can’t do it soon or often, but yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the pressure cooker a little bit when I can.”
After they’re through with the photos, Michelle cheerily announces, “I could kill Hillary for a beer. You free, Dave?”
He stammers for a half a minute before finally saying, “Sure, I guess, although I can’t be out too late, because we have, um, a curfew? But, yeah, a beer would be great. I love beer.”
Michelle grins. He’s cute, and she hasn’t flummoxed a guy like that since she moved to Los Angeles. She’s starting to see his appeal to the American voting public.
They hit the dive bar next door to the studio and Michelle orders a pitcher of PBR and a basket of fries. The fries are curly, because even dive bars in LA are froofy.
David is from Kansas City and Tulsa, two cities Michelle has only flown over, and he’s never been to the east coast. But when she mentions Boston he lights up and says, “The Red Sox!”
“Yeah,” Michelle grins, and they’re off and running. He’s a Royals fan, and they compare aspects of the Johnny Damon Experience--he was faster in KC, hairier in Boston, insane in both cities. Michelle tells David about Fenway Park and the joys and terrors of basically sitting in your neighbor’s lap for three hours, and David regales her with tales of selling peanuts to disgruntled KC fans during summers as a teen.
“God,” he says. “It is so nice to talk baseball with someone. I keep trying to ask people around here what they think of the Dodgers, and they look at me like I have three heads.”
“Jesus, seriously,” Michelle laughs. “At home, I can have an hour long conversation about the Sox and the weather with a perfect stranger. I still have no idea what people make small talk about in this city.”
“Brangelina, Lindsey Lohan, plastic surgery, and their hair,” David ticks off on his fingers. “That’s what Seacrest tells me, anyway.”
“Well, he’s a professional small talker; he should know. Speaking of, what is up with the hedgehog look you’re working there?” she asks, waving in the general direction of his head.
“Oh, yeah. It’s to distract from the fact that my forehead doesn’t end until the top of my head. And I see that you’ve gone platinum again.”
It’s still a little weird that strangers know random things about her hair, but Michelle doesn’t mention it because she’s sure he understands. Instead she says, “Well, I was trying to be Madonna there for awhile, but it turns out she doesn’t dye her hair in her own bathroom. I fucked it up so badly they had to cut most of it off, strip out all the color, and tell me to keep my hands off of it. It’s much better now, though,” she says shaking it forward onto her face.
David reaches out and tugs on a loose strand. “Suffering for your art, huh?” he says with a smirk.
“Says a man whose career currently rests in the hands of millions of thirteen-year-olds,” Michelle responds.
He raises his glass. “Amen, sister,” he says, eyes sparkling.
“So you got into music to impress teen girls?”
“Well, yeah, but I was fifteen at the time, so I think I get a pass,” he grins back. “Believe me, it was the only chance I had of getting their attention.”
“I started singing because my parents wanted me to get into a good private school and it was that or the violin.”
“Did it work?”
“Oh, yes. And my school a capella group even won a national contest. You’re impressed; I can tell.” She grins at him.
He shrugs. “Hey, I can’t mock; I went to college on a theater scholarship.”
“Awesome. So, do you ever feel like the fact that we’re now considered ‘cool’ is a gigantic fucking cosmic joke?”
“Every. Damn. Day.”
The pitcher is done, and the bartender hollers over to ask if they want another. Michelle looks at David and says, “So how does this curfew of yours work?”
He looks at the clock. “I’ve got an hour before I get a stern talking-to from a producer and the threat of Simon mocking my semi-baldness on national TV.”
“Bummer.”
Michelle’s phone rings. It’s Hillary. She sighs and answers.
“Hi. Are you still with David?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Can I talk to him?”
“No.”
“You are such a pain in the ass!”
“Yes, yes I am. Can I relay a message for you?”
Dave is grinning at her over his beer. He laughs out loud when Hillary sighs so loudly he can hear it from across the table.
“Can he come over on Saturday? My stalker daughter tells me this is probably the best day for him.”
Michelle puts her hand over the phone and says, “Dinner with the Snow-Simmons family on Saturday?”
He tilts his chin up in thought for a minute, then says, “Yeah. I’ll probably have to sneak out and back in, but what the hell. I’m gonna lose my shit if I don’t get a break occasionally.”
Michelle thinks about what her life would be like if she had to learn a new song every week and then perform it in front of a live audience, a panel of cranky-slash-insane judges, and the entire American viewing public. Frankly, Hillary’s bitchiness looks like a cakewalk in comparison.
Oh right, Hillary. “Hey, he can come. I’m coming too.”
“Obviously. You’ve never missed a free meal in your life.” Then again, sometimes Hillary makes Simon Cowell seem like a pussycat.
*
David’s hair is flatter and his beard scragglier when he comes over. He has dark circles under his eyes, and Hillary asks if he wants some lavender candles to help him sleep.
The kids behave themselves, mostly. Except for when Charlie tells David that Ryan Seacrest is retarded. Then Serena punches Charlie, and he pulls her hair, and all hell nearly breaks loose before Hillary threatens to withhold dessert.
When both kids shut right up, David looks at Michelle and whispers, “That must be one hell of a dessert.”
“Strawberry shortcake the size of your head,” Michelle whispers back.
He smiles, and it’s like a decade has dropped off his face. “I love strawberry shortcake.” Michelle resists the urge to pat him on the head.
He plays soccer with the kids after dinner, while wearing cowboy boots. Serena plays it cool, but little Hannah just wraps herself right around his leg. Charlie apologizes for calling Ryan Seacrest a retard after David tells him that Seacrest is an awesome goalie.
“It’s a standing invitation,” Hillary tells him as he leaves. He gives her what looks like a bone-crunching hug.
“Thank you,” he says, and Michelle is surprised to hear how choked up he sounds.
She’s equally surprised to hear her tough-as-nails sister say softly, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
David shakes Michelle’s hand, looking down. Michelle impulsively leans forward and kisses his forehead, because it seems like the right thing to do.
*
Michelle watches her first ever episode of American Idol that week with Hillary’s family. She’s faintly mortified. It’s not that the contestants aren’t talented; it seems like quite a few of them are, but they only have about a minute to sing. It’s barely enough time to make an impression, and she doesn’t really understand what they’re being judged on.
She thinks David did well, and Serena is bouncing with glee, so that’s good. Michelle leans over to Hillary and whispers, “Do you actually enjoy this?”
“I like David’s voice,” Hillary replies. “And I’m always interested to see if this’ll be the week Paula finally faceplants into the judging table.” She shrugs. “Yeah, it’s a circus sideshow version of musicianship, but they’re all so nice, you know? The kids on this show. And it’s frankly a relief to be able to watch something with all three kids without worrying that this will be the week someone makes a blowjob joke and I have to explain it.”
Michelle shrugs. “Maybe it’ll grow on me?”
Hillary cocks an eyebrow and says, “What was your favorite band in the world when you were 12?”
Michelle smiles. “New Kids on the Block.”
“Right. So I suggest you approach this show from the point of view of the Michelle who had Joey McIntyre’s picture postered all over her wall.”
Michelle sighs happily. “He was dreamy. Wait, does that mean David is, like all over Tiger Beat? Does Tiger Beat even still exist?”
Hillary gives her a weary look, “No, I think David Archuleta is more the Tiger Beat one. Cook is, basically, the Donnie.”
Michelle nods in agreement. “Right. Destined for a small but non-embarrassing career, only in music, not acting like Donnie.”
Hillary gives her a funny look. “No, I just meant in terms of attracting an older demographic. I actually think David Cook could win the whole thing.”
Michelle snorts. “Yeah, okay.” She hopes he doesn’t, she realizes. She hasn’t met a lot of people in LA who weren’t transparently fake and she’d selfishly like to keep him around. If only to have someone to watch baseball with.
*
David drops by to give Michelle a copy of his album and laughs at her apartment’s ugly minimalist furniture.
“It has good acoustics,” Michelle explains, wandering into the mess of notebooks and sheet music she’d been sitting among. “Listen, I’ve tried, like, six chord progressions for this chorus, and I think they all suck. Do you want to help me try to dial down the suck? Do you have time?”
“Are you kidding? I will make time.” Michelle smiles at his enthusiasm. “What’s the song about?”
“Um, love and death? Like, you know, all of our songs.” She rubs her face. “God, it’s like pulling teeth sometimes.”
He reaches out and rubs his hands up and down her arms. “I know,” he says kindly. “Come on, let me see what you’ve got.”
Michelle hands David her guitar saying, “Don’t worry, it’s a lefty.”
He sits cross-legged on the floor. She spreads out the relevant pieces of paper and explains that she wants a really strong lead-in to the verse, and nothing’s doing it.
He plays a couple of the versions, then asks for a pen and starts humming to himself and making notes. She’s glad she asked him, if for no other reason than to see the tension that he seems to always carry fall away as he concentrates.
Michelle rests her chin in her hand and looks at his shoes. Without thinking, she says, “Jeez, how big are your feet?”
He looks up and gives her a wicked grin.
“Oh, shut up!” she says, feeling her ears go hot.
He looks back down and says, “Size 13. Here, how’s this?”
It’s good. Better than her efforts, anyway. She tells him so, and he shakes his head and says, “No, I just built on what you already had.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Stop it. You’re good, and you know it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
He shakes his head and grins at her. “We’ll just be a mutual admiration society then, okay?”
She pokes his shoulder and smiles back. “Sounds good,” she says.
*
The next time David comes over to Hillary’s for dinner, he takes off his shoes, sits down on the couch and falls asleep mid-sentence. They eat in the backyard and wake him up right before he has to leave, giving him the leftovers on the way out.
Michelle throws things at the TV whenever Simon appears on the screen that week. “Aren’t there, like, labor laws?” she asks. “Isn’t one of those kids, like, twelve?” Hillary smacks her and tells her to shut up.
