Fighting Weight Page 13

  “Fine. You win, dammit,” she giggles, while shaking her beautiful head, her black hair falling over one eye, and finally touches her glass to mine.

  Chuckling, I say: “Cheers. I can tell we’re going to be very good friends, Shadow.”

  “Alina.” She pauses. “My name’s Alina…Ali or Al to my friends,” she huffs, still annoyed with her new nickname.

  “Yeah, I’m well aware of your name, Ali,” I say, testing it out loud, even though I’ve said it a hundred times in my head since she first auditioned back in September. And now, ten months later, I still like the way it rolls around on my tongue.

  “Alina to you,” she says, “Ali is what my friends call me, remember?” The amber hue of the club’s lighting makes her dark hair shine as she sweeps her bangs just so, adjusting them so they once again almost hide those sapphire-blues.

  “Oh, we’re definitely going to be friends, Ali,” I say, stressing the short form. “It’s important to be friends when we’re on an eight-week tour. Trust me, you’ll be glad I’ve decided to befriend you. I don’t become friends with just anyone,” I wink, and she gives me the sexiest attempt at cut-eye I’ve ever seen.

  “Wow. I feel like I should be kissing your feet with gratitude,” she says, resting her hand over her heart. “How lucky could I get?”

  I badly want to respond by telling her I’d prefer a blowjob over foot kisses, but I refrain, more than positive she’d break my dick in half if I said that. I’m not ready to push her to the point of leaving. I still want her time. I decide to change tactics. “You play a mean guitar, Ali.”

  “Thank you. That, uh, means a lot coming from you. I’m really excited, but I’m so fucking nervous to do this. We’ve never toured before,” she admits, her cheeks blushing with the admission, and I notice she’s rubbing the lines of the tattoo on her inner wrist, a move she’s done a few times now since I’ve sat down.

  “Do I make you nervous?” I can’t help asking, the notion pleasing the hell out of me, as I trail my eyes down to her arm where she’s still rubbing.

  “Maybe a little.” Her light eyes meet my dark ones, where they both meld and hold onto one another for a few pauses. I feel a rush of something I haven’t felt in forever, curiosity blended with a strong mix of not only lust, but also knowledge. I know without a doubt that I’m about to embark on a quest to not only earn this girl’s smiles, but also to earn the right to touch her. And, most importantly, I want her trust.

  “Don’t be nervous. I’m harmless,” I say, and I want to mean it, I do. Yet I think we both know it’s bullshit. There’s nothing harmless about the electric pull forming between us, regardless of how much Alina’s trying to evade it. Reaching across the table when she attempts to grab her drink, I gently take hold of her wrist and run my thumb over her tattoo, asking, “What is this?”

  Without missing a beat or pulling away from my touch, she says, “It’s called a tattoo.”

  “Funny,” I say. I rub the spot again, having yet to release her from my grasp.

  “I try,” she shrugs, then pulls away, realizing we’re still touching, and I hate the loss of contact.

  “You gonna elaborate?” I ask, fingers tapping the table, itching to touch her again.

  I expect a snarky comment; instead she gifts me with the most stunning, beautiful smile, which illuminates her gorgeous face.

  “It’s the constellation Cygnus,” she says, pausing before adding, “I love the stars, they’re so beautiful.” I badly want to tell her that I think she’s beautiful, but I don’t. I can tell I’m losing her, her walls are resurrecting. She pauses, contemplating, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the tattooed lines once again. But I realize I might be wrong, as she continues. Maybe she is going to open up to me?

  “This one reminds me to alwa—” Then she cuts herself off, takes a sip of her drink, and averts her eyes from mine, now staring out at the dance floor. And I hate it. “Sorry, I’m rambling. It doesn’t matter, it’s not important.” She flares her hand like it’s not a big deal.

  “You don’t have to stop, Shadow. We’re friends. I’m interested,” I say, cocking my head. I want to know. I want to know everything. It’s fucked up, but I do. This woman pulls at something inside me, and the only thing keeping me from pressing her is knowing I have eight weeks to get her there.

