Jesse's Girl

  “Pfft.” He waves a hand, and a couple of minutes later, I find myself at a restaurant called Finger Licking Good. It’s not as fancy as Mere Bulles, but it’s still nicer than what I’m used to. It’s filled with well-dressed businesspeople who must love their barbeque.

  Jesse opens the door, tipping his hat like a gentleman, and we go up to the empty host stand.

  “Cover me,” he says. He darts behind the stand and drags his finger across the reservation book.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper-yell, keeping an eye out for the host.

  “Ever seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off?”

  “No.”

  “Watch and learn.”

  When the hostess walks up, her eyes trail over Jesse’s dusty red boots, jeans, and ratty white T-shirt up to his cowboy hat. She pauses at his freckled face.

  “Oh.” Her hands fly to smooth and fluff her hair.

  “We have a reservation for two,” Jesse says. “Last name’s Smith.”

  “Smith?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Smith,” Jesse repeats, and I have to bite down on my cheek to keep from laughing.

  “Tommy Smith? The owner of the Tennessee Titans?”

  Jesse points a finger at her. “Yes, that’s the one. I’m Tommy Smith.”

  “You had such a tough loss against the Jets last Sunday,” I say. I only know the Titans lost because my brother and Jordan whined about it for hours.

  “Don’t you worry, darlin’. We’re gonna bury the Dolphins this weekend.”

  The hostess raises her eyebrows at me, giving me a once-over and turning her nose up at my outfit. She grabs two menus and leads us to a table by a window overlooking the Cumberland River. The best seat in the house, just like at the concert last week. Getting the best seat seems to happen a lot when Jesse Scott is involved.

  The hostess hands us our menus, winks at Jesse, and says, “Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Sco—I mean, Smith.”

  “Thank you,” we say, and I dissolve into giggles. Jesse gives me his half-cocked smirk, the one on his most recent album cover.

  I place a red and white picnic-patterned napkin in my lap. The tablecloth is made of paper, and a cup of crayons sits on the table.

  “You and the owner of the Titans eat at a restaurant where you can draw on the table?” I ask.

  “Wait till you try the brisket.”

  The smell is definitely making my mouth water.

  Jesse chooses the brown crayon and starts drawing a horse.

  “So why’d you pretend to be the owner of the Titans?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “It’s something to do, you know?”

  No, I don’t know.

  He switches to a blue crayon, and I scan my menu. Should I get ribs or brisket? “So who’s Ferris Bueller?”

  He looks up from doodling a truck. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is a great movie. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it since you’re so into eighties music. It’s about this guy who skips school and does all these crazy things.”

  “Like what?”

  “He, like, commandeers a float during a parade in Chicago and sings ‘Twist and Shout.’ You know, by the Beatles?”

  “I know who the Beatles are. I wasn’t born in a barn.”

  “Oh, do they not have barns in Antarctica?”

  “Stop.” I laugh again. Jesse hasn’t truly smiled once, but I haven’t laughed this much in a while. “So what else did Ferris do?”

  “He went to a fancy restaurant and stole somebody else’s reservation like we just did. Oh, and he convinced his best friend to steal his dad’s hot red car for the day.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters!” I exclaim.

  A server drops off a bread basket, and Jesse digs in. “I think it was a Ferrari.”

  “Nice. Go on then. What else?”

  He rips into a roll with his teeth. “Um, Ferris went to a Cubs game and to an art museum.”

  “Sounds like a nice day.”

  He speaks as he chews. “You having a nice day so far?”

  I loved sitting at the piano with him and just singing my heart out. And don’t even get me started on how great it was to ride that Harley. But he’s so guarded and on edge, I don’t feel completely comfortable around him. He seemed so much happier in the studio, surrounded by music.

  “It’s been good,” I say.