David calls Michelle a few days later and makes her talk to his brother who stammers that he has both of The MarySues’ albums and thinks she’s really talented. David takes the phone back and says, “And by ‘talented’ he means ‘busty.’”
“Funny!” she replies. “Tell him not to let your melon-sized head get any bigger or you won’t fit on the screen.”
“Ooh, clever! Tell Hils I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Bring your brother. He sounds cute.”
“He’s 20, you perv.”
“Good, he probably has more hair than you.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
*
He brings his brother and his mom, which is hilarious, because she and Hillary spend three quarters of their time talking about making sure David eats enough vegetables. Andrew and Michelle snicker uncontrollably until David is finally like, “I’m gonna go play with the kids.”
They find him having imaginary tea with Hannah. He looks at Michelle mournfully and says, “Serena told me it was lame to play tea, and now she’s going to vote for Jason Castro.”
Michelle sits down next to him, bumping her shoulder against his. “Yeah, well, Serena’s bedtime is earlier than mine, and I’m still voting for you.” She smiles at him and takes an imaginary biscuit from Hannah.
*
Michelle is up at 1AM a few weeks later, in one of her I’m a hack; maybe I should become a dental hygienist panics, when her phone rings. She’s not surprised to see that it’s David.
“I am completely fucked on this arrangement,” is the first thing he says to her.
“You want advice?” she asks.
“I think I just want to talk about it with someone whose entire commentary doesn’t consist of ‘Cool, man.’”
“I’m your girl, then. Let’s go.”
Turns out the arrangement is fine; he just needs a pep talk. Michelle gives him the same one Hillary gave her six hours ago.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he says. Then, quietly, “What if I win?”
The question hangs between them. Michelle finally goes for the joke, “Then you ask out that loud blonde who thinks you’re cute,” she says.
He laughs, breaking the heavy mood. “You know what? I was thinking of doing that!”
“No way!” Michelle says. “Dude, she is, like, a sure thing.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what. If I make it to the final, I’ll ask her out. That way, even if I lose, I’ll still have a date.”
Michelle is pleased to have distracted him from his actual fear of winning. Unfortunately, she’s pretty damn sure that, barring an asteroid hitting the earth, he’s going to the finale. And she actually really doesn’t like the loud blonde. Oh, well.
*
He stops by to say goodbye to Hillary before he flies to Missouri, and Michelle is there borrowing a pair of shoes for her date that night. David’s eyebrows go halfway up his forehead. “Date?” he says.
“Yeah,” Michelle says, sort of annoyed at his surprise. “A guy who lives in my building.” She doesn’t think it’s going to go anywhere, but it’s nice to have an excuse to get dressed up. She’s got on a red circle skirt and a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline. And a push-up bra, because, hey, you never know. “Do you think this outfit is too retro?” she asks Hillary.
“Nope,” Hillary replies. “Dave, do you think it’s too retro?” she teases.
David frowns. “It’s a little low-cut.”
Michelle laughs. “That’s the point, dude.”
“Well, okay, I guess. But be careful and everything,” he mutters.
Michelle feels herself blushing even as she pats his cheek and says, “Okay, Dad.”
*
They throw a little party the night of the finale, with cookies and baked brie and late bedtime for the kids. Michelle doesn’t eat anything. She’s so nervous that she’s nauseous. She’s given in: she wants him to win. It’s ridiculous that he’s going to get stuck with a record deal that the devil himself probably penned, but for a week and a half she’s been getting texts from him that consist entirely of, omigodomigodomigod, and she can’t find it in her heart to wish for this whole insane thing to end on a down note for him.
He seems cool as a cucumber, actually asking Kim out on air, the doofus. “I can’t believe he really did it,” Michelle mutters, and Hillary cocks an eyebrow.
“You knew he was going to ask her out?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Hillary opens her mouth, then shakes her head. “No reason.”
He wins. They all cry, including Hillary’s husband, who pretends it’s the onion dip.
David sings the dumb song. Michelle absently thinks that she may never see him again, and it feels like an ice pick to the chest.
*
She watches the entire media blitz, to the point where she texts him, Re: planning to audition. Next time, say ‘Totally, man. You couldn’t tell from my argyle sweater-vest that I was in it to win it?.’
He replies: Can’t. Next interview is Larry King. Confusion would kill him.
*
Michelle, Hillary, and Serena meet him for lunch when tour rehearsals start. Serena says, “Hey, I won ten bucks from my best friend because she thought Archie was going to win.”
“Awesome!” he says, high-fiving her. “Is she coming to the show with you?”
“Totally!” Serena replies. “You should tell that story and point to her.”
“Ooh, isn’t that a little mean to do to your best friend?”
“No way. She was a jerk about you.”
Michelle puts her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. She’s so glad to be past the age where you actually hate your best friend. David turns to her and grins widely, then envelops her in a huge hug.
“Hi!” she says, startled and pleased.
“Hi,” he says from her shoulder. “I missed you. No one has insulted my hairline in weeks.”
Michelle laughs. “I’ll tell Andrew to get on the stick.”
“Oh, hey,” David says. “That reminds me: it’s Andrew’s birthday on Thursday. I’m going to take him to, uh, this really hip club that I’ve totally forgotten the name of.” He grasps Michelle’s arms and says, “We got a VIP room. There is going to be Cristal.”
“You’re going to party like rock stars?” Michelle says.
“Oh. Yes,” he replies, oblivious to her skepticism. “You’ll come, right?”
“Yeah, if you ever remember the name of the club.”
He sends it to her the day of the party, and Michelle swears under her breath. Les Deux. Favorite of the Olsen twins and other twig-like starlets. “I’m gonna look like a house,” she tells Hillary.
Her sister shrugs. “You told him you’d go,” she says.
“Kim’s gonna be there,” Michelle replies, although she knows it doesn’t really follow.
“Is that a problem?” Hillary asks, cocking an eyebrow.
“No. It’s just ... I’m gonna look like a house.”
Hillary sighs. “Are you going or not?”
“I guess. Come on, help me pick an outfit.”
She goes with a loose, black, silk dress belted under her boobs with a wide, red patent leather belt borrowed from Hillary. “Red shoes or black?” she asks.
“Red,” Hillary replies. “You gotta stand out so you can wow some CW hottie and get swept off your feet.”
“Shut up,” Michelle says. But she puts on the red shoes.
She takes a cab and confidently struts past the line and the photographers, reminding herself that she is a tiny bit famous, after all. She should at least act the part. Still, she has to fight off hysterical laughter when she steps in front of the bouncer and announces, “I’m on the list.”
He stares at her boobs and asks for her name. She wants to punch him, even when he immediately opens the velvet rope when she tells him.
Michelle tells herself it’s the pounding baseline that’s making her knees shake. She straightens her spine as she walks to the private areas at the back of the club. She needs a drink, like, yesterday.
After what feels like six hours, but is probably only five minutes, she’s waved over by Dave’s friend Andy, who she’s only met once. She’s grateful he remembers her.
“Hey!” he says, waving her past the bouncers in front of their tables. “It’s awesome you made it!”
She grins at him, her impression of him quickly going from goober to decent guy. He introduces her to his girlfriend, a little hipster girl with an ironic mullet who looks as out of place as Michelle feels and who also smiles brightly at her.
They find Michelle a drink and Andrew in that order, and she hugs the birthday boy and gives him a card. I didn’t have time to buy you a gift, so I gave Dave money to buy you a lapdance at the strip club where you two inevitably end up, she’s written in it.
He laughs and nods over to the corner of the section, where Dave’s got an arm around blonde, blonde Kim. “I don’t think that’s happening tonight, sadly,” he says.
Michelle catches David’s eye and waves. He misses it. Michelle shrugs at Andrew, a little embarrassed. “I assume the plan is to rack up as big a tab as possible?” she says.
“Hell, yes,” he replies.
An hour later, Michelle’s had three shots of really good tequila and is feeling no pain. She still hasn’t talked to David and figures she should go do it while she can still walk in her heels. She’s pretty proud that she doesn’t even weave on her way over to him.
“Hey,” she says, hugging him. “Awesome party. I guess you’re an official rock star now.”
He nods. “Yeah, I guess. Are you here by yourself?”
“Um, yes?” Uh oh. He’s standing about a foot farther away from her than usual. Michelle has seen this behavior from her guy friends before.
Sure enough, Kim appears and attaches herself to David’s side, big, fake smile stretching across her features. She holds out her hand. “Hi, are you one of Andrew’s friends?”
Michelle pastes the same damn smile on her face and says, “Dave and Andrew, yes. I’m Michelle.”
Kim does just about the worst impression of confused that Michelle’s ever seen, then goes, “Oh! Right. The singer. Wow, you’re much ... taller than I thought you’d be.”
Michelle bites her lip to keep from laughing, because seriously, she hasn’t been in high school in a decade. That sort of shit doesn’t work on her anymore. “Oh, and you’re much blonder!” she replies brightly. David’s looking anywhere but at her, the asshole.
Suddenly her head hurts and her shoes feel too tight. Just to be a jackass, she leans over and kisses David on the cheek, feeling a vicious sort of satisfaction when he starts back from her.
“Good to see you,” she says, looking just at him. “Good luck with everything.”
She walks back to Andy and his girlfriend and pours herself another shot. She downs it, and Andy taps her wrist, makes the universal hand signal for, You want a cigarette?
She nods, and they find the special In California, smokers are pariahs exit. He hands her a Marlboro red, and she realizes she must be drunk when it doesn’t make her grimace on the first drag.
They smoke in silence for awhile, until Andy says, “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t like her either.”
Michelle laughs and coughs. “Hey, as long as she’s nice to him.” She’s just going to keep repeating that to herself until she feels less like punching the entire world.