  “We are, are we? Friends?” She tips her head up, giving me a cheeky grin. And I feel a rush knowing I haven’t completely lost her or blown it just yet.

  “The best,” I nod. “Trust me, we’re gonna be the best of fucking friends.”

  “Okay, Mr. Confident. How about this: I’ll tell you when I trust you,” she concedes, making me grin like a devil. I’d already issued that challenge to myself not ten minutes earlier: gain her trust. For some unknown reason, I feel like I’d dive headfirst through a ring of fire to earn it.

  Alina Cassidy is going to be trouble. But I’m thinking she might be the best kind of trouble, the kind that’s worth the fight, because the big reward I’ll reap will be her.

  24

  Alina

  I spend most of Sunday packing for the Consequence of Sound Tour. We leave at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. I also spend a better part of my Sunday replaying my encounter with Slater Jenkins over and over, at an alarming rate. In my almost twenty-four years, I’ve never, ever felt such an instant connection with a man as I did with Slater. Despite being nervous, sitting and talking to him felt natural, it felt right. If I’m being truthful, it’s a feeling that both scares the crap out of me, and thrills me.

  After our back and forth banter, and my nerves finally settling, I ended up having a really great time with him. Surprisingly, he actually listened and was genuinely interested when I shared my answer to his question about how my love for music started, and he was impressed to learn that I not only played guitar, and piano, but the electric violin, too.

  “Wow, we might need to jam one night. I’d love to hear how the violin laid over some of the new stuff Fife’s written would sound.” It was an offer that floored me. No way could I imagine me, Alina Cassidy, playing violin on a Sicken Union track?

  For some reason, as our conversation flowed I opened up to him about my writing and how I’m basically the sole lyricist for Happenstance. Which again lead to Slater complimenting me, and again showing me how nice a guy he can be when he’s not being an argumentative pain in the ass, bitching about his seat or us being supposed BFFs.

  “You’re a real musical threat, Alina,” he’d said, and I couldn’t hide my smile from splaying across my face at his words. It was surreal to hear Slater Jenkins, of all people, describing me this way. A threat. “I’m excited to have your band with us. Tommy was right about you girls. I see big changes ahead for you and your friends,” he’d added, and I felt a wave of excitement at the promise in his words. I felt like I believed them.

  I was a strange mix of happy and nervous yesterday as I fluttered about getting everything ready, packing and running through all my lists, helping myself to trust that I could do this. That I was ready. And knowing that I’d held Slater’s attention on Saturday and the fact he made me feel something I haven’t in a really long time—important, had a lot to do with my good mood.

  My body warms at the thought of those cinnamon-coloured eyes and that cocky smirk even now, on Monday morning, as I sit in Kristie’s office. I wanted one more opportunity to speak with her before leaving and I’m glad I did, because it seems I’m all over the place again today. Unsure, nervous, giddy, emotionally up and down, really.

  “What’s on your mind, Ali?” Kristie asks, perched in her overstuffed leather chair.

  “I hate this, you know?” I say, diving right in. “The hold this disease has on me. People don’t get it. It’s not only about wanting to be skinny, it’s more about the control I feel it gives me. I worry I’m going to slip; I’m nervous that this tour is going to be my downfall.” I’m being truthful, but I decide to leave out how I’m worried being near Slat
er Jenkins every day for eight weeks might affect me more than I realize. He’s hot, relentless, and a huge rock god, and I’m me. Sure, I’ve peaked his interest, but deep down I know it won’t last. A girl like me wouldn’t ever be enough for a man like him. And seeing that truth play out in front of my eyes might be too much for me to handle.

  “You’re right. You’re recognizing this, though, which is a really good thing,” Kristie responds, giving me a warm smile. “What else is bugging you? You seem more agitated than normal today, even for you,” she quips, giving me a knowing look.

  “People don’t get that it’s not just a matter of eating and deciding to throw up. It pisses me off. They don’t get that it’s an addiction. I’m so mad right now. On my way here, I sat behind these two beautiful girls on the TTC. I overheard them talking about wanting to lose weight, and how the one girl was thinking of trying binging and purging, said that she’s been ‘looking into it’ online.” I pause, shaking my head, my earlier anger resurfacing. I laugh coldly. “She made it sound as if she was looking into an investment or a stock, not changing her life for the worse forever.”

