Charmer Read online

  Charmer

  Kayley Loring

  Contents

  Title

  NICO TODD SONGWRITING JOURNAL – April

  1. Nico

  2. Kat

  3. Kat

  KAT’S VIDEO DIARY – April

  4. Nico

  NICO TODD SONGWRITING JOURNAL – May

  5. Nico

  6. Kat

  KAT’S VIDEO DIARY – May

  7. Kat

  8. Nico

  9. Kat

  KAT’S VIDEO DIARY – May

  NICO TODD SONGWRITING JOURNAL – May

  10. Nico

  11. Kat

  12. Nico

  Untitled

  KAT’S VIDEO DIARY – June

  13. Nico

  THE CHARMER TOUR UNEDITED FOOTAGE – Phoenix

  14. Kat

  NICO TODD SONGRWRITING JOURNAL – June

  THE CHARMER TOUR UNEDITED FOOTAGE – Approaching Dallas

  15. Kat

  16. Nico

  17. Kat

  18. Nico

  19. Kat

  20. Nico

  21. Kat

  22. Nico

  THE CHARMER TOUR UNEDITED FOOTAGE – New York

  23. Kat

  24. Nico

  THE CHARMER TOUR UNEDITED FOOTAGE – Detroit

  25. Kat

  26. Kat

  NICO TODD SONGWRITING JOURNAL – July

  27. Nico

  28. Kat

  29. Nico

  KAT’S VIDEO DIARY – August

  30. Nico

  31. Kat

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Acknowledgments

  Keep in touch with Kayley

  Also by Kayley Loring

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Kayley Loring

  All rights reserved.

  COVER DESIGN: Stacy Garcia, Graphics by Stacy

  CHARMER ALBUM COVER DESIGN: Books and Moods Designs

  To the readers who asked for Nico’s book ~ this is for you!

  NICO TODD SONGWRITING JOURNAL – April

  “The Wait”

  It’s the scent of you and coffee

  That makes me stop and look up

  Your blue cat eyes ask a question

  Before offering another cup

  I know we aren’t alone here

  I know you’ve got a job to do

  I know you’re supposed to wait on me

  But I’ve been waiting on you

  I’m not a guy who’s used to waiting

  I’m not a guy who’s likely to stay

  But something tells me baby

  That you’ll be worth the wait

  I’m waiting for those big red lips

  To tell me what I already know

  I’m waiting for those busy fingers

  To show me where to go

  I’m not a guy who’s used to waiting

  I’m not a guy who’s likely to stay

  But something tells me baby

  That you’ll be worth the wait

  I’ll take another cup of that coffee

  I’ll inhale that sexy perfume

  I’ll stare into those sad blue eyes

  Until they glance around the room

  Honey I’m still here

  There’s your answer

  Baby I’m gonna fill you up

  Honey I’m still here

  There’s your answer

  So pour me another cup

  I’m not a guy who’s used to waiting

  I’m not a guy who usually stays

  But something tells me baby

  That you’ll be worth the wait

  Yeah something’s telling me honey

  That you’ll be worth the wait

  You’re so worth the wait

  * Welp. Apparently, a lot of caffeine and no sex makes me a little bit country.

  Maybe I’ll just sell this one.

  Fuck that.

  Who am I kidding?

  I don’t want anyone else touching this woman and I don’t want anyone else singing about her either.

  I’ll work on this.

  With a simple chord progression and a catchy melody, maybe it actually will be worth the wait.

  Fuck you, celibacy.

  1

  Nico

  One month.

  That’s how long I’ve been waiting.

  I look up from my notebook and see Kat chatting with a couple at another table as she gives them their check. She glances over at me, mid-sentence, catching me just as my gaze lifts from the curve of her perfect ass, up to her stunning blue eyes. I swear, even in this amber-hued lighting they sparkle. At least when they’re locked with mine. Okay, maybe they blaze with exasperation and bewilderment sometimes—but it’s hot. I give her an innocent shrug and grin that makes her lose her train of thought. She shakes her head, forcing her red lips to frown at me while giving me a dismissive ‘I can’t with you right now’ wave and turns her attention back to her other customers.

  You can with me, Kat. You will. I don’t get why you haven’t yet, but you can, and you will.

  I moved from my downtown LA loft to a house in Beachwood Canyon in March to be a little closer to Shane and my sister. Now that they’re married, they go out even less, so it’s up to me to make the drive to the fucking Palisades. It’s fine. I love those lazy ass homebody nerds. I’m not complaining. It’s worth it. I would’ve moved sooner, but I did a festival tour and then I was in the recording studio, so I was barely home anyway. I like Beachwood. Not as much as I liked living downtown, but it’s growing on me.

  Started coming to The 101 Coffee Shop right away, because everyone comes to The 101.

