“But …”
Sadie interrupts me. “No buts. Go, have a good time.”
Flynn looks to Sadie, the two of them exchanging more than just a glance. “You should listen to your friend.”
“I’m a mess.”
“I like the way you look.”
“And I smell.”
“I like the way you smell too,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“Can I take a quick shower?” I finally concede, ignoring his comment.
“Sure.”
“Flynn and I will get to know each other,” Sadie says, unlocking the door.
That, I’m a little afraid of.
Forty-five minutes later I’m freshly showered and ready. I hear the tail end of Sadie and Flynn’s conversation as I walk into the living room. “The fire department had to come and take apart the machines.”
“Please tell me you aren’t telling that story again.”
“It’s a good story.”
“It isn’t a good story. And I was nine. How much more play do you think you can get out of it?”
“You were fourteen.”
“I was not fourteen. I was twelve.”
“You said nine. I had to go with fourteen to get you to admit the truth.”
I roll my eyes. “I was reaching for something I dropped.”
“A Justin Timberlake sticker in one of those little see-through plastic gumball containers that are impossible to open.”
“It was a collectible sticker,” I defend my action, what else can I do at this point? As if getting your head stuck between gumball machines in the front of a busy supermarket on a Saturday morning isn’t bad enough. Admitting you had to be rescued by the fire department because you were trying to reach for a Justin Timberlake sticker just makes it that much more embarrassing.
Flynn stands. “Wanna know what I got from that story?”
“Not really,” I say.
He walks toward me. “That you have a thing for musicians.” He takes my hand, weaving his fingers through mine, and raises our joined hands to his lips. “Means there’s hope for me after all.”
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Why not? It can’t be against the rules if we aren’t on a show-sanctioned date.”
“It’s against my rules.” He glances at me and smiles, eyes quickly returning to the road.
The radio plays a familiar voice. “Is that … ?”
“Yep,” Flynn says proudly.
“Wow. You’re on the radio. Turn it up!”
“I’d come off pretty full of myself if I blasted my own song on the radio, don’t you think?”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard you on the radio.”
“Me too.”
“Are you serious?”
“I knew our manger pushed out the single early to a few stations. But I’ve never actually heard it played.”
I blast the radio as loud as it can go. Flynn taps his fingers on the wheel as he drives, the smile never leaving his face.
“That’s very cool. I can’t believe we just listened to your song on the radio for the first time together,” I say as I lower the volume back down.
His normally cocky attitude turns humble. “I’m glad I was with you.”
A short drive more and then we pull into the parking lot at Qualcomm Stadium. “Are we going to the Chargers game?” I ask excitedly. My Dad and I spent many Sundays watching football when I was a kid. I hadn’t yet caught on that he was betting the games back then.
“We are.”
“I’m a huge Chargers fan.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Sweetheart, the way you wear that t-shirt, the lightning bolt stretched tightly across your chest, I may very well have to turn in my lifelong Raiders fan-club card.”
“You’re a Raiders fan?”
“I’m a Kate fan.”
Good answer.
The fifty-yard line is so close, some of the players on the sidelines may very well hear my screaming. It’s a tied game at half-time and we decide to get a bite to eat.
“Hot dog?” he asks as we move to the front of the line.
“And a beer.”
“Girl after my own heart.”
There’s a crowd milling around the beer station; a small group of girls of about eighteen or nineteen are staring in our direction. Eventually, they make their way over to us. “Aren’t you Flynn Beckham?” one eyelash-batting girl asks.
Flynn’s arm wraps around my waist. “I am.”
The small gaggle of girls squeal. “I’ve seen you at Stardust a dozen times!”
“Well, thank you for coming. We’ll be back on the road soon.”
“Would you sign an autograph for me?”
“Sure.”
The smiling girls dig into their handbags, one of them pulling out a red felt-tip marker. She pulls up her shirt, revealing a lacy red bra overflowing with more cleavage than a push-up bra could ever offer me, and thrusts them in Flynn’s direction. “Sign over my heart,” she says.
“That’s very sweet of you. But that wouldn’t be very respectful to my girlfriend here.” He motions in my direction. It might be the first time they even notice I’m standing next to him.
The girl looks annoyed at my presence and doesn’t lower her shirt right away. But Flynn handles it with grace. Grabbing a napkin from a nearby dispenser, he begins to scribble, asking the girl’s name. “Jenny,” she says. He writes her a quick note, complete with a few sketches of music notes, and signs his name.