  “And this clearly bugged you?” Kristie asks, prompting, giving me room to go on.

  “So much! It took everything in me not to jump in and give her my two cents. To tell her how complicated and dangerous fucking with your body is. To share how everything starts to need a plan, from what foods to eat, to how fucking exhausting it is to be constantly planning, not to mention the shame and guilt she’ll most likely feel every single day.”

  “But you didn’t jump in?”

  “No, I was too upset sitting there and watching these two…what, maybe sixteen-year-old girls getting excited about how much weight they’re about to lose. When chances are they’ll end up actually gaining weight, if they’re not careful.” I reach for a Kleenex and dry my eyes. “I should have warned them about the constant stomach pains, the acid taste that’s always lingering on your breath, the constant obsessing about food, the lies, that damn voice inside you egging you on…” I take a deep breath, “…or the feeling of never being satisfied with your appearance. Don’t they get it? They’ll never like what they see, even when they eventually try to fight back against Her.”

  “I know, Ali. But this isn’t on you, honey,” she says.

  I ignore her and keep going off. “The isolation…god, look how long it took me to find the band, the girls? And I still keep them at arm’s length. All the friendships they’ll lose, being so totally driven by Her voice as She slowly makes them pull away from everything they once loved,” I say, clenching my fists. “And don’t even get me started on the lack of dating. Jesus, look at me. I’ve only ever had sex with two guys. Once, just to get it over with at a stupid party, and the other with a guy named Brant who made me feel good, for what, an hour? But both times were awful. In total darkness…with only my pants off. How sad is that? And then Dustin…I can’t even maintain a relationship with someone of the opposite sex.”

  “Hey. Don’t be too hard on yourself about this, Alina. Me hearing everything you’re saying tells me you’re stronger than you think.”

  “Want to know the worst part?”

  She nods.

  “By the time I finally drummed up enough courage to say something to those girls about everything I was thinking and have experienced, it was my stop. How could I be okay with not warning them? The only thing I could think of was the card of yours I carry around, so as I walked past, I silently dropped it onto the one girl’s lap. Fuck, I hope she looks this place up.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you cannot take on that responsibility. You yourself are healing, and none of their issues are on you. I need you to understand that and, Ali, I know you do. Giving them my card was a brilliant idea. Be happy with yourself for doing that; giving her that card might save her. I’m wondering if you’re being extra hard on yourself because you’ve got a lot going on. Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to take off my therapist hat for a few minutes and speak my mind, is that all right?”

  “I’d really like that.”

  “Good. In my honest, non-therapist’s opinion, I’m glad this happened. And I’m happy it was today.”

  “What? Why?” My head snaps in her direction. How could she say that? It was horrible. I failed those two girls.

  “Wait, let me finish.” She tosses me some grape gum. “Chew this and listen,” she laughs. “Did you hear yourself telling me all the negatives about being bulimic? I did. Listening to you now, I can tell you realize how damaging this disease truly is. And for the first time in a year-and-a-half, I can say that I think you’ve changed your mindset. You know why you can’t go back to living like that, and I have a really good feeling deep in my gut that you won’t. Sure, you might slip up, but I think you’ve got control back, Alina. And I am so very proud of you,” she says, moving over to sit beside me, extending her legs out onto the coffee table to join mine. “You’re fighting and you’re winning. Don’t see today as a loss, or feel any guilt. Flip it, and take all of your wisdom as a win,” Kristie says, and I smile.

  I smile because she’s right. I have come a long way. Those girls’ choices don’t depend on me. Plus, would I have listened to someone like me, back then? A stranger on a bus? Most likely not.

  “Thank you, Kristie, I needed to hear that.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing. A little bit of been there, done that for ya.” She turns her head giving me a grin.

  “I’m still nervous about leaving for the tour tomorrow,” I tell Kristie after a few beats of silence.