  Mid-century diner decor, healthy menu options, good lighting, open until three am, decent jukebox selections—where else would I go?

  But it was that first late night that I came in here, after my gig at the Hotel Café, one month ago. That’s when I met Kat. That’s when I learned she only works the late shift. That’s when I became the guy who has a crush on a waitress.

  One month.

  That’s how long I’ve been drinking coffee at one am and that’s how long it’s been since I’ve been with a woman.

  That’s like a decade in Nico years.

  I sleep ‘til noon like a teenager.

  I’m a moody beast all day, except when I’m here.

  I haven’t gone this long without sex since my sister was staying with me at the loft two years ago. Even then it was just a couple of weeks. My angry thirty-year-old dick has a lot of questions for me and I don’t have any answers.

  But ever since I met Kat, no other woman will do.

  That first night, I liked her immediately. I knew I’d be back, so I didn’t make any moves.

  The second night, I liked her a lot. I noticed how she smiles and touches her customers’ shoulders when she talks to them. All of them. She touches all of her customers except me.

  I know what that means.

  I asked her point blank if she’s married or has a boyfriend. No, she said. Girlfriend? Nope. I mentioned my upcoming show at Troubadour, said I’d put her on the list if she wants to come by with a friend. She gives me this blank look. Like she had no idea I was a musician.

  I don’t want to be that asshole who feels the need to drop hints that he’s kinda famous. I don’t usually have to. But I don’t get the feeling she was a fan of The Disney Channel’s That’s So Wizard back in the mid-2000’s, or that she caught my five-episode arc on Supernatural before I changed c
areers. There’s no cool way to work the hit song I wrote with Ed Sheeran into a casual conversation while ordering a late-night snack, because let’s face it—you never know if someone in LA is going to laugh in your face for even mentioning Ed Sheeran.

  Sidebar—Ed Sheeran is talented and I made a shit ton of money so fuck you, haters.

  Back to Kat—she told me she prefers to stay home on the nights when she isn’t working.

  Fair enough.

  By the third night, I realized I may be in trouble because I wasn’t giving other women a second look. I said we should go out during the day that week. She told me she never dates customers. “Well not with that attitude,” I said. I gave her my number and told her I’m never coming back.

  And then I came back three nights later.

  Because I knew she had the next two nights off, and that’s who I am now—the guy who has a crush on a waitress.

  It’s been a long time coming. Something’s been shifting, ever since Shane and Willa’s wedding—which I didn’t even take a date to because I couldn’t think of any woman that I’d want to be around when I was feeling so many emotions about my little sister getting married to my best friend. Okay that’s not true—my date was the Matron of Honor. Grammie. The loudmouth old lady who kept bossing me around and asking me what kind of successful twenty-nine-year-old singer can’t find a more suitable woman than his grandma for his wedding date. But she wasn’t saying anything that I hadn’t been asking myself already anyway.

  And then, when I was packing stuff up from my loft, I kept finding all these random things that women had left there. Things that I had just tossed into a drawer and forgotten about. Earrings. Sunglasses. Bottle of nail polish remover. Bottle of appetite suppressant pills. Some weird metal object that my sister informed me was an eyelash curler. About a dozen thongs that were so insignificant you could sew them all together and still not have enough material to make a stripper costume for a Chihuahua. A lot of phone numbers and little hearts drawn on Post It notes. It was just a sad little archeological site of ancient one night stands.

  Yeah. I was primed to fall for someone. Someone who isn’t a model or a starlet or a Pilates instructor. Someone who fuels my brain enough to overpower my dumbass thirty-year-old dick.

  I still go out every night, just like before. There’s always somewhere to go, something to do if I’m not in the recording studio or doing a show. Hang with friends, listen to some music, go to a movie, stop by a party, whatever. But around eleven I start losing track of whatever’s going on around me. I start wondering what’s going on around her. Is that creepy guy who used to be on Saturday Night Live sitting in that corner table again, trying to chat her up? Are those drunk douchehole agency assistants hitting on her? Because if any creepy douchehole’s going to be taking her home, it’ll be me.

  It’s not like I come in here every night. That would be lame. I just think about coming here every night. I think about Kat.

  This isn’t me.

  It’s not good.

  It’s not cool.

  But hey, I’ve filled three notebooks with lyrics that vary from shitty to decent and recorded a dozen demos of songs that are basically about having a non-stop boner, so there’s that.

  I’ll give this girl one more night and then I’m done. I’m back to the juice bars and girls in yoga pants. I’m back to not caring that the only thing I have in common with a girl is that we both really like the way she looks. I’ll write at home. I’ll go back to starving my brain and letting all the blood go to my dick, because fuck waiting.

  “Hey there. I’ll be clocking out soon. You want anything else?”