Andy gives her an odd look. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”
Michelle takes a long drag. “Hillary and I helped him out some before all y’all got to come to LA,” she replies lightly.
Andy shakes his head. “Are you going to be an idiot about this too?”
Michelle feels the tears prickling behind her eyes, and Jesus, that is exactly how she needs to end this fucking evening. She drops her cigarette and carefully stamps it out. “Yeah,” she says. “I am.”
She kisses Andy on the cheek and says, “Tell Andrew I said bye,” then walks over to the taxi stand.
*
Hillary calls at 8 AM the next morning, and Michelle answers by saying, “Joke’s on you, bitch! I’m not hungover.”
“Whatever, I’ve been up since six,” Hillary replies. “Why aren’t you hungover?”
Michelle smiles, because Hillary actually sounds concerned. “It was kind of lame,” she says.
“I figured,” Hillary says. “Did his friends or the club suck?”
Michelle debates glossing over it, but Hillary will get it out of her eventually anyway, so she finally says, “Neither. David sucked.”
“For real?” Hillary says. “He still seemed pretty grounded when we had lunch with him.”
Michelle sits up and props her pillows against the headboard. “It wasn’t a fame thing, it was a girlfriend thing. You know, new girlfriend hates all females in the vicinity? Guy forgets he knows you?”
There’s a long pause. “I don’t think he’d do that to you,” Hillary says eventually.
“He did, Hils. I was there.” Michelle doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see you at the studio later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Hillary sighs. “I’m sorry, sis.”
“Me too,” Michelle replies. She hangs up and clicks her phone to ‘off.’
She doesn’t turn it on again until that evening. Three messages, all from David, all saying, “Call me.”
She sighs and does, figuring she’ll tell him she left because she felt sick. She hopes Andy at least tried to cover for her, but she’s not holding her breath.
“Hey!” David says loudly. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I freaking just called Hillary to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy last night is all,” she replies evenly.
“Well, that’s what happens when you put away half a bottle of tequila.”
He sounds pissed. Michelle’s torn between shocked and annoyed that he might actually be mad at her. “I didn’t...who told you that?” She’s got a pretty good idea who told him, and it isn’t Andy.
“Who cares? You’re the one who came to my party, drank my booze, and took off without saying goodbye. Classy.”
“Hey!” she responds. “First of all, I spent more time with your guests than you did. Second of all, I’m shocked that you even noticed I was gone! You were so busy playing the rockstar over by the damn bar that I figured you’d forgotten all about everyone else. Also? It does fucking matter who told you I was drunk, because I had all of three drinks.”
There’s a long pause, then, “God, Michelle, I thought you of all people would be happy for me.”
She’s suddenly so angry she’s shaking. “You think I’m jealous? Of what, your ability to get into the douchiest clubs and pick up skanky chicks? ”
“You’re not really doing anything to change my impression, here.”
“Fuck you,” she says, and hangs up.
She doesn’t feel bad about it, either. Jesus. Half an hour of fame and he turns into a fucking diva. She cleans her whole apartment, including the refrigerator, in a fit of righteous rage.
She tells Hillary about his shitfit, at high volume, the next morning.
Hillary blinks at her thoughtfully a few times, then says, “There is nothing I can say that will not piss you off.”
Michelle sighs. “Let’s get it over with, then.”
“You scared the hell out of him when you disappeared. That’s why he was upset. He was ready to start calling hospitals if I hadn’t heard from you.”
“Andy knew I left,” she protests, but even as she says it she realizes that it’s entirely possible that Andy went back in, had six more shots before talking to Dave, and forgot she’d even been there. She sighs. “Dave was still a total douche to me that night.”
Hillary flattens her lips. “Yeah, he was, but it doesn’t sound like you exactly explained that to him.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘By the way, your girlfriend is a huge bitch’?”
“Michelle,” Hillary says frustratedly, “I have been to parties with you where we spent the whole evening sitting in the corner mocking everyone else there. You’re telling me you couldn’t have sucked it up and sipped your drink for another couple of hours before air kissing those bastards goodbye? You really had to go the drama queen route?”
“You’re right; I’m pissed. I cannot believe you are making me out to be the bad guy here.”
“I’m not, you dumbass! I’m just saying that flouncing off, then yelling, then flouncing off again is not going to get him to apologize to you. Jesus. You’re being an idiot about this whole damn thing. Can we just play some music now?”
“Please!”
And that’s the end of that conversation.
*
She doesn’t call him. She doesn’t want to call him. Not to tell him that she and Hillary finished the album without killing each other, or to mention a book she thinks he’d like, or to ask if he thinks the new Death Cab single is creepy, or to warn him that he’s starting to look like Mr. T with all the necklaces.
And if she watches the days ticking down to the start of the tour, well, it’s just because she’s hoping he’ll fall off the stage on opening night.
*
She’s up late again for no reason, too lazy to go to bed, watching VH1 when the new New Kids on the Block video comes on. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mutters, but can’t bring herself to change the channel.
She realizes she never told David that he’s The Donnie and stares at her phone, debating. She decides to go to bed instead, because it’s ass-o’clock, and she thinks the tour leaves in the morning. Plus, they’re not talking.
Michelle brushes her teeth and gets into her pajama bottoms before her phone rings. She picks it up without looking, which is stupid, because of course it’s him.
“Hi,” David says. “So. I’m at your apartment. Can I come up?”
“What would you do if I said no?” she asks, peeking out of her curtains. He’s standing at the foot of the stairs, hat pulled down and shoulders hunched.
“Feel like a fucking stalker. Come on, don’t make me break out the boom box.”
She snorts and says, “Yeah, okay. Gimme a second.” She zips on the hoodie sitting on her couch and unlocks the door.
He gives her a little wave from the doorway and says, “I came over because I didn’t want to call and wake you up, so I checked to make sure your light was on,” as though that totally explains everything.
“Oh,” she says, baffled. “Did you want to come inside?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
She steps back, he steps forward, and they stare at each other until she says, “Could you close the door?”
He does, turns back, and it’s like he’s suddenly remembered how to talk, but all at once, very quickly. “Okay, look, I’m not under any impression that this is, like, romantic or anything. I realize that it’s completely self-indulgent and crappy to show up on your doorstep at 3 AM when I’m leaving town in the morning. And I’ve actually been sitting in your parking lot for an hour trying to convince myself to leave.”
“That’s creepy,” Michelle says, but her heart is racing from something other than fear.
“Yeah. I know,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. “So here’s the thing: It’s been pointed out to me by,” he pauses. “By everyone I know, actually, that even though I think of you as a sister? It’s kind of less like an actual sibling and more like a former step-sister, like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless.”
Michelle feels the blush rising on her cheeks and laughs despite herself.
David smiles hesitantly and steps closer, reaching out to rest his hand lightly on her hip. “I didn’t want to leave and come back and find out you’re with someone else because I was the idiot who had to impress his friends and date the hot chick. Wait. Not that you’re not hot.” He puts a hand over his face. “‘I’m an idiot’ was the important part of that sentence, obviously.”
Michelle opens her mouth to apologize for everything she said about the birthday party, but he cuts her off. “Hang on, I have to finish before I forget. Okay, point being, I like you in a more than friendly way, but I’m on a bus to Arizona in,” he checks his watch, “six hours. And I don’t want you to feel put on the spot or pressured, so I’m gonna go now, and we can talk some more when we swing through Cali next week. Okay?”
Michelle gapes for a minute before gathering herself enough to say, “You really...you thought you could come over here, tell me all that, and then just leave? Did you...have you hit your head recently?”
He looks down, then straight into her eyes. “I don’t want to hear it in person,” he says. “You know, it’s easier to take ‘I think we should just be friends’ over the phone.”
“You are such a fucking moron,” she says, leaning forward and kissing him.
It’s not a good kiss by any stretch of the imagination. She gets mostly beard and immediately starts laughing. But it’s enough encouragement for David to tuck his hand into her hair and kiss her again, for real this time.
If she’d thought about it, which she really, honestly hadn’t, she would have said, kissing David Cook would be like kissing my brother: a little weird, and not hot in any way. She is stunned at how very, very wrong this assumption was.
His lips move softly against hers, and she wants more. She wants to taste him, wants his hands all over her, and the realization that, yes, she wants him sends a shudder down her spine.
He pulls back a little, sliding his hand down to the middle of her back. “You okay?” he asks.
She swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” She hooks two fingers into his belt loop. “Come on.”
He kisses her again, then says, “What?”
She smiles at his distraction, noses along under his chin, licking at the edge of his beard. “I want you to stay here tonight,” she whispers in his ear. “You’ve got what, six hours?” Michelle pulls back to look him in the eye. “That’s plenty of time.”
David just stares at her for a moment. “I really thought I was going to get the ‘let’s be friends’ speech,” he finally says.
Michelle cracks up. “Look,” she says, “We can still talk and stuff. I just want to do it in my bedroom. Possibly naked.”
David grins widely and presses his forehead to hers. “Yes,” he says. “That sounds like a reasonable plan.”
When they get to the bedroom, David pulls his shirt over his head and flops out on the bed. Michelle’s sheets are navy blue, and he’s so pale against them he almost glows. They kiss lazily, David’s fingers curling in Michelle’s hair, pulling until she tilts her face up. He presses his mouth to her neck, hot and sweet, and she hums happily.
She rolls them until she’s straddling his hips, lightly touches each of his tattoos. He rests his fingertips against her wrist, says, “I’ve never seen yours.”
“Yes, you have,” she says softly. “You’ve seen the one on my back a million times.” He’d pressed his fingers to it one day and asked her what it meant. She’d explained that when she got it, all the girls were getting butterflies and flowers and she wanted something different. So she got a flaming sword, the symbol of her namesake, Michael the Archangel.