  “Well, personally, I have a feeling this opportunity has come at a good time for you. You deserve this, and you girls have worked very hard for it.”

  “Kristie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I take off my patient hat?” I ask, drawing a loud laugh.

  “Of course.”

  “Slater Jenkins.” I say those two words and immediately my body warms, and I feel all flushed. I wonder if Kristie can tell.

  “He’s the singer for Sicken Union, isn’t he? The band leading your tour? What about him?”

  “He makes me more nervous than the tour itself. He’s really…pretty. We spent some time together Saturday night,” I say, adding two more pieces of gum to my mouth before giving her my best “can’t talk, mouth full” look.

  Kristie rolls her eyes while giggling like only the best non-therapist could before putting her rightful “hat” back in its place. She listens to me talk about him, and gives me some pretty good advice, convincing me that maybe I need to relax and just let things run the course that’s meant to be, again reiterating her confidence in my ability to deal with whatever is thrown my way, because I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.

  25

  Slater

  Stepping into the plane’s small cabin, I greet the flight attendant, Andy, before scanning the seats for my target. Once my eyes land on her, I realize I can do one of two things: walk past her and sit somewhere else, or take a risk.

  With my decision easily made as soon as I catch her shy smile and the subtle blush gracing her beautiful face, my legs move of their own volition, determined steps eating up the narrow blue-carpeted aisle until I find myself stopping at row 13, seats A and B.

  “Hey, Rain. Think you’re in my seat, brother,” I lie, knowing he’s well aware that there are no assigned seats on a chartered flight. Looking from me back to where Alina sits next to him by the window seat, he smirks.

  “Would you look at that?” Rain chuckles. “It appears I am indeed in the wrong seat. She’s all yours, Slate. Catch up with you later, Ali.”

  Ali? I catch the use of the name reserved for “friends” as Rain stands. And I’m not sure if he means Ali’s all mine or the seat itself. Either way, I’ll take both, regardless of the ribbing I’m sure will come once we land.

  “See you, Rain,” Ali says, looking confused and unsure about what’
s going on. That makes two of us. My behaviour’s so out of character lately, it shocks even me. I’m not this guy. Chicks come to me, not the other way around. For some reason, with her, I don’t give a shit. I’m drawn in.

  “Morning, Shadow,” I say, ignoring my own peculiar performance, folding my long legs into the blue leather covered seat beside her.

  “Ali,” she corrects, and my smile is huge. Ali.

  “Ali, as in ‘the name your friends call you’.” I toss back her words from Saturday night.

  “Yes,” she huffs, “it would seem I’ve decided to accept the inevitable, because it appears you, my friend, are relentless, so I might as well make it easier on myself.”

  “Attagirl. It’s a trait my mom always said I excelled at,” I tell her, grabbing her knee that’s closest to mine. But the friendly gesture has her practically jumping out of her seat, so I quickly move my hand back into my lap. Strange. I knew she was a bit skittish, and I was only being friendly, but she clearly didn’t like my hands on her. “Sorry,” I mutter, not exactly sure what I’ve done to cause her reaction, but not liking that I made her uncomfortable, not one bit. It’s the last reaction I hoped to evoke from her.

  “No, it’s fine. It’s me, I’m sorry,” she says quietly, looking out the plane’s window.

  “Nervous flyer?” I ask, hoping that whatever’s just passed between us doesn’t make this the longest silence-filled flight ever, when the only thing I want is to get to know her during our six-hour journey from Toronto to the Yukon. The label had arranged for the bands to fly—thankfully—to the venue, while the roadies and crew drove the busses and trucks carrying all of the equipment a few days in advance. Their job once they arrived would be to set up and ensure everything was good to go for the tour’s kick off in Whitehorse on Thursday night.

  “No, I’m not usually too bad in airplanes. But I haven’t flown much, though, so maybe I am a little…” She shrugs her shoulders, which are covered by an oversized black “Yoda is My Homie” hoodie that makes me chuckle. It seems so her, although it hides the rockin’ body I know lies beneath. Looking back my way, she asks, “How about you?”