Benji sits back, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Fifteen percent more off the bottom line, back to the label.”
I watch the guys close their eyes as if one body. Keller’s fist tightens on the leather, and Jeff and Josh both run their hands over their faces. I know it’s not about the money, it’s that Benji has won.
“Fifteen percent more and we keep the Teddy Run as is. No cover charge?”
“Fifteen percent more and you keep your Teddy Run,” he agrees.
I look at my bandmates, my best friends—we’re all in or all out. They nod, violence pulsing off them in waves.
“Draw up the paperwork.” I head for the door.
Benji smirks. “Wise choice, Mr. Tennick.”
The guys follow me out of the room. Just outside the door to Benji’s office is a marble pedestal with a gold-plated cat perched on top. Keller lifts the cat, his fingers wrapped around the body. I wait for the explosion, for the cat to fly through a window, but it doesn’t happen. Keller slowly places the cat back on the pedestal and walks down the hallway. I follow him, but a sound like broken glass stops me in my tracks. We turn around to see Josh grinning like the Joker as he walks toward us, Jeff shaking his head, a small smile in place as he follows behind, and the secretary at the reception desk looking shocked.
Josh shrugs, and we stare at the broken glass on the floor. “Oops,” he murmurs, “I dropped it.” He claps Keller on the shoulder when he catches up to us. “Took one for the team.”
Benji’s voice echoes down the hallway. “You’re paying for that.”
Josh turns but continues, walking backward. “Bill us.”
Chapter 4
Hayley
I look down at my toes, painted Mint Sorbet, and realize the color clashes horribly with my red bikini. Not that I care, but I wonder what bottom-feeder tabloid magazine is going to report on it tomorrow. I take a sip of my virgin daiquiri, enjoying the tart flavor as the cool slush hits my tongue, and close my eyes. God, I’m exhausted. Normally I don’t pay attention to whatever the media comes up with, but lately, it has been increasingly hard to compartmentalize this shit. I’m so sick of seeing my name splashed across magazines with some or other speculation.
I used to be able to block it out. Chalk it up to the job. But having rumors spread is one thing; knowing human beings are cruel enough to sell and then buy stories about someone’s greatest tragedies makes me despair. The cruelest of those human beings is Carl Everstein, the biggest douche-canoe of the paparazzi world. He followed me back to Bridget and Simon’s place from Sam’s office where we’d issued the press release about the miscarriage, and ended up camping outside their home, making it impossible for Bridget to get Brendan to school. That totally pissed me off. He completely inconvenienced three of the nicest people I know. For that reason, I’m in Vegas sitting poolside right now instead of being surrounded by friends and family; I needed to distance myself from everyone I love so Carl can’t intrude on their lives. Just until the next fresh story comes up and he moves on.
Isolation wraps its icy fingers around me, and guilt hits me in the stomach. I shouldn’t be wishing this on anyone else.
A shadow falls over my face, and I open my eyes to find an extremely nervous-looking girl biting her lip. She flashes me an apologetic smile and tugs at one of the turquoise braids resting neatly over her shoulder. “Uh… I… Never mind.”
She turns to walk away, but I stop her. “Hey…wait. Don’t go.” I know how much it takes to talk to someone famous. Her beautifully colored hair swings as she spins back around, eyes wide and body vibrating with barely concealed excitement. “Did you need something?” She takes a step toward me, and I point to the lounger opposite mine. “Sit. Please.”
It takes her a while to take me up on my offer, but eventually she does, sitting on her hands as though she doesn’t trust herself not to reach out. I want to tell her it’s okay. That I’m just like her. That I still wake in the middle of the night and worry about stupid shit, and I still cry when I see animals getting hurt, and that I still enjoy eating cereal for dinner on my living room floor while binge-watching Sons of Anarchy, but I don’t. I smile reassuringly at her and hope she feels all that.
“I’m trying not to sound like a creepy crazy fan here.” Her face turns a sweet shade of pink, and she closes her eyes and blows out a breath. “I just can’t believe it’s you, y’know? I mean, you’re Hayley Stephens. I knew it was you when I saw your tattoos. I can’t believe you’re sitting there. I can’t believe you’re talking to me. I mean, I’m actually breathing the same air as you—” The pink turns into a flaming red, and the tips of her ears go that luminous color you see on those flashing store signs. She takes a hand out from under her leg and brushes a wisp of hair out of her face with shaking fingers. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that. You must think I’m such an idiot.”
I reach out and take her hand in both of mine. She looks down at our hands with an expression that both baffles me and gives me this incredibly warm feeling in my chest. I’m just me, a girl getting to live her dream, and I’ll never get used to people being surprised by the way I act.
I started my singing career at Beans and Booknooks, a local coffee shop my mom would frequent in Providence. She got friendly with the owner Mrs. Simpson, and I would sing every Friday night.
