Hey Girl (Turn it Up #9)

Chapter 5

5

REBECCA

I peer through the spaces between my fingers and the text on my glowing laptop screen. So… there’s a good chance it’s really Chris Richards shamelessly courting me over the web. Okay, actually, he’s just communicating but to me, that’s like third base.

Hey, okay,

What do you say we start over?

You just did a spectacular job pitching us your designs for our new album era. You were very quiet, and my cohort Josh was being a buttnugget. Sorry about him by the way. Afterwards, we were on the elevator together and I screwed up by calling you Becky.

Do you believe it’s me yet? If so, how about a date?

Unless this is one of the other three bandmates, which I highly doubt, it must be him. There was no one else in that meeting.

Well shit.

I’ve got two options here:

One, I pretend I never saw this and go along my merry way… only that’s not so merry is it? Holing up in my house with a spikey rodent and a naked feline while avoiding human contact. Okay that was a shitty thing to say about my beloved pets, but seriously, that’s what my life is.

Or two… I could respond. Just respond. I can interact with a famous, hot-as-balls drummer through the protection of my screen. I don’t have to see him. I don’t have to look into his sea-green eyes while we converse. Just his words in an email. I can respond all I want, but heaven knows, I’m not going to offer up my phone number where he’d have to hear my squeaky nervous voice while I stumble over my words.

Okay, here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to go in the kitchen and make myself some liquid courage in the form of a White Russian and come back to this computer and respond to him - as me. If I’m going to use this chance to speak to Chris Richards - drum and ab God of all time - from within my usual protective bubble, then I’m going to give him the real me. No being nervously polite and constructing some eloquent correspondence. Oh no. If there’s ever a time to grow a vagina and grab life by the balls, it’s this chance of a lifetime. Besides, he’s already gotten a taste of it from my initial response when I didn’t believe it was him. I mean shit, he now knows I think he’s hot enough to lick, what more damage can I do?

Drink beside my laptop, I take a cleansing breath and thread my fingers and push them outward to crack my knuckles.

Hold onto your nads, Chris Richards. You’re about to get a load of me.

Chris

Email from Rebecca Randall:

Morning,

So yeah, I’ll give you plausibility here, seeing as how no one else was there in the meeting to bear witness to my super mad creative skills and your friend bringing his Teeny Peen Energy to the table.

Unless…

This isn’t Josh, is it? Tell me you’re not pretending to be Chris or I’ll die.

Actually, you know what - fuck it.

You were a dick the other day!

Now, if this is Chris,

Sorry for thinking you’re a cyberstalking pervert that gets his jollies to sliding into random strangers DMs and shooting his load into an empty Fritos bag.

Thank you very much for reaching out to me and I apologize for the misunderstanding. I guess I just don’t understand why a famous rockstar would want to spend any of his precious minutes contacting a timid plain Jane with glasses and a clinical aversion to socialization.

Is there something wrong with the mockups? Do you have some feedback? What can I do for you so that you can get on with your busy life.

Have a great day,

Rebecca (Not Becky, NEVER Becky).

Well, fuck my ass, she responded. It took my bleary eyes about three blinks, but I got the message. I just woke up to find this delightful message in my inbox but I need my morning BLAST stat. Or I guess I should say my early afternoon BLAST as I got in at the insane hour of seven this morning.

Anyway, back to the subject. For being so quiet, Rebecca’s a real sass-mouth. It’s nothing like she was in the meeting, and only a little like she was in the elevator. I can tell she’s still the same girl, she just holds herself way back when she’s in person. It’s like she’s dynamite hidden in a quiet, pretty little package. You just have to pull the ribbon to open it and then KABOOM!

Okay, I seriously need to lay off the cartoons.

I have no words except I am turned ON. And after she called me hot and lickable, I’m going to go out on a limb and say she likes me too.

If I was intrigued before, I have a serious hair of curiosity jammed up my ass now. I have to see her. I have to talk to her more and find out what makes her tick. Like what’s the whole can’t socialize but can hand you your ass in an email stuff about?

