“He’s not connected to the label, but yes, the goal is for him to help me.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I move to my closet to pick out something to wear. I want to be comfortable but not sloppy, so I opt for a pair of soft leggings and a fitted burgundy tee. I’ll keep my makeup light, assuming I get off the phone in time to put some on.
I haven’t heard from Mia in weeks. And while I’ve been keeping tabs on her, relying on biased entertainment news for updates on her upcoming hearings isn’t exactly reassuring. She stopped returning my calls when I started showing up in the entertainment news separate from Golden Enigma.
“So you were just planning on moving on with your life like nothing happened? Like we didn’t mean anything to you? Have a grand solo career and leave Katie and me in the dust behind you?”
“Mia,” I plead. “You know it’s not like that.”
“Oh? Do I? Because that’s sure as shit how it looks from my seat. But enlighten me. What’s it like?”
“We had a morality clause,” I grit out. “They had every right to cut us loose, and you know it as well as I do. We were lucky it didn’t happen sooner. I’m just trying to salvage what I can. Don’t even try to tell me you wouldn’t do the same if the situation were reversed.”
Another long stretch of silence. I take advantage of the lull to put my phone on speaker so I can pull on my top and do my hair and makeup. “Well,” she says at last, her voice scratchy, “not all of us have the option of salvaging what we can. Even if it means abandoning your best friends.”
“Mia, come on—” But my phone is back to the home screen. She hung up.
With a sigh, I finish applying my mascara. As soon as I’m done, there’s a knock on my door. Colt’s here.
Maybe it’s good that Mia’s call killed any excitement I felt over seeing him. I don’t need the distraction anyway.
Chapter Eleven
Colt
I run my hand through my hair after wiping my sweaty palm on my jeans. My other hand clutches the handle of my guitar case. Nerves and excitement pump through my blood. It’s the familiar pre-performance combination. It’s silly, really. This isn’t a real performance. It’s just me playing for Alexis.
But it feels as significant as any other performance or audition. Maybe more so. She knows what works, she analyzed why I don’t have what Jonathan has, and according to her, this song is more like what I should be doing. It’s not an original. It’s still a cover. But it’s at least a push in the right direction, which is more than I’ve gotten in years.
She’s right, though. And I’m kicking myself for not seeing it before. I’ve been trying to recreate a moment in time that’s passed, stuck in my preteen self’s mindset, not moving on with the rest of the world. I’ve been stuck for nearly a decade, too blinded by the desire to reclaim what I lost that I didn’t notice everyone else had moved on.
No wonder no one will take me seriously, not even my brothers. I looked back through all my recordings with new eyes, new ears, and every last one reeks of desperation. I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole. No wonder no one else will.
Already I feel better about this song than I have about any of the others. And even though I was disappointed last night when she pushed me away after our kiss, I’m not willing to let that stand in the way of the business part of our relationship.
Me being seen coming and going from her house only helps sell our relationship, so me coming here is good. She can give me notes, help me fine tune what I’ve got, and steer me in the right direction to pick out something new.
When she opens the door dressed more comfortably than I’ve seen her, but put together enough that I know she made an effort for me, the breath gets knocked out of me. And I have to drag all my good intentions back to the forefront of my brain. It’s easy to tell myself that keeping our relationship strictly business is disappointing but ultimately for the best when she’s not standing in front of me. It’s much more difficult when she looks like she belongs in my house and in my bed, like this is a real new relationship where you’re comfortable enough to be yourself, but you care enough to clean yourself up for the other person. I can’t tear my eyes off her, tracing the lines of the slinky top that clings to her willowy form and the leggings that beg for me to touch them and see if they’re as soft as they look.
She gives me a bright smile that looks a little forced, her lips pink and glossy today. “Hey. How was the drive?”
“Good.” I step closer and dip my head for a hello kiss.
She freezes up, but I don’t linger, and the kiss is over before she can even react. I step past her, setting my case on the floor next to her couch.
“Colt,” she says, her voice full of censure. “Last night—”
“There could be cameras,” I butt in, cutting her off. “Outside. You never know when someone’s hiding in the bushes or in a car across the street. Better to be safe, right? We don’t want them thinking there’s trouble in paradise. Not with an engagement announcement waiting in the wings.” It’s true, even if it is a flimsy excuse to kiss her. The odds of us being monitored away from celebrity hot spots are pretty low,