  Jesse picks up a straw, tears off the paper from one end of it, puts it in his mouth, then blows the paper at me. I snatch the paper in midair and wad it up.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older man glaring at Jesse’s straw paper antics. Is this why Mr. Logan wanted the publicists to come? To make sure Jesse doesn’t play with his food?

  Two ladies wearing Easter-colored dress suits, pearls, and heels saunter over and ask for Jesse’s autograph. He tips his hat and fishes a black Sharpie out of his jeans pocket. “Who do I make them out to?”

  The first woman speaks so quickly it comes out garbled and she has to repeat herself. “To Nicole. My daughter.” The other woman wants an autograph for her niece. He reaches over to an empty table near us, snatches two white napkins, unfolds them with a flourish, and starts signing.

  He seems completely bored by it all but acts like a gentleman the entire time, including when a waitress gets our drink order and the Finger Licking Good manager comes over to thank Jesse for “dining with us.” Everything feels like a production, as if his life is stage-managed. Then he excuses himself to go to the restroom.

  While he’s gone, the two paparazzi guys from outside Jesse’s house rush up and snap pictures of me. Where did they come from? Have they been following Jesse this entire time? I cover my face with a hand.

  One of them rushes to ask, “Are you sleeping with Jesse?”

  I shake my head and focus on the napkin in my lap. When my mother signed the permission slip for shadow day, she also had to sign nondisclosure agreements, stating that I would keep everything I learn about Jesse a secret. Confidentiality agreement or not, no way in hell would I hurt him. We didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but I know what it’s like to be betrayed.

  “You’re friends with him then? Do you know why he’s quitting the business?”

  My breathing speeds up, and I can’t catch it. Where is the manager? Why hasn’t he thrown these jerks out? Flash, flash, flash, flash. Click, click, click.

  “Give us something,” the other guy says.

  “I’ve got no comment,” I say as Jesse approaches our table, his eyebrow raised. He stands there for a long moment, staring at me. Flash, flash, flash, flash.

  “Come on guys, beat it,” Jesse says nonchalantly, sliding into his seat. The paparazzi grab a few more pics of us—click, click, click, click—but they vamoose after Jesse gives them a stare that would scare the devil.

  When we’re alone again, Jesse chooses another piece of bread from the basket. He glances at me, giving me a smile. A genuine smile that lights up his face. It sends shivers rippling over my skin.

  “I heard everything,” he says finally.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  “It’s all good,” Jesse says. “A lot of girls would lie to the press, say they’re dating me or whatever, you know? It’s happened before.” He looks away and stares through the window at the choppy river. I know he thinks the worst of people, but does he not trust anyone?

  “I get what that’s like,” I say.

  “How could you possibly?”

  “I understand what it’s like to trust somebody… I know how bad it feels when they let you down or betray you.”

  He picks up a black crayon and starts drawing a night sky above the horse. “Go on.”

  For some reason, maybe because this is only for one day, I feel okay tel
ling him the truth, which I haven’t been able to tell my family. Maybe if I’m honest, he’ll open up to me too. Isn’t that what Dr. Salter wanted?

  “I got kicked out of my band last week.”

  His caramel eyes meet mine. “Why would a band let a guitarist like you go?”

  “Different tastes in music,” I mutter and pinch my arm to distract from the pain in my chest. “They only wanted to play heavy metal and refused to branch out like I wanted. So they asked me to leave.”

  “That’s silly. If you wanna be a musician, you gotta study a wide variety of music.”

  I peek up at him. That’s what I think—a band should sample from different genres to find a unique tone. Like Queen. They started out with a hard sound and then eventually developed their own style. Hearing Jesse say that makes me feel better, but I’m still band-less, and Wannabe Rocker audition videos are due in two weeks.

  “What are you gonna do?” Jesse asks.

  I shrug, and that’s when the server comes to drop off our drinks. When she’s gone, I change the subject. I doodle music notes and a flower. “You ever had a day like Ferris Bueller did? Where you did whatever you wanted?”