Staggering over to my designated BLAST fridge and too discombobulated to pick one out, I let fate surprise me and just swipe a random can, cracking it open on my way upstairs. I have to get in the shower as my hair is sticking up in three different directions and I need to get my blood flowing. I take my beloved can of Blackberry Bomb Bonanza, as it turns out, with me under the spray, and will my special manly, ocean-scented body wash to work its magic on my pheromones so that she doesn’t stand a chance.

Once I’m marginally awake and on my second can, I devise a plan to surprise the little mouse. Don’t worry, it will be a gentle surprise. Afterall, she doesn’t seem to think she’s worth my time and I’m about to drop some reality on her ass - gently. I seem to remember a coffee shop just a block or two down from her office building. I’ll just drop by and ask her on an impromptu mini-date and hope she’ll be warmed over to find out she was wrong.

I opt for my actual four-wheeled vehicle today and head on over to that boring office building Rebecca works in. After parking just up the street, I get out, and to my surprise, see her exiting the building.

Good, I don’t have to go in that stuffy place.

Lowering my RayBans down my nose, I watch her for a moment and see she’s walking briskly down the street in the very direction of the very coffee place I was intending to begin our courtship. Heaven is smiling down upon me, making this even easier as she will probably respond even better to a chance encounter.

Hitting the lock function on my key fob I quickly cross the street and hope to catch up to her. Damn, she’s a speedy little thing.

When I finally reach the Java Cabana, I whip open the front door and am greeted by a most unexpected, not to mention an unfavorable site.

I see Rebecca, her back to me and her body turned inward, much like it was when we were in the elevator. Her delicate shoulders are hunched beneath a white, crocheted top and her flowery skirt bounces with the nervous jiggling of her leg.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t need to, just by her posture and the self-important, scathing look the barista - wait, he’s a guy, does that make it baristo? Doesn’t matter—it’s clear, he’s making her feel scared and insecure and something is happening to me.

My vision takes on some kind of infrared haze, making the scene before me appear in black and red shades. I see the baristas body take on some kind of webbed-graphical form.

Visual Attained.

Target Acquired.

These words flash through my mind in a deeply demonic and oddly robotized voice.

I don’t know who you are barista boy… but you’re about to get Chrisified.

Rebecca

“Mmmocha latte. Mochalattemochalattemochalatte,” I chant quietly to myself in the corner of the crowded coffee house. This is the homework I’ve given myself for the day- place a coffee order without stammering or freaking out because there’s, heaven forbid, people around. “MOCHA. LATTE.” I say firmly and confidently. I’ve got this. I have fucking GOT this. Damn, I wish I could say ‘fucking’ out loud. New homework: practice fucking. The word, not the action. Although the action I definitely need to be schooled in too and okay! I’m getting off track. Mocha latte motherfucker!

I square my shoulders and step into the line, hell-bent on making this self-assigned homework my bitch. There are two people ahead of me and I don’t know if I’m glad for more time to practice in my head or afraid it will make me lose my nerve.

No. I have to do this or I have to give myself a big fat ‘F’ on my homework (and not for fucking). I’ve never had an ‘F’ in my life, and I won’t start now. I keep practicing my order in my head and before I know it, I’m up. A gangly, bored looking guy that looks fresh out of high school and regards me with a look that says he’d rather be back home in front of his X-Box tilts his head lazily in my direction.

“What can I get for you?” He asks as he drums his fingers on the counter.

“Mocha latte…please.” Whew. Now all I have to do is hand over my debit card, grab my drink and get out of here.

“Size?” He lifts an eyebrow at me.

Shit. I forgot what size I wanted… and to practice saying it!

“Uh…,” I start, acting like I’m thinking, buying myself some time. “Hmm… uhh…” Don’t stammer! “Uh… the uh medium.” There, that wasn’t so bad. I did it! I inwardly celebrate.

“We don’t have mediums,” he points out, clearly irritated.

“Oh. Well then um…” I’m starting to shake. I’ve got to do this.

“Twelve, sixteen or twenty,” he prods impatiently.

I take a deep breath to try and center myself, but it’s not working. It never works. I don’t work, not like other people.

“Today,” he draws out the word long and dramatic, complete with an exaggerated eyeroll.

I’m about to scrap this whole thing, turn and walk out as fast as I can and let the waterworks flow as soon as I’m in the enclosed safety of my car when I get a sudden whiff of oceany musk, and a lean and toned figure leans against the counter next to me. I feel my mouth hang open as I turn to see sparkling green eyes lacking their usual playful tone and instead regarding the cashier seriously.

