Free Cake: A Love Story by J. Bengtsson Page B

their support, I would still be a scared, lost kid making music inside my head for my own sanity.
    And really, my fans were the perfect, superficial friends. They were always there if I needed a quick pick-me-up and always there to make me feel like I was a pretty goddamn cool guy. And, for the most part, they weren’t invasive. Mostly they just wanted a small piece of me…a picture or an autograph. The interactions were always surface level…a smile, a few pleasantries, and then we went our separate ways. I was never expected to dig deeper, like I would have to do if I had real friends.
    I approached women with the same wary caution that I approached everyone else who tried to get close to me. I liked women. I liked flirting. I liked sex. I didn’t like talking. I didn’t like commitment. I didn’t like messy emotions. For that reason, casual, one-night stands worked best for me. In and out…so to speak. And before you feel sorry for the duped women…don’t. Their interest in me was just as superficial as my interest in them. Maybe I only wanted sex but they only wanted the bragging rights of bagging a rockstar.
    Getting women into bed was not hard. Usually it was just a matter of picking the one that looked like she’d be the least amount of work. For example, women who wanted to get to know me…out! Women who wanted a second ‘date’…out! Women who wanted to heal me…oh God…get in line! For some reason, the fact that I was viewed as damaged goods was a huge selling point for women. The need to fix me was strong. I imagine that’s the same irrational need that pushes some women into marrying death-row inmates. Not that I considered myself on the same level as a death-row killer…but still, I was sufficiently fucked up…so all the more reason to stay the hell away from me.
    Then I met Casey and all my flawed reasoning about women went out the door. For the life of me, I couldn’t get a read on her. She didn’t fit into any of the little stereotypical boxes I’d created. She wasn’t a friend or a foe or a fan. She wasn’t trying to fix me, or fuck me, or bask in my fame. From what I could tell, Casey seemed totally genuine. She really did appear to be just a cool girl, with no ulterior motives, having a friendly conversation with a guy. Why was that weird to me? Was I that screwed up that ‘normal’ in everyone else’s world was not ‘normal’ in mine?
    Later that night, my brothers and I found a little table tucked out of the way in the interior atrium area of the hotel. It was a cool little spot with a fishpond and waterfalls and trees. All the rooms of the hotel opened up into a view of the inside tropical paradise. Keith smuggled a bottle of Jack Daniels in his backpack and we took turns taking swigs. We allowed Quinn, who was only sixteen, one swig but only after we threatened him with death if he told our parents. Mitch had two mouthfuls and quit. He alluded to the fact that Kate would kill him if he were hung over for the wedding, then went on to tell us we shouldn’t be hung over in the morning either.
    The bottle kept going around and after four passes I started feeling the effects. I was a bit of a lightweight with alcohol. I didn’t like the feeling of being out of control so getting drunk was way too stressful for me. I didn’t even know why I drank the whiskey in the first place; it was probably peer pressure from my idiot brothers. The next time the bottle went around I abstained.
    Since the mood was light and fun, I decided to ruin it. “So what was that all about earlier Mitch? Why wouldn’t you ask me for concert tickets for your little sister?”
    “What do you mean?” He asked, but it was obvious by the look on his face that he knew exactly what I meant.
    I stared at him until he was forced to elaborate.
    “I don’t want to get into it with you…not today.”
    “What do you mean ‘get into it with me’? I’m just asking a question.”
    “Jake, drop it,” Keith