  Long dark ponytail, cherry red lips, long legs and black Doc Martens.

  Fuck yes I want all of it give it to me.

  “I think you know what I want by now, Kat,” I say playfully.

  Cheeks that blush, eyes that maintain contact with mine and a dimpled lop-sided grin that could bring me to my knees. All of it. Yes. Want. She’s a total smokeshow and she has no idea what she does to me.

  After a beat, she rolls her eyes, but that dimple’s still right there. A target that I can’t take my eyes off of. “I think you know by now that it’s off the menu.” There’s always a moment between my innuendo and her eye roll where I can see that she’s considering giving in. At first it was a millisecond. Now it’s two seconds. Progress.

  “I’m confident that it’s just a matter of time before I figure out the right way to order it.”

  “Confidence and time have gotten you pretty far in life, huh?” she says, with a breathy laugh as she reaches for my empty plate.

  “Helps if you know where you want to go.”

  Her smile falters the tiniest bit. A little crease forms between her eyebrows, and whatever she’s thinking, I want to talk her through it. If she doesn’t know exactly where she wants to go, I have some solid ideas to discuss with her.

  “It does, doesn’t it? I can bring your check. But you didn’t eat much tonight. You sure you’re good?”

  Awww. She cares.

  “You sure you don’t want me to read the menu to you? Sometimes I worry that you can’t actually see through those long dark eyelashes.”

  I fake a laugh. “Another dig about my super masculine eyelashes—well played. I had a big dinner. That pie hit the spot.”

  “Good.” Hand on hips. A little wiggle as she decides whether or not to ask where I ate dinner. Who I was with. You’re dying to know, darlin’, just ask me.

  Little nod. “Okay then. Wouldn’t want you to have to spend any extra time at the gym.” She bites her lower lip, starts to angle her body away from me, but she just can’t quite walk away yet. “Looks like the muse is being kind to you tonight?”

  I drag my fingers through my hair, messing it up. Her gaze slips to my biceps and forearms as they flex a little. “Glad it looks that way.”

  I see that deep inhale, Kat, I see you holding your breath. I would make you exhale so fucking hard if you’d just let me.

  “You write every day, huh?”

  “Without fail.”

  “Yeah. I shoot video every day too. Even if it’s just capturing the way the light’s hitting the tree outside my window in the morning with my phone. And I’ve been keeping a private video diary since I was in high school. You gotta do what you love every day, but you also just have to practice.” She taps the tip of her index finger on the table. “Even when you aren’t inspired. That’s one of the most important things I learned in film school. That nothing can teach you how to be a filmmaker more than making films. So that was money well spent.” She laughs, a sad little laugh.

  And this is how she hooks me, like a hit song that I can’t get out of my head.

  She’s told me that she went to USC film school to study documentary filmmaking on a scholarship. She’s also a photographer. We’ve talked about our favorite music documentaries and rock photographers and we have the same tastes and interests there. She’s told me that she wants to tell stories about other people to help understand her own story. She’s passionate and articulate. I want to know her story. I want to be a part of her story.

  I don’t know yet if I want to be a scene or a montage or the guy who changes everything. I just want in. But she only opens up a crack each time. She’s a delicate ancient treasure chest that I have to pry open so gently, a little bit every day, or I’ll never get to see what’s hidden inside without it crumbling.

  Fuck, I need to use that image in a music video or something.

  “It’s exactly the same with music and writing. Like I’ve said, I’d love to see your work.”

  She tilts her wrist to check her big chunky watch. I fucking love that she wears a man’s wrist watch. I can already hear the sound it’ll make when it’s scraping against my bedroom wall.

  “Yeah. I gotta...I’ll be back with your check.”

  I am not going to ask why she’s leaving early. Only a pathetic lovesick nerd would ask why she’s leaving early.
“You’re off early. Hot date?”

  Suddenly, the ice blue eyes lose their spark. “Something like that,” she mutters. And she’s off. Back behind the counter, to tally up my bill for the night: one piece of pie, way too many cups of coffee, and the stubborn, agonizingly slow death of my dignity.

  I’ve always felt that it’s the spaces between the notes of a song that people fall in love with. That breath of silence between verses is where the soul of the singer hides and you can’t help but fill the void with magical thoughts and anticipation. When there’s a drumbeat followed by a brief pause in the bridge of a song, you brace yourself for what comes next because it’s either going to blow your mind or break your heart, or both. Somehow, this woman is a song that has me caught in that space where I’m waiting for her to reveal herself and blow my mind. Or break my heart. Or both.

  I can give this another week.

  Maybe two.

  Something tells me this isn’t a woman you just forget about after tossing her discarded thong into a drawer.

  I bet she wears really hot panties under that waitress uniform, though.