He shakes his head with a smile. “The other ones.”
Michelle sighs exaggeratedly and tosses her hair back. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she says primly.
Another thing Michelle never considered: David’s arm muscles? Not just for show. He flips her onto her back without any apparent effort, then tucks his fingers into the waistband of her pajamas and says, “I’m going to be at least 600 miles away from you for the next three months.” He can’t really be trying to discourage her though, because he follows the statement up with a wicked kiss, all teeth and tongue.
“I know,” she breathes, shifting her hips against his. “Also? We’re both musicians. This will inevitably end badly, and we’ll both fill albums with break-up songs.”
“Okay,” he responds, leaning up, “Just so we’re clear.” He tugs her pants down just far enough to reveal the tattoos on each of her hips, an intricate snowflake and the stark lines of an Old English rune.
He presses in and kisses each, saying, “You know your sister says the rune looks like a kite doing a leg kick?”
“Yes,” Michelle laughs. “Now do me a favor and don’t mention my sister, okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees, and pulls her pajamas the rest of the way down. He kisses up her thighs, spreads her open, and all Michelle can think about is that given how he sings, how he plays guitar -- why didn’t she consider that he’d be just as single-minded, just as intense at this?
She feels him gasp against her, then move away with a last bite to her hipbone. She opens her eyes to find him struggling with his belt buckle.
Michelle kneels up with effort and drapes herself over him, mouthing at his shoulder as she reaches for his fly. He’s whimpering into her neck by the time she gets a hand into his pants, and it is so stupidly hot to have him at her mercy like this that she can’t even think of what to do next.
He fists his hands in her top as she strokes him and breathes, “Off,” while tugging at the fabric.
She raises one of his hands to the sweatshirt’s zipper and helps him pull it open, then tugs the sleeves off herself as he shoves his pants down.
Michelle moans as he pushes her back against the pillows, the feel of his body against hers leaving her breathless. It’s been embarrassingly long since she’s had a naked boy in her bed, and she opens her mouth to tell him so, but he’s got his hand between her legs again, and she forgets how to speak entirely as he slides two fingers into her.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“Oh, totally,” he replies. “I wanna see you come first though, okay?” He kisses her neck, says, “Tell me how?”
She does, mostly by way of, “Oh, god, there.” He’s got good instincts. By the time he drapes himself over her, hard cock pressed against her hip and three fingers curling inside her, she can barely breathe.
Michelle holds his shoulders hard as she comes, shuddering and gasping. David watches her intently the whole time, giving her a small smile when she’s caught her breath. “I didn’t think...” he starts, then says, “So do you have condoms?”
“Oh,” she says, trying to get her brain back online for a minute. “Yeah. In that drawer behind you. Um, check the expiration date, okay?”
He laughs breathlessly as he reaches over. “I refuse to believe that,” he says. “What happened to that hot date with your neighbor?”
“He wouldn’t let me make fun of his hair,” she says with a smile then a squeal as he tickles her.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, rolling her on top of him.
“Oh, lazy,” Michelle teases as she rises to her knees and takes ahold of his cock, sliding down onto him and rolling her hips just to watch his mouth go slack and his eyes fall closed.
“Mmm,” he responds. “Keep doing that.”
She does, gets his arm up and bites at the tattoo on his bicep, breathing in his smell of drugstore deodorant and heavy salt sweat. He puts his other hand on the small of her back, presses down as he shoves up with his hips, faster and faster until she turns her face just in time to watch him moan short and sharp, hips stuttering against hers as he comes.
Michelle glances at the clock as David gets rid of the condom. “Huh,” she says. “We’ve still got five hours and change. You got anything else you want to do?”
“Yes,” he says with a yawn, settling back into bed and arranging the covers so that he and Michelle are cocooned together in the middle. “I want to kiss you goodnight, go to sleep, kiss you good morning, have coffee, kiss you, possibly drag you into the shower with me, followed by more kissing, et cetera, then finally kiss you goodbye.”
“I like everything about that plan except the last part,” Michelle announces, resting her hand over his heart.
“Well,” he says, grasping her hand, “I’ll be back next week, and we can do it again then. And then again in September. What do you think?”
“Mmm,” she says, nuzzling into his neck. “Just in time for the playoffs.”
He snorts. “Or for the Royals to finish at .500 and go home.”
“Good,” Michelle yawns. “Then you can root for the Red Sox with me.”
“What if I want to root for the Yankees?” he asks tugging on a strand of her hair.
“First of all, they’re not making the playoffs this year. Second of all, don’t even joke about that.”
He laughs, and she presses against his side to feel the way his body shakes with it. “This is weird pillow talk.”
“No it’s not. Baseball is sexy.”
“Michelle?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
*
She wakes as the sun is beginning to lighten the horizon and starts when she opens her eyes and sees David watching her. He smiles and quietly says, “Hi.”
“Did you sleep?” She asks, reaching out to slide two fingers under the necklace he hadn’t taken off the night before.
“Little bit. I’ll sleep on the bus. C’mere.” He reaches out and rubs a hand over her hip.
“I have morning breath,” she laughs.
“Don’t care,” he mutters, biting at her neck, and that’s the last coherent thing either of them say for awhile.
*
They have to skip the shared shower and hurry the coffee, because they keep forgetting what they’re supposed to be doing in favor of making out like teenagers.
Michelle figures it’s kind of useless to play it cool at this point, so she offers to follow Dave back to his place and give him a ride to the buses just to have ten more minutes with him. His huge smile is totally worth her embarrassment.
He clears his throat as they’re driving and says, “You have a camera on your computer, right?”
“Yes,” she says. “No cybersex.”
He cracks up and says, “I hadn’t thought of that, but hey...”
“No!” She laughs.
“I just mean we’ll still be able to see each other, sort of, while I’m away.” She can hear the nervousness in his voice.
Michelle glances over and puts her hand to his cheek. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve had relationships survive tours before. It’s not actually that bad.”
He smiles. “I guess you’d know better than me.”
“Totally. And I know you’ll behave, because I’m pretty sure all I’d have to do to get Michael Johns to rat you out is buy him a Fosters.”
“True.” He pauses then says, “I wouldn’t...”
“I know,” she says as she pulls in next to the busses.
She helps him with his stuff then leans against the trunk of her car and says, “So.”
“So,” he replies, stepping up so that his knees bump hers. “I’ll call.”
“Me too.”
“And email.” He leans forward and Michelle wraps her arms around his waist.
“Me too.”
“And send carrier pigeons.”
“Sorry, I draw the line at pigeons.” She kisses him and says, “I’ll see you next week.”
“Oh, right. Well, screw the carrier pigeons, then. I’ll just email you.”
“You better.”
She waves until the busses are out of sight.
*
She checks her email when she gets home. There’s a message waiting for her. She clicks on the video link and gets a screen-full of David’s shoulder, then his side, then finally him sitting with his guitar. “Okay,” he says. “I hope I can figure out how to send this.”
Then he smiles and begins to sing to her.
And then I wrote 9,000 words of David Cook/OFC. I...did not see that coming!
If you don't know who David Cook is, you can read this as original fiction. Or you can watch this for a (non-singing) primer.
Title: Work Our Way Slow To The Start
Pairing: David Cook/OFC
Rating: R
Summary: In which David Cook drinks beer, talks baseball, plays with children, worries, writes music, wins some karaoke contest, is kind of a jerk, makes a confession, kisses a girl, and sings.
Michelle is seconds away from slamming her guitar down when she remembers two things: she’s not mad at the guitar, and she’s not successful enough yet to go around smashing her instruments. She breathes out hard a couple of times, then carefully places the guitar in its case.
The good thing about being in a band with your sister, she thinks, is that it’s not like you can break up after a bad day in the studio. The bad thing? Only a sibling can stir up this sort of murderous rage.
The anger is still humming in her ears as she hears someone clearing their throat. She snaps her head up and frowns on principle at the throat-clearer, who turns out to be a generic-looking music dude: carefully tousled hair, three-days-worth of scruff, battered boots and jeans, suitably masculine jewelry.
“Hi,” he says, tentatively waving. “Is, uh, Hillary around?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Michelle says. “I think she’s on the phone or something.”
“Oh. Okay.” The guy pauses, seeming lost. “I, uh, I really enjoy your music.”
Michelle forces a smile, but is genuine when she says, “Thank you! That’s always nice to hear. Especially after a day like today.” Plus, if she’s nice to him maybe she can get him to buy her a drink. She could really use a drink.
The guy steps closer, and Michelle notes that he’s a few inches taller than her, which is always a pleasant surprise in LA. Well, at her height it’s a pleasant surprise anywhere, really. “Creative differences?” he says with a smile that shows off his great cheekbones, and Michelle resists the urge to do something stupid like flip her hair over her shoulder.
“Yeah, something like that. Probably more like sibling rivalry. We don’t have a title for the song we’re recording right now, but it’ll probably end up being ‘fratricide.’” She pauses. “Or whatever the girl version of that is.”
The guy laughs, and Michelle decides she’s going for a drink with him even if she has to buy. “Yeah, I’ve got brothers. Never tried to play with them, though.”
Michelle opens her mouth to say, Don’t! when Hillary walks in, still talking on the phone.
“He took you to the emergency room? You have the bubblegum medicine now? Oh man, put your dad on the...” and that’s when Hillary, 35-year-old mother of three and badass rock chick, looks up and squeals. “Charlie, honey? Tell dad I’ll call him back,” she says hurriedly and clicks the phone off, grinning rather insanely at the generic musician guy.
Michelle glances over at him, trying to figure out if he’s someone she should know. Probably not. She refuses to believe she’s farther out of the cultural loop than her older sister.
