Lead (Stage Dive, #3)(32)

Jimmy thought I was pretty?

Of course, he could have just been being kind. Either way, it didn’t matter, not really. So my belly should just stop swinging about all lunatic like and be still. Though the jibe about pie still pissed me off. People from a local restaurant stocked the fridge, there were salads, grilled meats, pasta, and yes, occasionally pie. Like I made them put it in there at gunpoint or something. What I ate was none of his business and his opinion shouldn’t even matter.

It shouldn’t and yet it did.

“I don’t need to conform to your ideas of beauty,” I said, once my breath had been located.

He’d been staring off at the oversized houses and fall trees around us, but now his gaze snapped back to me. “Course you don’t, never said you did.”

“Not all of us are born looking perfect like you, Jimmy.”

“You’re pissed?” He stepped closer. “Lena, I’ve got a lot of flaws. We’ve been living in each other’s pockets for a couple of months now so you of all people know that. Not liking the way you look isn’t one of them. You want to chew me out over something, pick another topic, you’re way off on this one.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment. We faced each other, our breaths misting in the cold morning air.

“I might be slightly defensive about this,” I admitted eventually.

“I might have noticed.” He pushed his hair back from his face. “I probably also didn’t say it right. Add it to my list of flaws, has trouble expressing himself.”

“Especially in ways that are socially acceptable.”

He gave me an amused look. “You think that matters, what everyone thinks?”

“Sometimes. To a degree.”

He snorted. “You can’t affect what people think, Lena. They wanna think the worst, they will. I’m not wasting energy trying to make everyone happy. I have enough on my hands just keeping my own shit together.”

There was wisdom in his words, though they weren’t entirely accurate.

“People judge you whatever,” he said. “People f*cking love their own opinions and are all too happy to throw ’em at you, whether you ask or not. You have to be happy with yourself.”

“Yes. But you care what the guys think,” I said.

“Sure.” He started jogging again, more slowly this time, thank you, god in heaven.

Ever so reluctantly, I fell into step beside him. My poor calves and thighs burned. Without a doubt they hated me with a fiery passion and I didn’t blame them at all. “And Ev and Anne. You care about them.”

He grunted.

“And Mr. Ericson.” Sadly, I struggled to keep up even at this lesser speed. “Though you do mangle your words occasionally, don’t stop to think before you speak. But don’t we all?”

“Let’s move onto another flaw,” he said.

“All right.” I searched my besotted mind for ammunition. “How about…”

“I’m self-centered.”

“Yeah. That’s true. You’re pretty arrogant and narcissistic.”

A lady jogger bounced on by, clad head to toe in form fitting Lycra. She gave Jimmy a wide inviting do-me-on-the-spot smile. He nodded to her, then concentrated on the path once more.

“Not entirely without cause, granted. But you don’t date,” I said, stopping (he halted too, happily). Jogging and talking at the same time just didn’t work for me. Of course, neither did jogging and breathing. “Why is that? You put all this effort into your looks, buff up your body, buy the best clothes. And hey, kudos to you, it works. But you don’t go out unless it’s business or something to do with the guys, you’re basically a hermit.”

“There a question in there somewhere?”

“Why?”

“Why do I take care of myself or why am I a hermit?”

“Let’s start with the first one,” I said.

He shrugged. “I’m vain. What are you gonna do about it?”

Huh. “So you’re completely happy with yourself?”

“With how I look? Sure.” He raised a brow. “My looks are the one thing that’s always worked for me, always gotten me attention. If I’m pouting on the cover of some magazine, then that helps sell records. It’s a fact. I’m not a poet like Davie or crazy talented on an instrument. I sing okay, sure. But what I have is this face, that’s what I contribute. And in this business, you use every advantage at your disposal.”

I frowned up at him, amazed. “You actually believe that.”

He frowned back at me.

“Jimmy, you’re more than just a pretty face. You’ve got a beautiful voice.” And I should know. He sang me to sleep on my iPod most nights. “God, how many Grammys have you won?”

“That’s a popularity contest as much as anything.” He licked his lips. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you happy with the way you look?”

For once, I took my own advice and actually thought before moving my lips. “Obviously not given our conversation of a moment ago. But I try to be. It’s not always easy with all the media representations of beauty, blah, blah, blah. I’m never going to be six feet tall with legs up to my armpits, and as you said, I like pie. I’m not willing to rule out eating it for the next fifty years just to have less dimples on my thighs. Little pleasures matter.”