“Do you have somewhere to be, man?”

I don’t know what’s happening here but I’m thankful for the reprieve as the guy straightens up and his face morphs from annoyed to confused.

“Uh… what are you talking about?”

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Chris repeats in more of a demanding than questioning tone as he leans his arms down on the counter like he’s settling in for a riveting conversation. “Do you have somewhere to be, other than right here, at your register, ready to take coffee orders? Does your shift end when she completes her order or something?”

“Uh, no. I’m here until four…”

“So, what’s your hurry?” Chris asks. “There’s no one behind her. Why the dickish ‘tude?”

Barista boy gulps and offers nothing else as he starts to fidget.

“Now from what I understand, your job is to stand at that register and take coffee orders, or have I got it all wrong?”

“Yeah… that’s my job,” the kid nervously confirms.

“Well, this lovely lady would like to order some coffee,” he gestures to me with an excited how about that tone in his words. “And you have two hours on your hands just for you to do your lame ass job, and as far as I can tell, she already did her part. She asked for a medium mocha latte, I believe all you have left to do is on your end.”

“We don’t have med-,”

“Mediums? Right, I know. You have twelve, sixteen, and twenty ouncers. Tell me,” he squints his eyes at the kids name tag. “Clay. Think carefully now. Which of those would be the medium?”

“The sixteen,” Clay huffs out, looking put off.

Chris gives me a mock-stunned look. “Well, slap my ass, he got it right! Good for you! Tell him what he’s won, Bob!” He cheers in mock encouragement, applauding as Clay’s face reddens. “Why don’t you ring that up along with a caramel cookie frapp with extra drizzle, Clay, my man? And don’t worry, your tip will be generous.”

No matter how hard I try to keep my lips pinched together, I feel a smile pulling at them and I give in a little. Chris is funny, and I’m kind of bowled over at what he just did for me. It was sweet, and I admire how flawlessly he was able to put the twitchy cashier boy in his place. His delivery was seamless, and I hope one day I’ll be able to do something resembling that.

I move to pull my wallet out of my handbag when he places a warm, calloused hand over mine. The touch is gentle and cautious, despite how strong his hands look.

“I got this, lovely,” he murmurs in a quiet tone I wasn’t sure he was even capable of before handing a few bills to Clay. I try not to look at the floor and keep my chin up as the scared shitless barista boy scurries around making our drinks. He places them down, and nervously tries to shuffle away out of sight before we even grab them up.

“Yo, I’ve got your tip!” Chris shouts after him, undaunted by the way Clay determinedly ignores him. Picking up a small notepad and pencil resting on the counter for orders, Chris writes in chaotic block capitals, TREAT YOUR CUSTOMERS WITH RESPECT, NOT LIKE SOMETHING YOU STEPPED IN, CLAY, YOU ASSHAT.

Chris holds the door open for me as we venture outside and I stop, holding my latte in my hands visualizing the warmth giving me the gumption I need to tell him thank you.

I pull in a breath and challenge myself to look into those playful, sparkly greens.

“Thank you,” I say amazingly without any glitches. His gentle touch inside the shop has left some kind of lingering sense of comfort. Not knowing when it will wear off, I decide to get out as much as I can and with the way his smile crinkles his eyes I feel a weird sense of encouragement. “For that… in there,” I manage, jerking my head in the direction of the shop. “And for…”—damnit, here it comes—“…p-paying.”

Ugh.

“No problem,” he says, and though I’m examining the pavement, I hear the smile in his words.

“Well—” I take one step backward in the direction of my car.

“Can I ask you something?” he cuts in before I can tell him to take care in my own flustered, ineloquent fashion.

“Okay,” I answer, halting my step and bringing my coffee up for a sip, trying to hide my nerves.

“Why are you so shy, little mouse?”

Mouse. That’s what he called me that first time he did a slip ‘n’ slide into my DMs. It’s kind of cute. I can tell he means it endearingly and not to tease and I relax just a little.

“Uh…,”

Take a deep breath, think about what you want to say and just say it! You can do this.