“Oh, wow, you came! It is so great to meet you,” Hillary says, and Michelle wonders what the hell happened to the woman who told her ten minutes ago that she played guitar like she was wearing oven mitts.
The musician nods, blushes and says, “Thank you. I was so thrilled when they told me you’d called--I’m a huge fan of The MarySues. ”
“Oh, that is so nice! My daughter loves you.” Hillary is fiddling with her iPhone as she talks.
Michelle stares at the guy, who may not be a musician after all. Hillary’s daughter, Serena, is 13. If she likes him, it means he could be famous for any number of things Michelle has never seen or heard. Serena once tried to explain the Disney stable of starlets to Michelle, and left her head spinning. He looks a little old for the tween set, though.
He notices Michelle’s furrowed brow and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m David,” he says, and it finally clicks. Serena has been bugging Michelle about this guy for what feels like months.
“Oh my god, you’re the American Idol guy!” Michelle says before she can stop herself.
He turns even redder and says, “Yes, well, one of them, anyway.”
Michelle cracks up until Hillary smacks her arm. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says. “He’s actually good.” Which, of course, sets Michelle off again.
When she finally collects herself, she looks at the guy--David--and says, perfectly seriously, “I’m so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I love Kelly Clarkson.”
“Oh my god,” Hillary says. “Okay, now that my sister has shown you the family’s douchebag gene, would you mind taking a few pictures for my daughter?”
Michelle rolls her eyes and makes talky hands behind Hillary’s back as she speaks, and David chuckles. Hillary whips around and gives Michelle the stink eye. “You wanna get in the picture or what?” she says.
“Sure,” Michelle says. She walks over and presses her hip to his, draping her arm around his waist. She smiles and says, “You smell nice.” He does, but she has no doubt it’s just his hair product. This isn’t Michelle’s first time at the rodeo.
Faking the compliment is totally worth it for the look on Hillary’s face. Michelle is sure that if the iPhone wasn’t so damn expensive, Hils would have thrown it at her head by now. And, okay, hitting on this guy isn’t exactly awesome aunt behavior, but it is a pretty stellar little sister move.
Hillary snaps a couple of pictures of them then silently hands Michelle the phone. As she tucks her hair behind her ears, Hillary says, “Do they feed you or what?”
David looks startled. “They cater stuff for us, mostly. I dunno, meals just appear in our fridge usually.? I really haven’t thought about it much.”
“So I’m assuming you haven’t had a home-cooked meal since you’ve gotten to LA?”
Oh god, Michelle thinks. She’s such a mom.
“No, ma’am,” he replies with a smile.
“You should come over and we’ll cook for you. My husband makes the best steak tips in Southern California.”
“The smog really enhances the flavor,” Michelle chimes in, because David is blushing. She’s a little worried that her sister’s attempt to adopt yet another musician with baby-bird hair who can’t feed or clothe himself has freaked him out.
“I would...really love that,” he says, smiling again. “I probably can’t do it soon or often, but yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the pressure cooker a little bit when I can.”
After they’re through with the photos, Michelle cheerily announces, “I could kill Hillary for a beer. You free, Dave?”
He stammers for a half a minute before finally saying, “Sure, I guess, although I can’t be out too late, because we have, um, a curfew? But, yeah, a beer would be great. I love beer.”
Michelle grins. He’s cute, and she hasn’t flummoxed a guy like that since she moved to Los Angeles. She’s starting to see his appeal to the American voting public.
They hit the dive bar next door to the studio and Michelle orders a pitcher of PBR and a basket of fries. The fries are curly, because even dive bars in LA are froofy.
David is from Kansas City and Tulsa, two cities Michelle has only flown over, and he’s never been to the east coast. But when she mentions Boston he lights up and says, “The Red Sox!”
“Yeah,” Michelle grins, and they’re off and running. He’s a Royals fan, and they compare aspects of the Johnny Damon Experience--he was faster in KC, hairier in Boston, insane in both cities. Michelle tells David about Fenway Park and the joys and terrors of basically sitting in your neighbor’s lap for three hours, and David regales her with tales of selling peanuts to disgruntled KC fans during summers as a teen.
“God,” he says. “It is so nice to talk baseball with someone. I keep trying to ask people around here what they think of the Dodgers, and they look at me like I have three heads.”
“Jesus, seriously,” Michelle laughs. “At home, I can have an hour long conversation about the Sox and the weather with a perfect stranger. I still have no idea what people make small talk about in this city.”
“Brangelina, Lindsey Lohan, plastic surgery, and their hair,” David ticks off on his fingers. “That’s what Seacrest tells me, anyway.”
“Well, he’s a professional small talker; he should know. Speaking of, what is up with the hedgehog look you’re working there?” she asks, waving in the general direction of his head.
“Oh, yeah. It’s to distract from the fact that my forehead doesn’t end until the top of my head. And I see that you’ve gone platinum again.”
It’s still a little weird that strangers know random things about her hair, but Michelle doesn’t mention it because she’s sure he understands. Instead she says, “Well, I was trying to be Madonna there for awhile, but it turns out she doesn’t dye her hair in her own bathroom. I fucked it up so badly they had to cut most of it off, strip out all the color, and tell me to keep my hands off of it. It’s much better now, though,” she says shaking it forward onto her face.
David reaches out and tugs on a loose strand. “Suffering for your art, huh?” he says with a smirk.
“Says a man whose career currently rests in the hands of millions of thirteen-year-olds,” Michelle responds.
He raises his glass. “Amen, sister,” he says, eyes sparkling.
“So you got into music to impress teen girls?”
“Well, yeah, but I was fifteen at the time, so I think I get a pass,” he grins back. “Believe me, it was the only chance I had of getting their attention.”
“I started singing because my parents wanted me to get into a good private school and it was that or the violin.”
“Did it work?”
“Oh, yes. And my school a capella group even won a national contest. You’re impressed; I can tell.” She grins at him.
He shrugs. “Hey, I can’t mock; I went to college on a theater scholarship.”
“Awesome. So, do you ever feel like the fact that we’re now considered ‘cool’ is a gigantic fucking cosmic joke?”
“Every. Damn. Day.”
The pitcher is done, and the bartender hollers over to ask if they want another. Michelle looks at David and says, “So how does this curfew of yours work?”
He looks at the clock. “I’ve got an hour before I get a stern talking-to from a producer and the threat of Simon mocking my semi-baldness on national TV.”
“Bummer.”
Michelle’s phone rings. It’s Hillary. She sighs and answers.
“Hi. Are you still with David?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Can I talk to him?”
“No.”
“You are such a pain in the ass!”
“Yes, yes I am. Can I relay a message for you?”
Dave is grinning at her over his beer. He laughs out loud when Hillary sighs so loudly he can hear it from across the table.
“Can he come over on Saturday? My stalker daughter tells me this is probably the best day for him.”
Michelle puts her hand over the phone and says, “Dinner with the Snow-Simmons family on Saturday?”
He tilts his chin up in thought for a minute, then says, “Yeah. I’ll probably have to sneak out and back in, but what the hell. I’m gonna lose my shit if I don’t get a break occasionally.”
Michelle thinks about what her life would be like if she had to learn a new song every week and then perform it in front of a live audience, a panel of cranky-slash-insane judges, and the entire American viewing public. Frankly, Hillary’s bitchiness looks like a cakewalk in comparison.
Oh right, Hillary. “Hey, he can come. I’m coming too.”
“Obviously. You’ve never missed a free meal in your life.” Then again, sometimes Hillary makes Simon Cowell seem like a pussycat.
*
David’s hair is flatter and his beard scragglier when he comes over. He has dark circles under his eyes, and Hillary asks if he wants some lavender candles to help him sleep.
The kids behave themselves, mostly. Except for when Charlie tells David that Ryan Seacrest is retarded. Then Serena punches Charlie, and he pulls her hair, and all hell nearly breaks loose before Hillary threatens to withhold dessert.
When both kids shut right up, David looks at Michelle and whispers, “That must be one hell of a dessert.”
“Strawberry shortcake the size of your head,” Michelle whispers back.
He smiles, and it’s like a decade has dropped off his face. “I love strawberry shortcake.” Michelle resists the urge to pat him on the head.
He plays soccer with the kids after dinner, while wearing cowboy boots. Serena plays it cool, but little Hannah just wraps herself right around his leg. Charlie apologizes for calling Ryan Seacrest a retard after David tells him that Seacrest is an awesome goalie.
“It’s a standing invitation,” Hillary tells him as he leaves. He gives her what looks like a bone-crunching hug.
“Thank you,” he says, and Michelle is surprised to hear how choked up he sounds.
She’s equally surprised to hear her tough-as-nails sister say softly, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
David shakes Michelle’s hand, looking down. Michelle impulsively leans forward and kisses his forehead, because it seems like the right thing to do.
*
Michelle watches her first ever episode of American Idol that week with Hillary’s family. She’s faintly mortified. It’s not that the contestants aren’t talented; it seems like quite a few of them are, but they only have about a minute to sing. It’s barely enough time to make an impression, and she doesn’t really understand what they’re being judged on.
She thinks David did well, and Serena is bouncing with glee, so that’s good. Michelle leans over to Hillary and whispers, “Do you actually enjoy this?”
“I like David’s voice,” Hillary replies. “And I’m always interested to see if this’ll be the week Paula finally faceplants into the judging table.” She shrugs. “Yeah, it’s a circus sideshow version of musicianship, but they’re all so nice, you know? The kids on this show. And it’s frankly a relief to be able to watch something with all three kids without worrying that this will be the week someone makes a blowjob joke and I have to explain it.”
Michelle shrugs. “Maybe it’ll grow on me?”
Hillary cocks an eyebrow and says, “What was your favorite band in the world when you were 12?”
Michelle smiles. “New Kids on the Block.”
“Right. So I suggest you approach this show from the point of view of the Michelle who had Joey McIntyre’s picture postered all over her wall.”
