Perfect Imperfections

“Keep telling yourself that, superstar,” Reg said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“No. Seriously. What’d I do? Raise my voice? Explain the facts about his tenuous job security?” He scoffed. “Phil Spector used to point guns at people and shoot them off in the studio.”

“Awesome.” Reg opened the minifridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I think you just made your nice-guy mantra, ‘Eh, fuck ’em, at least I’m not committing criminal assault.’”

“All I’m saying is it could be worse. Francis shouldn’t be in this business if telling him to do his job scares him.”

“And this makes you nice?” Reg twisted off the cap and handed Jeremy the bottle.

Being with Reg made Jeremy aware that he wasn’t as immune to behaving like a famous person as he’d liked to think. Always having prided himself on being a regular guy, the realization stung.

“Quit pouting. It wasn’t that big a deal,” Reg said, his voice more gentle. “You’ll be nicer to him when he comes back, and that’ll be the end of it.” He tapped the bottle in Jeremy’s hand. “Drink your water.”

“You’re a bartender. I think that means you’re supposed to ply me with alcohol, not water.” Jeremy looked up at Reg beseechingly.

“You’ve been on stage for hours, singing, dancing.” Reg crossed his arms, making his shirt pull tightly across his broad chest. “Those lights have to be hot, and you’re soaked with sweat.”

“I know.” Jeremy blinked and raised his gaze to meet Reg’s. “That’s why I need to relax.”

“First you need to hydrate. Then you need to do your interview sober. After that, if you want, we can play chess.”

Forehead creased, Jeremy said, “I missed the part of the plan where we’re drinking.”

“Oh.” Reg waggled his eyebrows. “Didn’t I mention we’d be playing shot-glass chess?”

“Shot-glass chess?”

“Yup. We’ll use shot glasses for the game pieces. Every time you capture one of my pieces, you drink the glass. Same thing when I capture yours.”

Sitting up straight, Jeremy beamed. “That sounds fun.”

“It is.” Reg tilted his chin toward the full water bottle. “Drink your water. Do your interview, and then we can go to the hotel room and play.”

“Deal.”

“I WON,” Reg said.

“Yeah, you did.” Jeremy lay on the hotel-room floor, staring up at the ceiling. “How come you won even though you drank way more shots?”

“Um. That’s why I won, dude.” Reg lolled his head to the side and lowered his bleary-eyed gaze from the couch to where Jeremy was laying. “Drinks happen when pieces get captured, remember? I captured more of your pieces, plus your queen and your king, and those were double shots, so I totally outdrank you.”

That was way too much logic for three in the morning and a bottle of whiskey. “Shouldn’t you be more drunk? Or is it drunker? Less sober? Soberer?” Raising his hand to rub his eye, Jeremy punched himself in the nose instead. “Ow.”

“You hit yourself,” Reg pointed out unnecessarily. “That was hilarious.”

“Ha-ha.” Crumpling his forehead and squinting, Jeremy examined the ceiling. “I think we’re having an earthquake.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Then why is the ceiling moving?”

Reg flicked his gaze up. “It’s not moving.”

“I’m looking at it right now and it’s moving!” Jeremy insisted.

“You’re smashed.”

“Yeah.” He giggled. “It’s great.”

“You’re a cute drunk, you know that? Some people, you mix them with liquor, and they turn into major dicks.”

“Yeah.” Jeremy nodded solemnly, then widened his eyes and pointed up. “Do you see that? It’s moving again.”

Throwing his forearm over his eyes, Reg chuckled softly. “Nothing’s moving up there, JJ. It looks that way to you because your head’s sloshed, so things are moving on the inside.”

“Are you sure?” he asked disbelievingly.

“Positive.”

“Did you just call me JJ?”

“Huh?”

“You like nicknames. Superstar. JJ.”

Raising his arm off his face, Reg glanced down at Jeremy. “Does it bug you?”

“No.” Jeremy moved his head from the side to side. Deciding he liked the motion, he kept doing it.

“Cool,” Reg said.

After a few minutes of silence, during which Jeremy rolled his head and stretched his neck, he said, “You want to know something?”

“What?”

“I’ve never had a nickname.”

“No way.” Reg rolled onto his side, folded his arm, and propped his head on his hand.

“Swear.” Jeremy crossed his fingers over his chest as he spoke. Well, he tried to cross his fingers over his chest. Mostly he bumped his chin and tickled himself.

“Why not?”

“Dunno.” Jeremy shrugged. “I’m always”—he raised his arm and pointed at a spot above him—“The”—he moved his hand over a few inches—“Jeremy”—he moved it a bit further—“Jameson.” He flopped his arm down.

“Huh.” Reg furrowed his brow in thought. “What about before that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you weren’t recording albums when you were a kid.”

“No. I would have, but my father said I couldn’t.” Jeremy sighed deeply. “It was the only rule he ever had for me. He said being a musician was fine, but standing on a stage was no place for a kid.”