At first, Celeste didn’t hear the lyrics. She was completely caught up in the rich, complex melody flowing from the scruffy guys on stage. Given the tight, torn T-shirts and copious amounts of guyliner on stage, the band’s hauntingly beautiful sound was entirely unexpected. Then Nick nudged her side. “They’re singing to you!” he whispered.
“What?” Celeste said.
“Celeste, like the stars in the sky, my Celestial,” Sloan sang with his eyes closed.
“How do they even know my name?” Celeste tried
not to shriek.
“I don’t know—I mean, I sent an e-mail to say that we were coming, but no one ever wrote back. But if it’s a coincidence, that’s gotta be a sign that this is meant to be.” Nick laughed.
Onstage, Sloan opened his eyes and stared right at Celeste as he finished the song. His black eyes were piercing. As the last wailing notes of the guitar died away, everyone was silent for a moment before breaking into scattered applause. The band put down their instruments and started wiping their foreheads and gulping from bottles of water. Sloan turned to confer with the drummer. Nick stood up and turned to look at her.
“Okay, what do you think?”
Celeste nodded. “That was amazing,” she said slowly.
“I thought so too,” Nick agreed. “Should we book them?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay. Let’s go.” He turned and headed toward the stage. Celeste trailed a little ways behind. She was surprised to find her palms sweating a little. She’d never really dealt with business contacts outside of Pinyon.
And Sloan, as they approached, looked intimidatingly tall and aloof, with his prominent hipbones encased in worn black leather.
Nick, however, seemed unfazed. He hopped onto the edge of the stage like he talked to burgeoning rock stars all the time. The band took as much notice of them as if they’d been crumpled gum wrappers on the floor. Nick cleared his throat. Sloan put down his microphone and walked to the opposite side of the stage to adjust one of the dials on an amp. Celeste cast Nick a worried look, but his face was neutral.
“Hey,” Nick said politely. No one even glanced at them. Celeste was starting to feel remarkably stupid just standing at the front of the stage. She felt like she had the day she’d tried ask Brian Hellman to be her boyfriend on the playground in fifth grade. He had proceeded to laugh at her and then tell all her friends.
“Nick,” she murmured. “I don’t think they’re in-
terested.”
“Don’t worry,” he muttered back. Then he raised his voice. “Hey!” he almost shouted. His voice echoed in the empty space. Sloan turned around slowly. He stared at them for what felt to Celeste like a long, long moment.
The other members of the band also stopped talking and turned to stare.
“Yeah?” Sloan said finally.
Nick offered a wide, toothy smile. “You guys sounded great.”
Sloan looked bored. Nick plowed ahead, apparently unfazed. “We’d like to book you for our party at the Pinyon resort.”
The singer waved his hand. “We don’t do Sweet
Sixteens, kid,” he sniffed. “Thanks for coming, though.”
He turned back to the amp. Celeste felt like she’d been slapped in the face. She turned away.
“Where are you going?” Nick whispered, catching at her arm. She glared at him.
“I’m getting out of here—this guy is totally not interested in us. Let’s just leave,” she pleaded.
Nick’s eyes narrowed and his dark blond eyebrows knit together. “No way,” he said firmly, and, still hanging on to Celeste’s arm, he clambered right up onto the dusty, scarred wooden stage. Celeste just managed to scramble up after him.
As the other band members watched in astonish-
ment, Nick strode right to the other end of the stage and tapped Sloan on the shoulder. He turned around and, seeing who it was, rolled his eyes. Nick ignored this.
“I don’t think you heard me just now,” Nick said pleasantly. To Celeste’s ears, he sounded as calm as someone ordering brunch at an outdoor café. “We’re planning a party at the Pinyon Ranch for the Palm Springs Film Festival. This is going to be a big deal, so I’m not sure why you’re not interested in gaining some exposure for your band.” He gestured around the space. “What are you going to pull in tonight—a hundred people? Maybe one fifty?” Sloan’s mouth was slightly open. Nick went on. “We’re expecting over five hundred at the festival, and all of them will see your name on our promotional material. And we’re talking entertainment insiders, not kids on summer vacation. But if you’re not interested, no problem. We can easily find someone else.”
Celeste’s jaw dropped. That boy had balls! Who would have guessed that pretty boy Nick could face down Marilyn Manson Two? And he was being polite about it, even though the guy was obviously a total jerk. Sloan looked equally surprised but quickly regained his composure.
“We really don’t have any interest in private parties,”
he sneered, his nostrils flaring.
“We’ll double whatever fee you’re getting for
tonight’s performance.”
Celeste coughed. Nick was going to flatten their music budget—and probably the rest of the budget too.
“Nick,” she whispered, resisting the urge to tug at his sleeve. He ignored her.
The singer seemed to actually be considering Nick’s offer. He dug a little black notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it, licking his forefinger each time he flipped one of the onionskin pages and muttering to himself. He fished out a stubby little pencil and poised it over one of the pages “All right,” he said. “It’ll be a waste of a night. When’s your party?”
Celeste tried to restrain herself from jumping up and down right there on the scarred black stage, but Nick didn’t even blink as he gave Sloan the details about where and when and promised to e-mail the info as well.
Celeste thought she could detect just a hint of flush in his cheeks though.
They confirmed the band’s contact information, then made their escape. As they shoved open the heavy metal