Michelle sighs happily. “He was dreamy. Wait, does that mean David is, like all over Tiger Beat? Does Tiger Beat even still exist?”
Hillary gives her a weary look, “No, I think David Archuleta is more the Tiger Beat one. Cook is, basically, the Donnie.”
Michelle nods in agreement. “Right. Destined for a small but non-embarrassing career, only in music, not acting like Donnie.”
Hillary gives her a funny look. “No, I just meant in terms of attracting an older demographic. I actually think David Cook could win the whole thing.”
Michelle snorts. “Yeah, okay.” She hopes he doesn’t, she realizes. She hasn’t met a lot of people in LA who weren’t transparently fake and she’d selfishly like to keep him around. If only to have someone to watch baseball with.
*
David drops by to give Michelle a copy of his album and laughs at her apartment’s ugly minimalist furniture.
“It has good acoustics,” Michelle explains, wandering into the mess of notebooks and sheet music she’d been sitting among. “Listen, I’ve tried, like, six chord progressions for this chorus, and I think they all suck. Do you want to help me try to dial down the suck? Do you have time?”
“Are you kidding? I will make time.” Michelle smiles at his enthusiasm. “What’s the song about?”
“Um, love and death? Like, you know, all of our songs.” She rubs her face. “God, it’s like pulling teeth sometimes.”
He reaches out and rubs his hands up and down her arms. “I know,” he says kindly. “Come on, let me see what you’ve got.”
Michelle hands David her guitar saying, “Don’t worry, it’s a lefty.”
He sits cross-legged on the floor. She spreads out the relevant pieces of paper and explains that she wants a really strong lead-in to the verse, and nothing’s doing it.
He plays a couple of the versions, then asks for a pen and starts humming to himself and making notes. She’s glad she asked him, if for no other reason than to see the tension that he seems to always carry fall away as he concentrates.
Michelle rests her chin in her hand and looks at his shoes. Without thinking, she says, “Jeez, how big are your feet?”
He looks up and gives her a wicked grin.
“Oh, shut up!” she says, feeling her ears go hot.
He looks back down and says, “Size 13. Here, how’s this?”
It’s good. Better than her efforts, anyway. She tells him so, and he shakes his head and says, “No, I just built on what you already had.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Stop it. You’re good, and you know it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
He shakes his head and grins at her. “We’ll just be a mutual admiration society then, okay?”
She pokes his shoulder and smiles back. “Sounds good,” she says.
*
The next time David comes over to Hillary’s for dinner, he takes off his shoes, sits down on the couch and falls asleep mid-sentence. They eat in the backyard and wake him up right before he has to leave, giving him the leftovers on the way out.
Michelle throws things at the TV whenever Simon appears on the screen that week. “Aren’t there, like, labor laws?” she asks. “Isn’t one of those kids, like, twelve?” Hillary smacks her and tells her to shut up.
David calls Michelle a few days later and makes her talk to his brother who stammers that he has both of The MarySues’ albums and thinks she’s really talented. David takes the phone back and says, “And by ‘talented’ he means ‘busty.’”
“Funny!” she replies. “Tell him not to let your melon-sized head get any bigger or you won’t fit on the screen.”
“Ooh, clever! Tell Hils I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Bring your brother. He sounds cute.”
“He’s 20, you perv.”
“Good, he probably has more hair than you.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
*
He brings his brother and his mom, which is hilarious, because she and Hillary spend three quarters of their time talking about making sure David eats enough vegetables. Andrew and Michelle snicker uncontrollably until David is finally like, “I’m gonna go play with the kids.”
They find him having imaginary tea with Hannah. He looks at Michelle mournfully and says, “Serena told me it was lame to play tea, and now she’s going to vote for Jason Castro.”
Michelle sits down next to him, bumping her shoulder against his. “Yeah, well, Serena’s bedtime is earlier than mine, and I’m still voting for you.” She smiles at him and takes an imaginary biscuit from Hannah.
*
Michelle is up at 1AM a few weeks later, in one of her I’m a hack; maybe I should become a dental hygienist panics, when her phone rings. She’s not surprised to see that it’s David.
“I am completely fucked on this arrangement,” is the first thing he says to her.
“You want advice?” she asks.
“I think I just want to talk about it with someone whose entire commentary doesn’t consist of ‘Cool, man.’”
“I’m your girl, then. Let’s go.”
Turns out the arrangement is fine; he just needs a pep talk. Michelle gives him the same one Hillary gave her six hours ago.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he says. Then, quietly, “What if I win?”
The question hangs between them. Michelle finally goes for the joke, “Then you ask out that loud blonde who thinks you’re cute,” she says.
He laughs, breaking the heavy mood. “You know what? I was thinking of doing that!”
“No way!” Michelle says. “Dude, she is, like, a sure thing.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you what. If I make it to the final, I’ll ask her out. That way, even if I lose, I’ll still have a date.”
Michelle is pleased to have distracted him from his actual fear of winning. Unfortunately, she’s pretty damn sure that, barring an asteroid hitting the earth, he’s going to the finale. And she actually really doesn’t like the loud blonde. Oh, well.
*
He stops by to say goodbye to Hillary before he flies to Missouri, and Michelle is there borrowing a pair of shoes for her date that night. David’s eyebrows go halfway up his forehead. “Date?” he says.
“Yeah,” Michelle says, sort of annoyed at his surprise. “A guy who lives in my building.” She doesn’t think it’s going to go anywhere, but it’s nice to have an excuse to get dressed up. She’s got on a red circle skirt and a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline. And a push-up bra, because, hey, you never know. “Do you think this outfit is too retro?” she asks Hillary.
“Nope,” Hillary replies. “Dave, do you think it’s too retro?” she teases.
David frowns. “It’s a little low-cut.”
Michelle laughs. “That’s the point, dude.”
“Well, okay, I guess. But be careful and everything,” he mutters.
Michelle feels herself blushing even as she pats his cheek and says, “Okay, Dad.”
*
They throw a little party the night of the finale, with cookies and baked brie and late bedtime for the kids. Michelle doesn’t eat anything. She’s so nervous that she’s nauseous. She’s given in: she wants him to win. It’s ridiculous that he’s going to get stuck with a record deal that the devil himself probably penned, but for a week and a half she’s been getting texts from him that consist entirely of, omigodomigodomigod, and she can’t find it in her heart to wish for this whole insane thing to end on a down note for him.
He seems cool as a cucumber, actually asking Kim out on air, the doofus. “I can’t believe he really did it,” Michelle mutters, and Hillary cocks an eyebrow.
“You knew he was going to ask her out?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Hillary opens her mouth, then shakes her head. “No reason.”
He wins. They all cry, including Hillary’s husband, who pretends it’s the onion dip.
David sings the dumb song. Michelle absently thinks that she may never see him again, and it feels like an ice pick to the chest.
*
She watches the entire media blitz, to the point where she texts him, Re: planning to audition. Next time, say ‘Totally, man. You couldn’t tell from my argyle sweater-vest that I was in it to win it?.’
He replies: Can’t. Next interview is Larry King. Confusion would kill him.
*
Michelle, Hillary, and Serena meet him for lunch when tour rehearsals start. Serena says, “Hey, I won ten bucks from my best friend because she thought Archie was going to win.”
“Awesome!” he says, high-fiving her. “Is she coming to the show with you?”
“Totally!” Serena replies. “You should tell that story and point to her.”
“Ooh, isn’t that a little mean to do to your best friend?”
“No way. She was a jerk about you.”
Michelle puts her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. She’s so glad to be past the age where you actually hate your best friend. David turns to her and grins widely, then envelops her in a huge hug.
“Hi!” she says, startled and pleased.
“Hi,” he says from her shoulder. “I missed you. No one has insulted my hairline in weeks.”
Michelle laughs. “I’ll tell Andrew to get on the stick.”
“Oh, hey,” David says. “That reminds me: it’s Andrew’s birthday on Thursday. I’m going to take him to, uh, this really hip club that I’ve totally forgotten the name of.” He grasps Michelle’s arms and says, “We got a VIP room. There is going to be Cristal.”
“You’re going to party like rock stars?” Michelle says.
“Oh. Yes,” he replies, oblivious to her skepticism. “You’ll come, right?”
“Yeah, if you ever remember the name of the club.”
He sends it to her the day of the party, and Michelle swears under her breath. Les Deux. Favorite of the Olsen twins and other twig-like starlets. “I’m gonna look like a house,” she tells Hillary.
Her sister shrugs. “You told him you’d go,” she says.
“Kim’s gonna be there,” Michelle replies, although she knows it doesn’t really follow.
“Is that a problem?” Hillary asks, cocking an eyebrow.
“No. It’s just ... I’m gonna look like a house.”
Hillary sighs. “Are you going or not?”
“I guess. Come on, help me pick an outfit.”
She goes with a loose, black, silk dress belted under her boobs with a wide, red patent leather belt borrowed from Hillary. “Red shoes or black?” she asks.
“Red,” Hillary replies. “You gotta stand out so you can wow some CW hottie and get swept off your feet.”
“Shut up,” Michelle says. But she puts on the red shoes.
She takes a cab and confidently struts past the line and the photographers, reminding herself that she is a tiny bit famous, after all. She should at least act the part. Still, she has to fight off hysterical laughter when she steps in front of the bouncer and announces, “I’m on the list.”
He stares at her boobs and asks for her name. She wants to punch him, even when he immediately opens the velvet rope when she tells him.
Michelle tells herself it’s the pounding baseline that’s making her knees shake. She straightens her spine as she walks to the private areas at the back of the club. She needs a drink, like, yesterday.
After what feels like six hours, but is probably only five minutes, she’s waved over by Dave’s friend Andy, who she’s only met once. She’s grateful he remembers her.