  This mischievous grin sneaks onto his face. “So you really want to shadow me today, no matter what I do?”

  I lift an eyebrow, smiling.

  “Definitely.”

  • • •

  After gorging on brisket, we walk back to where Jesse parked his Harley. The two paparazzi guys from earlier are there, along with some new guys and even a lady, all snapping pictures of us while we climb on Jesse’s bike.

  “Jesse!” a reporter calls, his camera flashing and clicking. “New girlfriend?”

  “Nah.” He nudges me. “I’m not her type.”

  I run fingers through my bleached hair, mussing it, and focus on the asphalt so the press can’t see my eyes. Suddenly a black town car pulls up right next to the press, and the two publicists from earlier, Tracy and Gina, climb out of the backseat. One of them rushes over to the paparazzi to do damage control. The other wobbles our way in her black high heels.

  “Jesse!” she calls out. “Where have you been?”

  “Hold on, Maya,” Jesse says, revving his engine, and I throw my arms around his middle and grip his waist. The next thing I know, we’re barreling down Second Avenue, with the black town car and half a dozen paparazzi on our tails. I feel like I’m in a chase scene from a movie. Hell. Yes.

  He speeds down alleys and side streets and finally loses them by turning into a Food Lion parking lot. We hide beside some shopping carts. When the coast is clear, he drives his bike to the Maserati dealership, where he cuts the ignition.

  “What in the world?” I ask. “Why did you do that?”

  “I told you, it’s my day off. I don’t feel like dealing with Gina and Tracy and talking to the press about how much I loved eating brisket with my biggest fan.”

  I snort. “Why are we here?”

  Jesse says, “Okay, in keeping with Ferris Bueller, first we’re gonna do something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I thought this was my day,” I tease.

  “You’ll like this.”

  “What about Mr. Logan? We were supposed to call him after lunch.”

  Jesse waves a hand. “Pfft.”

  I gaze at the Maseratis in the showroom. The few times Dad and I have been in this neighborhood, we slowly drove by the dealership and stared through the windows at the most magnificent cars on the planet. I always said, “Dad, let’s go in and look around!” And he’d reply, “They won’t even let us inside.”

  Jesse gives me an evil grin. “Let’s do it.”

  “Do what?”

  He nods at the window display. “We’re gonna test-drive that red car.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s a GranTurismo!”

  “Yeah, and it’s big-time. So we’re gonna drive it.” He takes my elbow in his hand, and the automatic doors swoosh open as he pulls me inside.

  The salespeople lift their heads, then go back to their cell phones and paperwork. Then Jesse takes off his cowboy hat, and suddenly their sales team rushes over.

  “Mr. Scott,” a man says, sticking out a hand. “We’re honored you’re here.”

  Jesse ignores the man’s hand and jerks his head toward the out-of-this-world sports car. “I’m interested in buying a GranTurismo.”

  “Of course you are,” the man replies in this hoity-toity voice. “If I can see your driver’s license, I’ll have a test car brought around for you.”

  Jesse shakes his head. “Maya’s doing the test-driving.”

  When Dad hears about this… He. Will. Die.

  The man’s grin melts. “And you are?”

  I don’t know what comes over me when I put a hand on my hip and pull out my attitude. “I’m Mr. Scott’s senior adviser.”

  “Adviser of what?” the man asks.

  “She tells me what I can and can’t buy.” Jesse crosses his arms, pretending to pout at me.

  “Sometimes he doesn’t know how to keep his wallet in his pants,” I explain. “And that’s where I come in.”

  “You help him keep it in his pants?”

  Jesse and I burst out laughing.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what she does,” Jesse says.

  The man’s face shines redder than the gleaming GranTurismo. “What, may I ask, do you know about cars?”

  During my downtime at Caldwell’s, I read all the car magazines, and I pay particular attention to the fancy ones that I will never be able to afford. “The 2016 GT goes from zero to sixty in five seconds, right?”