“Long story. It’s a disorder,” I try to explain using easy words. I still struggle with the word anxiety.

Chris nods thoughtfully at my answer.

“Oh. Okay, so is that what makes it hard to talk also?”

He’s not being mocking or nosey. He’s interested. I’ve never had someone just simply ask me about my issues before. Even though it’s blaringly obvious, so many people avoid it like it’s an elephant in the room. I’m not ashamed of it. It’s when people don’t even try to understand it that makes it tough. “Yeah,” I nod up at him and with no effort at all, give him a self-deprecating yet appreciative smile.

“Is it hard? The day-to-day things that come so naturally to other people?” He asks, stepping closer to me and before I know it we’re walking side by side.

I nod in answer. “But I try,” I motion my head back towards the coffee shop again. “Every day. At least once to get out of my comfort zone.”

“Really?” He tilts his head back with a look of amazement. “You push yourself once a day to do something you’re not used to?” I nod, with a curious smile. “Me too!” He gestures towards himself excitedly.

“You do?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Now there’s a word that could be my Everest. “Last week, I went up in one of those zero-gravity planes. Totally ralphed afterwards. Worth it, though. And the week before that, I tried cage diving with sharks- they don’t like to be poked by the way…”

He trails off, presumably when he sees my eyes widen and my mouth do its impression of the Cave of Wonders.

“Oh…sorry. I guess we’re on completely different scales where that’s concerned.”

I can’t help a giggle. A real, honest to God giggle. I can’t remember the last time someone managed to do that that wasn’t on an old SNL rerun. I feel safe with him, like I could try some more words.

“So… why are you so…” Gregarious! Come on! “…not shy?” Damnit. I have a better vocabulary than a third grader, I swear! I want to tell him.

He chuckles. “Just never occurred to me not to be, I guess. I’ve always liked people and having fun. I was the class clown growing up.”

From what I can tell he still is. He’s the craziest, most energetic and extroverted of Turn it Up. However, I’m pretty sure this is the mellowest I’ve ever seen Chris. Although that could very well change once that coffee kicks in.

When we approach my car, the nerves start humming again. Goodbyes are so awkward for me, even the casual kind. I take another sip of my latte as I dig for my keys. Just another quick thank you and goodbye and I can lock myself in my car until he’s out of sight. I’ve more than made up for my failed coffee order today.

“Thanks again,” I say once I’ve located my keys from the bottom of my bag. I don’t want to seem rude. I’m just only capable of so much.

“Will you go out with me?”

I freeze. I feel my face get warm, and I have to mentally nudge myself to breathe.

“N-no…?”

Smooth. And really, really nice Rebecca. God that was a curveball, though. I do not get asked out. Ever. And sure as hell not by hot drummers from famous rock bands.

“Why not?” Chris casually asks, completely unfazed. “I’m way out of your comfort zone. It’ll be the perfect- oh, wait. No,” he snaps his fingers as a look of realization passes over his face. “You already did your daily challenge. Tomorrow!” He points at me.

Oh my God, this train just switched tracks and is full steam ahead towards the kind of disaster that ends with explosions and a body count. I’m panicking. I’m starting to shake. I have to leave. Now. My keys start jangling in my shaking hand as I fumble for the key fob to unlock my vehicle.

“What’s the matter lovely? You’re shaking like Motorola pager- ohhh. Shit. I went all Chris again didn’t I? I’m sorry, I just got comfortable and slipped into me mode. I can be really eager sometimes; ok all the time. But forget that, what can I do to make you feel better?”

My swirling brain just barely picks up on that last sentence.

“Wh…I…” Don’t ask me out! That’s what you can do!

“Listen, I think we’d have a good time, and dating me would be like an extreme sport for you! We can just?—.”

He’s cut off by music, a familiar rock song. Even though I feel like I’m about to drop dead from panic and mortification, I register that it’s Crazy Bitch. It gets louder as Chris pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks down.

“Shit,” he mumbles as he looks around nervously; for who or what, I don’t know. “I gotta go! Think it over! I’ll see you later!”

I watch as he tears off at top speed down the sidewalk, still looking every which way around him until he’s out of sight. I think a solid two minutes pass by before I realize I’m still standing here dumbfounded next to my car. Did that really just happen, or am I having a stroke?