Face the Music (25 page)

He looked pleased and reached for my hand.  “Told you it would be fun.  Ever been here?”

There was a green door at the bottom of a narrow stairwell.  A sign hanging above the entrance identified the place as Gigi’s.  “No.  I had no idea it was even here.  How did you find it?”

“I’ve got connections,” he said
with a lop-sided grin
.  “It’s a fairly new place.  The food is supposed to be sensational.”

Several parties of people waited outside on the sidewalk, but Chris led me inside and gave the hostess his name.  She offered a friendly smile and escorted us to a private table.  Chris ordered a bottle of
Pinot Grigio
.
  “Unless you’d rather have something else,” he
offered
before the hostess left
.

“I’m sure it will be great.”
  The only thing I knew about wine was that some were red and others were white.
  And apparently
,
sometimes they sparkled.

The lights in the restaurant were dim.  Soft Italian music played in the background.  Candlelight flickered off the dozen or so tables, and I opened the menu and glanced through the selection.

“What are you going to get?”  I peeked at him from across the table.  As always, he looked great.  He was wearing brown cargo pants and an orange button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms.  His black leather jacket hung on the back of the chair. 

He tapped his thumb on his chin as he looked at the menu. 
“I think I’ll go with the lasagna.  You?”

I glanced at the menu once more.  “Gorgonzola Chicken Alfredo.”

We sat there for a few minutes, awkwardly silent, when the manager and a
waitress
came over.  “You’re Chris Knots, aren’t you?” squealed
the girl
.
  She didn’t look a day over seventeen.

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said the manager, “but could we trouble you for a quick picture and an autograph?  It would be an absolute honor to add you to our wall.”  He gestured to the wall behind us.  A dozen or so frames hung there, each displaying a familiar face.
  Oprah Winfrey, Steve Carell, a couple of hockey players
whose faces I recognized, and several others.

“It’s no trouble.”  Chris fl
ashed a bright white smile for the photo
.  He then autographed the bottom of a
picture
matting. 
A night to remember.  Yours, Chris Knots
.

The manager thanked C
hris for his time, and the girl
giggled.

“
Does that happen
everywhere you go?”  I asked after the commotion had settled. 

An older couple sitting at a table near ours smiled at him.  He waved.  “Not quite everywhere, but
it does happen a lot.”

I leaned in closer and looked at him seriously.  “What’s it like, being famous?” 

He narrowed his eyes.  “You really want me to answer that?” 

“Of course.  What’s it like?”

He
ran a hand over his bald head
.  “
You have to know exactly who you are.  It’s
been a challenge, you know?  I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching to figure out what’s most important.  I have to be careful to not offend, yet still be able to abide by my own values.”  He paused and looked at me.  “Don’t get me wrong; I d
on’t mind being popular.  I
t certainly has its advantages.”

“Such as?”

He smirked and picked up his glass of wine.  “Well, I can get reservations anywhere on a moment’s notice, and I
don’t
have to wait to get in. 

I thought about all the people on
the sidewalk outside
and how we had instantly been seated.

“It’s kind of a double-edged sword, though,” he continued.  “I really have to work at preserving my image while living by my own truth.”

I was impressed at his insight.  I propped my elbows on the table, rested my chin in m
y hands, and leaned in closer. 
This
was fascinating.
 
“So have you figured it all out then- what’s important to you, your values and truths?”  I wondered how many girls would kill to be in my shoes right now, having a one-on-one with Chris Knots. 

He smiled.  “Mostly.  I’m still working out a few things.”  He gazed at me from across the table, his head slightly tilted to one side.  Candlelight flickered in his
dark
eyes.

The waitress brought our plates, but I didn’t touch my food.  “Like?” 

“Well, like you, for instance,” he said as he picked up his fork.

“Me?  Why?” 

He took a bite and chewed
slowly
.  I waited impatiently for an answer.  “Well, I’m still trying to figure out what makes you tick.”

Completely willing to divulge any information about myself, I put my hands in my lap and sat up with square shoulders.  “Ask me anything.”

He thought for a few seconds before shaking his head.  “Don’t worry, I’ll figure you out sooner or later.  Aren’t you going to eat?”