“Hey!” he says, waving her past the bouncers in front of their tables. “It’s awesome you made it!”
She grins at him, her impression of him quickly going from goober to decent guy. He introduces her to his girlfriend, a little hipster girl with an ironic mullet who looks as out of place as Michelle feels and who also smiles brightly at her.
They find Michelle a drink and Andrew in that order, and she hugs the birthday boy and gives him a card. I didn’t have time to buy you a gift, so I gave Dave money to buy you a lapdance at the strip club where you two inevitably end up, she’s written in it.
He laughs and nods over to the corner of the section, where Dave’s got an arm around blonde, blonde Kim. “I don’t think that’s happening tonight, sadly,” he says.
Michelle catches David’s eye and waves. He misses it. Michelle shrugs at Andrew, a little embarrassed. “I assume the plan is to rack up as big a tab as possible?” she says.
“Hell, yes,” he replies.
An hour later, Michelle’s had three shots of really good tequila and is feeling no pain. She still hasn’t talked to David and figures she should go do it while she can still walk in her heels. She’s pretty proud that she doesn’t even weave on her way over to him.
“Hey,” she says, hugging him. “Awesome party. I guess you’re an official rock star now.”
He nods. “Yeah, I guess. Are you here by yourself?”
“Um, yes?” Uh oh. He’s standing about a foot farther away from her than usual. Michelle has seen this behavior from her guy friends before.
Sure enough, Kim appears and attaches herself to David’s side, big, fake smile stretching across her features. She holds out her hand. “Hi, are you one of Andrew’s friends?”
Michelle pastes the same damn smile on her face and says, “Dave and Andrew, yes. I’m Michelle.”
Kim does just about the worst impression of confused that Michelle’s ever seen, then goes, “Oh! Right. The singer. Wow, you’re much ... taller than I thought you’d be.”
Michelle bites her lip to keep from laughing, because seriously, she hasn’t been in high school in a decade. That sort of shit doesn’t work on her anymore. “Oh, and you’re much blonder!” she replies brightly. David’s looking anywhere but at her, the asshole.
Suddenly her head hurts and her shoes feel too tight. Just to be a jackass, she leans over and kisses David on the cheek, feeling a vicious sort of satisfaction when he starts back from her.
“Good to see you,” she says, looking just at him. “Good luck with everything.”
She walks back to Andy and his girlfriend and pours herself another shot. She downs it, and Andy taps her wrist, makes the universal hand signal for, You want a cigarette?
She nods, and they find the special In California, smokers are pariahs exit. He hands her a Marlboro red, and she realizes she must be drunk when it doesn’t make her grimace on the first drag.
They smoke in silence for awhile, until Andy says, “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t like her either.”
Michelle laughs and coughs. “Hey, as long as she’s nice to him.” She’s just going to keep repeating that to herself until she feels less like punching the entire world.
Andy gives her an odd look. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”
Michelle takes a long drag. “Hillary and I helped him out some before all y’all got to come to LA,” she replies lightly.
Andy shakes his head. “Are you going to be an idiot about this too?”
Michelle feels the tears prickling behind her eyes, and Jesus, that is exactly how she needs to end this fucking evening. She drops her cigarette and carefully stamps it out. “Yeah,” she says. “I am.”
She kisses Andy on the cheek and says, “Tell Andrew I said bye,” then walks over to the taxi stand.
*
Hillary calls at 8 AM the next morning, and Michelle answers by saying, “Joke’s on you, bitch! I’m not hungover.”
“Whatever, I’ve been up since six,” Hillary replies. “Why aren’t you hungover?”
Michelle smiles, because Hillary actually sounds concerned. “It was kind of lame,” she says.
“I figured,” Hillary says. “Did his friends or the club suck?”
Michelle debates glossing over it, but Hillary will get it out of her eventually anyway, so she finally says, “Neither. David sucked.”
“For real?” Hillary says. “He still seemed pretty grounded when we had lunch with him.”
Michelle sits up and props her pillows against the headboard. “It wasn’t a fame thing, it was a girlfriend thing. You know, new girlfriend hates all females in the vicinity? Guy forgets he knows you?”
There’s a long pause. “I don’t think he’d do that to you,” Hillary says eventually.
“He did, Hils. I was there.” Michelle doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see you at the studio later, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Hillary sighs. “I’m sorry, sis.”
“Me too,” Michelle replies. She hangs up and clicks her phone to ‘off.’
She doesn’t turn it on again until that evening. Three messages, all from David, all saying, “Call me.”
She sighs and does, figuring she’ll tell him she left because she felt sick. She hopes Andy at least tried to cover for her, but she’s not holding her breath.
“Hey!” David says loudly. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I freaking just called Hillary to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy last night is all,” she replies evenly.
“Well, that’s what happens when you put away half a bottle of tequila.”
He sounds pissed. Michelle’s torn between shocked and annoyed that he might actually be mad at her. “I didn’t...who told you that?” She’s got a pretty good idea who told him, and it isn’t Andy.
“Who cares? You’re the one who came to my party, drank my booze, and took off without saying goodbye. Classy.”
“Hey!” she responds. “First of all, I spent more time with your guests than you did. Second of all, I’m shocked that you even noticed I was gone! You were so busy playing the rockstar over by the damn bar that I figured you’d forgotten all about everyone else. Also? It does fucking matter who told you I was drunk, because I had all of three drinks.”
There’s a long pause, then, “God, Michelle, I thought you of all people would be happy for me.”
She’s suddenly so angry she’s shaking. “You think I’m jealous? Of what, your ability to get into the douchiest clubs and pick up skanky chicks? ”
“You’re not really doing anything to change my impression, here.”
“Fuck you,” she says, and hangs up.
She doesn’t feel bad about it, either. Jesus. Half an hour of fame and he turns into a fucking diva. She cleans her whole apartment, including the refrigerator, in a fit of righteous rage.
She tells Hillary about his shitfit, at high volume, the next morning.
Hillary blinks at her thoughtfully a few times, then says, “There is nothing I can say that will not piss you off.”
Michelle sighs. “Let’s get it over with, then.”
“You scared the hell out of him when you disappeared. That’s why he was upset. He was ready to start calling hospitals if I hadn’t heard from you.”
“Andy knew I left,” she protests, but even as she says it she realizes that it’s entirely possible that Andy went back in, had six more shots before talking to Dave, and forgot she’d even been there. She sighs. “Dave was still a total douche to me that night.”
Hillary flattens her lips. “Yeah, he was, but it doesn’t sound like you exactly explained that to him.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘By the way, your girlfriend is a huge bitch’?”
“Michelle,” Hillary says frustratedly, “I have been to parties with you where we spent the whole evening sitting in the corner mocking everyone else there. You’re telling me you couldn’t have sucked it up and sipped your drink for another couple of hours before air kissing those bastards goodbye? You really had to go the drama queen route?”
“You’re right; I’m pissed. I cannot believe you are making me out to be the bad guy here.”
“I’m not, you dumbass! I’m just saying that flouncing off, then yelling, then flouncing off again is not going to get him to apologize to you. Jesus. You’re being an idiot about this whole damn thing. Can we just play some music now?”
“Please!”
And that’s the end of that conversation.
*
She doesn’t call him. She doesn’t want to call him. Not to tell him that she and Hillary finished the album without killing each other, or to mention a book she thinks he’d like, or to ask if he thinks the new Death Cab single is creepy, or to warn him that he’s starting to look like Mr. T with all the necklaces.
And if she watches the days ticking down to the start of the tour, well, it’s just because she’s hoping he’ll fall off the stage on opening night.
*
She’s up late again for no reason, too lazy to go to bed, watching VH1 when the new New Kids on the Block video comes on. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mutters, but can’t bring herself to change the channel.
She realizes she never told David that he’s The Donnie and stares at her phone, debating. She decides to go to bed instead, because it’s ass-o’clock, and she thinks the tour leaves in the morning. Plus, they’re not talking.
Michelle brushes her teeth and gets into her pajama bottoms before her phone rings. She picks it up without looking, which is stupid, because of course it’s him.
“Hi,” David says. “So. I’m at your apartment. Can I come up?”
“What would you do if I said no?” she asks, peeking out of her curtains. He’s standing at the foot of the stairs, hat pulled down and shoulders hunched.
“Feel like a fucking stalker. Come on, don’t make me break out the boom box.”
She snorts and says, “Yeah, okay. Gimme a second.” She zips on the hoodie sitting on her couch and unlocks the door.
He gives her a little wave from the doorway and says, “I came over because I didn’t want to call and wake you up, so I checked to make sure your light was on,” as though that totally explains everything.
“Oh,” she says, baffled. “Did you want to come inside?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
She steps back, he steps forward, and they stare at each other until she says, “Could you close the door?”
He does, turns back, and it’s like he’s suddenly remembered how to talk, but all at once, very quickly. “Okay, look, I’m not under any impression that this is, like, romantic or anything. I realize that it’s completely self-indulgent and crappy to show up on your doorstep at 3 AM when I’m leaving town in the morning. And I’ve actually been sitting in your parking lot for an hour trying to convince myself to leave.”
“That’s creepy,” Michelle says, but her heart is racing from something other than fear.
“Yeah. I know,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. “So here’s the thing: It’s been pointed out to me by,” he pauses. “By everyone I know, actually, that even though I think of you as a sister? It’s kind of less like an actual sibling and more like a former step-sister, like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless.”
Michelle feels the blush rising on her cheeks and laughs despite herself.
David smiles hesitantly and steps closer, reaching out to rest his hand lightly on her hip. “I didn’t want to leave and come back and find out you’re with someone else because I was the idiot who had to impress his friends and date the hot chick. Wait. Not that you’re not hot.” He puts a hand over his face. “‘I’m an idiot’ was the important part of that sentence, obviously.”
