She slides gracefully into the empty seat beside me, ordering me another mule and a vodka tonic for herself. Then she extends her hand for me to shake.
“I’m Faith,” she says. Her thumb runs over the back of my hand before she lets it go.
I’m hesitant to give my name, but I take a chance and tell her, “Riley.”
She seems genuine when she asks if I’m from around here. I say I am, leaving out how I’m originally from a small town in New England. But I’ve lived in Nashville since I was eighteen, when my parents and I moved here for me to pursue country music.
This city might not be as large as L.A., but it’s got the same vibe. People move here from all over the country searching for fame. And I’m one of the lucky ones who actually found it.
Although I’m not feeling particularly lucky tonight.
We chat for a bit as we sip our drinks. She laughs like my lame jokes are funny, and she curls her fingers over my forearm when she wants to emphasize something she’s saying.
I’ll surely regret this fourth drink when I’m hungover tomorrow, but right now, I’m feeling better than I’ve felt in a while. The tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders for the past week seems to have disappeared, and the ache in my jaw from how much I’ve been clenching it has eased.
When one of my songs starts playing over the bar’s tinny sound system, muscle memory has me singing the first few lines before I catch myself and clamp my lips shut. The one way in which Ihavebeen lucky tonight is in not getting recognized. Better not push it.
Faith is pretty cool. I like how she talks animatedly with her hands as she tells me stories about the advertising agency she works for. And when a guy sits down on her other side, she slides her chair closer to me, so now it feels like we’re in our own little bubble. This is so much better than me bitterly sucking down my drinks alone earlier.
It takes until we’re both on the last sips of our drinks, and her outer thigh is pressed tightly against mine, for me to realize something.
Oh my god.
She’sflirtingwith me.
Right?That must be what this is.
Why didn’t it occur to me right away when she asked to buy me a drink?
Probably because I’m a straight celebrity—with a very publicly documented relationship history—so I’ve never been hit on by a woman before.
It feels surprisingly nice. Which I’m too drunk to properly analyze, but I suspect it has something to do with the way most hetero men are so easy to entice. Whenever a man hits on me, it doesn’t feel like I’ve necessarily earned anything.
But I should tell her I’m not interested, shouldn’t I? Or is that weird at this point? There’s no harm in having a conversation with a woman. And I’m enjoying it. So I can simply wait until we finish our drinks, thank her, then make my exit.
That seems like a solid plan, even with my mind swimming in alcohol. But I only manage to complete those first two steps before getting tripped up on the last one.
After I text my driver, I excuse myself to use the restroom. And when I step back out into the small, dimly lit corridor at the back of the bar, Faith is there waiting for me. She’s leaning against the wall with one knee bent and her heeled boot propped up on it. It’s such a confident pose.
I find myself gravitating toward her. Not that there’s much room in this space to avoid her.
“I had a lot of fun talking to you,” she says, reaching out one hand to graze her fingers along my waist.
“I did too,” I tell her truthfully. I’m considering asking for her number to see if she wants to hang out again—since I’m not currently doing much music-wise, and having a friend would be nice.
But then she brings her hand up to the back of my neck and pulls me forward. And before I realize what’s happening, her lips are on mine.
I kiss her back instinctually. It’s a little different than what I’m used to, sure, but it still feels good when she coaxes me to open my mouth for her and sneaks her tongue inside. She tastes like vodka and something sweeter. Maybe chapstick.
I shouldn’t be doing this. Not only because I’m drunk, but becausewe’re in public. Each time that thought occurs to me, though, I can’t hold on to it. It keeps slipping away as I continue giving in to this woman’s kiss.
My phone buzzing in my pocket is what makes me finally pull back. And as soon as there’s an appropriate amount of space between my mouth and hers, I’m slammed in the chest by the reality of the situation.
Holy crap, what am I thinking?
Stumbling a few steps away from her, I shake my head and mutter, “My ride’s here. I’ve got to go, I’m sorry.”
And then before she has a chance to respond, I turn around and bolt out of the bar, almost bumping into a couple people in my haste to reach the exit.