I
picked up my fork and twirled
a noodle around
it.  I then
asked him who his favorite singer was.  It surprised me when he named Elvis Presley.  “Why Elvis?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He looked up.  “Why not Elvis?  The man was a legend, a true inspiration to any
contemporary
musician.”  I laughed at the picture that popped in
to
my head- Chris dressed up in shiny blue tassels, thrusting his hips to the rhythm of
Hound Dog
. 

“What’s funny?”

I bit down on my lower lip.  “Nothing.  I just didn’t take you for an Elvis fan.” 

We looked at each other as the waitress filled our wine glasses.  “So I have a question.  How do you choose what song you’ll sing each week?  Does someone pick it out for you?  How do you know if it’s the right one?”

“That’s three questions.”  He chuckled and took another bite.  After swallowing he answered, “I choose my own songs.  I can’t really tell you how I know, I just do.  Something throughout the week usually inspires me.”  He winked at me.

“Inspires you?”  I repeated.  “What inspires you?”

He shook his head and leaned back in his chair.  “Why all the questions?”

“I don’t know, I guess I find you interesting.  How many opportunities will I ever get to have a heart-to-heart with a real Superstar?”

He reached across the table, took my left wrist, and toyed with my bracelet.  “This is nice.”

My skin tingled where his fingers touched
.  “Yeah, my mother gave it to me,” I said softly, watching as he twisted it around and examined each charm.

“It must be really special to you.”

He let go of my arm. 
I folded my hands in my lap and concentrated on slowing my heartbeat.  When it returned to a normal pace, I picked up my forked and
poked at
a piece of chicken
.

“How much longer do you have in school?” he asked.

I blinked, surprised by the question.  “Who knows?  I just started the program and only go part time.  Four years, I guess.  But if tuition keeps going up, maybe more.  I can hardly afford the credits now.”  Talk about depressing.

He looked at me thoughtfully.  “You’ve really got some ambition, don’t you?” 

“
I
love school.  It’s the one thing I’ve always been good at.”

After several minutes of silence, he looked at me thoughtfully.  “Okay, I’ve got one.” 

I was a bit alarmed.  “You’ve got one what?”

He laughed.  “A
nother
question for you.”

I put my fork down and leaned forward.  “Okay, what?”

“What are you most afraid of?” 

“Spiders.”  The word was automatic and left my lips without thought.  I mused over the seriousness of the question and my seemingly trivial answer.

He cocked his head to one side. 

“No, really!”  I said with wide eyes.  “I have an intense, irrational fear of spiders.
They completely freak me out.  E
ven the tiny ones.”

“Really?  I never would have pegged you as an arachnophobe, you b
eing the science girl and all.
”  He scurried his hand across the table, as though it were a spider.  “Are you scared?”  His fingers were inches from my arm.

I stuck out my lower lip.  “Don’t make fun of me.  You asked, remember?”  I eyed his hand, still in its spider-like form, and managed a fake tremble.

He laughed hard and sat back in
his chair.   “You’re a trip.”

“Can I tempt either of you with dessert
tonight
?”
  The waitress
appeared suddenly at our table, displaying the sweet confectionaries on a large, round tray
.  “Cheesecake, tiramisu, lemon bars?”

“Do you want something?” he asked
.

I pulled my eyes away from the tray to look at him.  “Do you?”

“Nope.”  He patted his flat stomach and stretched his strong arms over his head.  “I’m watching my figure.
 
But you go ahead.  What looks good?”

I
pointed at the
chocolate cake. 
It looked mouthwatering.  “How could you possibly
refuse
that
?”

“One piece of chocolate cake for the lady,” he told the waitress.  “
Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“You’re sure?  A cup of coffee?”  I smiled and shook my head.  I really wasn’t even hungry, but
the cake looked too good to pass up.

Minutes later, a giant piece of heaven sat before me.  It even had a scoop of
vanilla
ice cream.

“How is it?” he asked after I’d taken a bite.

“Fab-u-lous,” I said in three dramatic syllables.  I took another bite and chewed slowly, savoring the flavor of the ri
ch
, smooth
chocolate.  “Wanna try it?”

He reached across the table and ran his finger down the corner of my lips.  He then put that finger in his mouth and sucked.  “
Mmmmm.  T
asty,”
he said
, his eyes burning into mine
.

I froze, the fork coming to a standstill somewhere between the table and my lips.  I had to force myself to close my mouth.

The waitress
passed by and
set the bill on the table.  Without taking his eyes off me, Chris pulled a credit card from his wallet and handed it to
her
.