  “Right…”

  “Right,” Jesse says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We’d like to test-drive it.”

  The man narrows his eyes but takes my license and steps into an office. The saleswomen lurk about, straightening their blouses while staring at Jesse, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  My fingers caress a silver MC Sport as Jesse says, “You sure showed that jerk. Sometimes it’s so great to stick it to people, you know?”

  I shrug.

  “What’s wrong?” Jesse asks.

  “Do you immediately think the worst of everybody you meet?” I feel bad for asking that, but it seems to be a Jesse Scott trend.

  He goes silent for a long moment—so long I start to get nervous that I really offended him and he’s going to abandon me here—but then he speaks. “When I got my first record deal, most of the guys at school teased me. Said I sang like a girl and stuff.”

  “They were jealous.”

  “Yeah…but it still hurt. And as I got more and more famous, people were around all the time. Girls wanted to date me, use me, screw me, whatever. And don’t even ask about all the people who called asking for money or for help getting a record deal. The same people who had made fun of me.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Everyone always wants something.”

  “C’mon. Everyone?”

  “It’s more likely than not. Lately, I just like being alone.”

  “And you’re happy with that?” I ask quietly, not accusing him or anything.

  “I’ve got Casper.”

  “Oh God. You’re like one of those old cat ladies!”

  He laughs softly, then grows pensive again.

  “What about your parents?” I ask, but he shakes his head. “You can talk to me. I mean, if you want to. You can trust me.”

  He rubs his eyes. “My parents don’t—we haven’t really been speaking to each other lately, okay?”

  “What?” I blurt.

  And that’s when his phone rings.

  He looks at the screen and starts pacing back and forth in front of the silver MC Sport. “Hi, Mark. No, we’re done with
lunch… I’m at the Maserati dealership… I forgot to call… Test-driving a red car… I dunno, I might buy it… We don’t want to go on the tours… Please? No, do not send Tracy and Gina over here!… No, I don’t need a stylist! I look fine,” Jesse grumbles, and on that note, he hangs up.

  “What’d he say?” I ask.

  “He told us to have fun, go hog wild, and he’d check in later.”

  “Really?”

  “No, he said he’s on his way here now. He’ll be here in five minutes. Which means we need to get out of here in the next hour or so if we want to miss him.”

  I grin. “How long has he been your manager?”

  “I signed with him right after I won Wannabe Rocker…so eight years? He gets me. Lets me do my own thing.”

  The sales guy comes back and leads us outside to the shiniest, most beautiful piece of machinery ever built. “Holy shit,” I whisper, dragging the tips of my fingers across the GT’s hood.

  The man hands me the keys. “Mr. Scott, I trust you’ll have this car back in mint condition in twenty minutes, correct?”

  Jesse claps the man’s back. “You got it, Bill.”

  We slip inside the car. The leather seat is so soft it’s like lying in sheets made of clouds. I groan.

  “All my years of being a country stud and I’ve never made a girl make that sound,” Jesse says with a laugh.

  I smack him on the shoulder. “Would you behave?” I insert the keys in the ignition and test the clutch. “Any objection to me driving stick, or do you want to go automatic?”

  “Whatever suits you.”

  “I like manual, ’cause then I’m in control.”

  “Figures.”

  I stomp on the clutch, start the engine, take my foot off the brake, give it some gas, and we shoot out of the parking lot. My head slams back against the seat.

  “This thing’s a rocket!” Jesse says as he turns on the radio.

  I soar past the entrance to the Grand Ole Opry and sail onto Briley Parkway. I steer the GranTurismo onto I-24, shifting through all six gears, taking it up to ninety miles an hour, zigzagging across four lanes of cars. Eight cylinders roar.

  “What do you think of her?” Jesse hollers over the music, drumming the dashboard.

  “I’ve always wanted a Lamborghini, but I could get used to a Maserati,” I joke as I near a hundred miles an hour, flying past a semi.