Michelle opens her mouth to apologize for everything she said about the birthday party, but he cuts her off. “Hang on, I have to finish before I forget. Okay, point being, I like you in a more than friendly way, but I’m on a bus to Arizona in,” he checks his watch, “six hours. And I don’t want you to feel put on the spot or pressured, so I’m gonna go now, and we can talk some more when we swing through Cali next week. Okay?”
Michelle gapes for a minute before gathering herself enough to say, “You really...you thought you could come over here, tell me all that, and then just leave? Did you...have you hit your head recently?”
He looks down, then straight into her eyes. “I don’t want to hear it in person,” he says. “You know, it’s easier to take ‘I think we should just be friends’ over the phone.”
“You are such a fucking moron,” she says, leaning forward and kissing him.
It’s not a good kiss by any stretch of the imagination. She gets mostly beard and immediately starts laughing. But it’s enough encouragement for David to tuck his hand into her hair and kiss her again, for real this time.
If she’d thought about it, which she really, honestly hadn’t, she would have said, kissing David Cook would be like kissing my brother: a little weird, and not hot in any way. She is stunned at how very, very wrong this assumption was.
His lips move softly against hers, and she wants more. She wants to taste him, wants his hands all over her, and the realization that, yes, she wants him sends a shudder down her spine.
He pulls back a little, sliding his hand down to the middle of her back. “You okay?” he asks.
She swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” She hooks two fingers into his belt loop. “Come on.”
He kisses her again, then says, “What?”
She smiles at his distraction, noses along under his chin, licking at the edge of his beard. “I want you to stay here tonight,” she whispers in his ear. “You’ve got what, six hours?” Michelle pulls back to look him in the eye. “That’s plenty of time.”
David just stares at her for a moment. “I really thought I was going to get the ‘let’s be friends’ speech,” he finally says.
Michelle cracks up. “Look,” she says, “We can still talk and stuff. I just want to do it in my bedroom. Possibly naked.”
David grins widely and presses his forehead to hers. “Yes,” he says. “That sounds like a reasonable plan.”
When they get to the bedroom, David pulls his shirt over his head and flops out on the bed. Michelle’s sheets are navy blue, and he’s so pale against them he almost glows. They kiss lazily, David’s fingers curling in Michelle’s hair, pulling until she tilts her face up. He presses his mouth to her neck, hot and sweet, and she hums happily.
She rolls them until she’s straddling his hips, lightly touches each of his tattoos. He rests his fingertips against her wrist, says, “I’ve never seen yours.”
“Yes, you have,” she says softly. “You’ve seen the one on my back a million times.” He’d pressed his fingers to it one day and asked her what it meant. She’d explained that when she got it, all the girls were getting butterflies and flowers and she wanted something different. So she got a flaming sword, the symbol of her namesake, Michael the Archangel.
He shakes his head with a smile. “The other ones.”
Michelle sighs exaggeratedly and tosses her hair back. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she says primly.
Another thing Michelle never considered: David’s arm muscles? Not just for show. He flips her onto her back without any apparent effort, then tucks his fingers into the waistband of her pajamas and says, “I’m going to be at least 600 miles away from you for the next three months.” He can’t really be trying to discourage her though, because he follows the statement up with a wicked kiss, all teeth and tongue.
“I know,” she breathes, shifting her hips against his. “Also? We’re both musicians. This will inevitably end badly, and we’ll both fill albums with break-up songs.”
“Okay,” he responds, leaning up, “Just so we’re clear.” He tugs her pants down just far enough to reveal the tattoos on each of her hips, an intricate snowflake and the stark lines of an Old English rune.
He presses in and kisses each, saying, “You know your sister says the rune looks like a kite doing a leg kick?”
“Yes,” Michelle laughs. “Now do me a favor and don’t mention my sister, okay?”
“Okay,” he agrees, and pulls her pajamas the rest of the way down. He kisses up her thighs, spreads her open, and all Michelle can think about is that given how he sings, how he plays guitar -- why didn’t she consider that he’d be just as single-minded, just as intense at this?
She feels him gasp against her, then move away with a last bite to her hipbone. She opens her eyes to find him struggling with his belt buckle.
Michelle kneels up with effort and drapes herself over him, mouthing at his shoulder as she reaches for his fly. He’s whimpering into her neck by the time she gets a hand into his pants, and it is so stupidly hot to have him at her mercy like this that she can’t even think of what to do next.
He fists his hands in her top as she strokes him and breathes, “Off,” while tugging at the fabric.
She raises one of his hands to the sweatshirt’s zipper and helps him pull it open, then tugs the sleeves off herself as he shoves his pants down.
Michelle moans as he pushes her back against the pillows, the feel of his body against hers leaving her breathless. It’s been embarrassingly long since she’s had a naked boy in her bed, and she opens her mouth to tell him so, but he’s got his hand between her legs again, and she forgets how to speak entirely as he slides two fingers into her.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“Oh, totally,” he replies. “I wanna see you come first though, okay?” He kisses her neck, says, “Tell me how?”
She does, mostly by way of, “Oh, god, there.” He’s got good instincts. By the time he drapes himself over her, hard cock pressed against her hip and three fingers curling inside her, she can barely breathe.
Michelle holds his shoulders hard as she comes, shuddering and gasping. David watches her intently the whole time, giving her a small smile when she’s caught her breath. “I didn’t think...” he starts, then says, “So do you have condoms?”
“Oh,” she says, trying to get her brain back online for a minute. “Yeah. In that drawer behind you. Um, check the expiration date, okay?”
He laughs breathlessly as he reaches over. “I refuse to believe that,” he says. “What happened to that hot date with your neighbor?”
“He wouldn’t let me make fun of his hair,” she says with a smile then a squeal as he tickles her.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, rolling her on top of him.
“Oh, lazy,” Michelle teases as she rises to her knees and takes ahold of his cock, sliding down onto him and rolling her hips just to watch his mouth go slack and his eyes fall closed.
“Mmm,” he responds. “Keep doing that.”
She does, gets his arm up and bites at the tattoo on his bicep, breathing in his smell of drugstore deodorant and heavy salt sweat. He puts his other hand on the small of her back, presses down as he shoves up with his hips, faster and faster until she turns her face just in time to watch him moan short and sharp, hips stuttering against hers as he comes.
Michelle glances at the clock as David gets rid of the condom. “Huh,” she says. “We’ve still got five hours and change. You got anything else you want to do?”
“Yes,” he says with a yawn, settling back into bed and arranging the covers so that he and Michelle are cocooned together in the middle. “I want to kiss you goodnight, go to sleep, kiss you good morning, have coffee, kiss you, possibly drag you into the shower with me, followed by more kissing, et cetera, then finally kiss you goodbye.”
“I like everything about that plan except the last part,” Michelle announces, resting her hand over his heart.
“Well,” he says, grasping her hand, “I’ll be back next week, and we can do it again then. And then again in September. What do you think?”
“Mmm,” she says, nuzzling into his neck. “Just in time for the playoffs.”
He snorts. “Or for the Royals to finish at .500 and go home.”
“Good,” Michelle yawns. “Then you can root for the Red Sox with me.”
“What if I want to root for the Yankees?” he asks tugging on a strand of her hair.
“First of all, they’re not making the playoffs this year. Second of all, don’t even joke about that.”
He laughs, and she presses against his side to feel the way his body shakes with it. “This is weird pillow talk.”
“No it’s not. Baseball is sexy.”
“Michelle?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
*
She wakes as the sun is beginning to lighten the horizon and starts when she opens her eyes and sees David watching her. He smiles and quietly says, “Hi.”
“Did you sleep?” She asks, reaching out to slide two fingers under the necklace he hadn’t taken off the night before.
“Little bit. I’ll sleep on the bus. C’mere.” He reaches out and rubs a hand over her hip.
“I have morning breath,” she laughs.
“Don’t care,” he mutters, biting at her neck, and that’s the last coherent thing either of them say for awhile.
*
They have to skip the shared shower and hurry the coffee, because they keep forgetting what they’re supposed to be doing in favor of making out like teenagers.
Michelle figures it’s kind of useless to play it cool at this point, so she offers to follow Dave back to his place and give him a ride to the buses just to have ten more minutes with him. His huge smile is totally worth her embarrassment.
He clears his throat as they’re driving and says, “You have a camera on your computer, right?”
“Yes,” she says. “No cybersex.”
He cracks up and says, “I hadn’t thought of that, but hey...”
“No!” She laughs.
“I just mean we’ll still be able to see each other, sort of, while I’m away.” She can hear the nervousness in his voice.
Michelle glances over and puts her hand to his cheek. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve had relationships survive tours before. It’s not actually that bad.”
He smiles. “I guess you’d know better than me.”
“Totally. And I know you’ll behave, because I’m pretty sure all I’d have to do to get Michael Johns to rat you out is buy him a Fosters.”
“True.” He pauses then says, “I wouldn’t...”
“I know,” she says as she pulls in next to the busses.
She helps him with his stuff then leans against the trunk of her car and says, “So.”
“So,” he replies, stepping up so that his knees bump hers. “I’ll call.”
“Me too.”
“And email.” He leans forward and Michelle wraps her arms around his waist.
“Me too.”
“And send carrier pigeons.”
“Sorry, I draw the line at pigeons.” She kisses him and says, “I’ll see you next week.”
“Oh, right. Well, screw the carrier pigeons, then. I’ll just email you.”
“You better.”
She waves until the busses are out of sight.
*
She checks her email when she gets home. There’s a message waiting for her. She clicks on the video link and gets a screen-full of David’s shoulder, then his side, then finally him sitting with his guitar. “Okay,” he says. “I hope I can figure out how to send this.”
Then he smiles and begins to sing to her.