I laugh. “Musician.”
“I can see you as a lead guitarist in a boy band.”
I look over my shoulder and catch a grin, and that damn dimple pops.
“Guitarist? Pfft. I wanted to sing and play guitar, own the stage like Memphis Black from STD, the first band my parents put together.”
She crinkles up her nose. “That’s a disgusting name.”
I nod and can’t help but laugh. “A last-minute decision after Mom and Dad got them their first opening act on a major stage. It was local and someone pulled out. Dad went hard after that spot, because he believed in the four-man band that had talent out the ass, but no direction and no idea how to make it big. Dad didn’t really either, but he and Mom decided they wanted to show people they could make their dreams come true.”
She points over her shoulder. “And so they did.”
“Yeah.” I shake my head and smile at the framed words that Dad apparently spewed to Mom. A company mission statement, of sorts. “Yeah, they did.” I get lost for a moment thinking about how damn good life can be, and how much I want that someday. Then I look back at her and see she’s looking at me with contemplation. I don’t want her to see too deep.
I turn and walk over to grab some mugs as I continue the story. “The band they opened for was huge. Well, back then, they were hitting number one all over the world. The Burning Souls band. The lead singer is a shrink now. Fucked-up beginnings, statistically speaking. He should never have made it to where he is, so he’s a fucking legend in my mind, an inspiration to all those who don’t even dare to dream.
“Anyway.” I pour the milk from the tea kettle into the mugs and continue, “So, the story goes that they wanted to make an impact, use the opportunity that fell at their feet, given to them by fate.” I pause, remembering she didn’t believe in it but decide not to retract the use of the word, because it’s something I believe in one hundred percent. “They needed to look like they had their shit together, with merch, signs, banners, you know; make their brand visible, memorable, and everything. The band didn’t have a solid name. Steel-something. And Mom, Dad, and Nick D. kind of felt it was overused in this family.
“Two of the guys weren’t cool with that. They wanted to pay respect to my parents, an homage of some sort. And Memphis and River, the drummer, are … well, were rebels in any way they could be, so they came up with the name change last minute. They all voted on it, and it passed. They quickly became known as STD, which obviously pissed off everyone except Memphis and River. But the brand, the talent, and the sex appeal, it all sells music. They hit charts with every release.” I shake my head, laughing to myself as I scoop out the cocoa mix then dump it in the mugs.
I look away from the cup I’m stirring to see she’s looking down, saying not a damn thing.
“Don’t hold back on me now, Savvy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m attempting to be a gracious guest.”
I laugh as I stir the other mug. “Fuck that. Say what you’re thinking. We’re friends; we don’t dilute. Give it to me one hundred proof.” I set the spoon down and walk to the fridge for some whipped cream.
“Sex sells, to me, feels like money over morals. Another way to exploit women. Hold power over them. Make them feel like they’re nothing but tits and a vagina.”
“One way to look at it,” I say, popping the top. “And sure, some music is very objectifying.”
“So, you’re saying your family’s label, Forever Four, isn’t one of those?” Her question is more like an accusation.
“I guess it depends on the musician or, more accurately, whoever wrote the song. None of them signed with my parents would be allowed to record something that was downright discriminatory. Offensive to some, sure. Can’t please everyone.”
“So, you’d support someone who sang lyrics like, Bitch, get down on your knees?”
Again, the tone is judgmental. But, unlike last time, I’m not going to tiptoe. “You want me to be honest here, right?”
She narrows her eyes and nods.
“I’ve never been in a position that bitch, get down on your knees seemed remotely acceptable. But—”
“See? That right there. They have an obligation to humanity to not say shit like that. Then everyone around thinks it’s acceptable.”
“So, we should sensor art?”
“Oh my God, really? That’s what you take away from that?” she huffs.
“Savvy, chill. As I was saying …” I wait for her to interrupt, but she simply crosses her arms and scowls. “I can tell you with absolute certainty that some women like that. A lot, actually. There’s a whole subculture of submissive and Dominant people.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“And,” I stress, “some men like that shit, too. Feeds a need they have. And if their partner is down with it, who are we to judge? Different strokes for different folks, right?”
“I can’t accept that. Men are—”
“I’m not sure who hurt you, babe, and I hope someday you can trust me to share your pains with, but I can promise you that not every man in the world is a predator. I can promise you that not every man wants to oppress women. And I can promise you that, when you give just a little bit of that burden, the one of pain you carry, all the shit I see in those eyes is going to bubble to the top. And, Savvy, you’re going to be unstoppable.”
“Do you think I’m some sort of charity case? Do you think I’m weak because you saw me”—she looks down—“cry?”
“No. Not one fucking part of me sees you as either. What I see is strength. What I see is someone who
