Chapter Three. Sam
chapter three
SAM
My manager, Twyla, is easy to spot even in the happy hour crowd, wearing her usual loud uniform of bright colors and a scarf that swallows her whole. She lowers her oversized glasses at me, her dark eyes lined with a punchy blue that matches the streak of it in her graying auburn hair.
“I looked at the menu long and hard, but there wasn’t a cocktail I thought you’d like.” She casts her eyes at Mackenzie on the other side of the bar before giving me a pointed look. “So I took the liberty of getting you a ‘What the Hell Do You Think You’re Doing, Sammy Boy’ on the rocks.”
The glass she offers me is clearly straight whiskey. I raise it to toast with her cocktail, which is just as wild and colorful as her outfit.
“I’m discussing my career prospects with my wonderful, talented, impeccably dressed manager,” I say.
“Butter me up any harder and you’ll have to put me on a roll.” She tilts her head in Mackenzie’s direction again. “And here I was thinking you picked this place because people wouldn’t bother us.”
New Yorkers are already, on the whole, unfazed by famous people in restaurants and bars.
But there are a few spots with enough of them that New Yorkers make a point of not noticing famous people in their midst, and I know from my old bandmates—who are far more welcome in here than I am—that this is one of them.
“I thought Mackenzie wasn’t in the city,” I say, a little too innocently.
Twyla smirks. “Aw. You saw her Instagram go dark.”
I take a sip of my drink. Caught red-handed.
I can’t say I didn’t notice she hadn’t posted in a while, but I was curious if it was something to worry about or a social media move her agent, Isla, orchestrated.
It’s safe to say if Twyla knows about it, it must be the latter.
The whole reason our bands were in a staged feud in the first place was because our managers are identical twins and set it up from the start.
“What can I say? Life was boring without Mackenzie spicing up my feed,” I say breezily.
Twyla lets out a disbelieving hum and says, “Drink that fast, would you? I’ve got bad news and also bad news.”
I knock it back, the dread settling back in faster than the booze can burn it off.
“All right.” I set my half-empty glass down. “Hit me with it.”
“The bad news is the label said absolutely the fuck not to our proposal.”
I blow out a breath, settling my elbows on the table. “Why?” I ask.
Twyla doesn’t coddle. She hasn’t since the day she plucked me out of the YouTube trenches, where teenage me was angstily posting covers of Linkin Park songs with ten views on them, nine of which were probably my mom.
“You don’t have momentum,” says Twyla bluntly. “It’s all fine and good that you’ve got a different sound now, but there’s jack shit they can do to relaunch you without a tour and with barely any press. It’s like shooting a horse before it ever leaves the stable.”
“Well, shit.” I run a hand through my hair, then pull it out. Compose my face. I can’t afford to look upset about anything in public, and besides—this isn’t exactly a surprise. “Can we try other labels?”
Twyla nudges my drink closer to me. “That’s the other bad news. I asked around. Nobody else wants to touch that plan with a stick, either.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed. I knew it was a long shot, getting the label on board with turning their former punk rock front man into an acoustic singer after two years off the grid.
But I thought maybe if they heard samples of my new work and considered my plan to do smaller, New York–based venues for a more intimate feel, they might take a chance on it.
Twyla snaps a finger in front of my face. “No moping. Game’s not over yet. It just means we have to compromise.”
I shake my head. There are things I’m willing to bend on, but not this one. “No touring. I won’t leave Ben.”
I skim the braided bracelet on my wrist again, my touchstone.
Finding out I was a dad two years ago was the biggest shock of my life, and now is the best part of it.
That kid is my whole world. I miss making music like nobody’s business, but if choosing music means losing time with him on the road, I can’t do it.
I could never do to him what my own dad did to me.
“If staying home is that important, you have to bring something else to the table here,” says Twyla. “Something that draws fans back in. Something that gets their attention.”
I wince. That’s the other issue. I can’t do anything too splashy.
Ben’s six, so he knows by now that his dad is famous.
But his mom, Lizzie, and I have done a pretty good job of shielding him from it, even when the “Samuel Blaze has a secret son!” news blew up every corner of the internet.
It’s died down since then, but if I do anything that puts too much attention on myself, it could easily put it back on Ben.
“It doesn’t have to be big ,” says Twyla, anticipating me. “But it has to be enticing.”
Mackenzie lets out a sharp laugh on the other side of the bar. The pang that goes through me is so instant that I’m mad at myself for it, but I can’t help it—I want to be the one winding her up. It’s a chronic condition. I’ve had it since the day we met.
“Why did Mackenzie stop posting?” I ask.
Because if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have had this ridiculous compulsion to come check on her. I wouldn’t have followed it all the way to this bar, watching her fall for Millennial Prince Charming and making this meeting ten times more miserable than it already was.
“If you were so curious you could have just called her,” says Twyla, raising her eyebrows at me.
Thing is, though, I didn’t know if she’d answer. I didn’t even know if she kept my number in her phone. Not after the way we left things. Not after she’d made a point to never call me again after that last time we talked.
Twyla waves a hand in front of my face, blocking my view of Mackenzie. I blink out of my haze.
“Sorry,” I mutter, my face hot. I aim the question at my whiskey glass. “Everything’s good with her, though?”
Twyla sighs. “If you really want to know, Mackenzie’s Instagram was dark because she’s trying to—wait. Wait.”
She whips her head at Mackenzie, then back at me, her expression shifting like a kaleidoscope—scrutiny to bewilderment to some kind of revelation that has her on her feet faster than a bomb threat.
“Are you—leaving?”
A pointless question, because by the time I finish it, she’s halfway to the door. “I’ll call you later tonight! Stay put, I ordered apps for the table!”
I am absolutely not staying put . I am going to settle our tab and sneak out the back door to nurse my bruised ego with a beer in front of the TV and pretend this entire night didn’t happen.
But Twyla isn’t the only one headed for the door. Grayson is right behind her, his phone pressed to his ear, turning to wave and mouth an apology.
When I look over, Mackenzie’s alone at the back of the bar, waving back with a static smile. She drops the smile when Grayson goes, only to immediately catch my eye. Her face instantly comes back to life—indignant, heated, and aimed right at me.
I use my foot to kick out the empty stool at my table, then lean back and cross my arms in invitation.
She rolls her eyes. I roll mine back, overexaggerated and ridiculous.
It wrestles the smallest smile out of her—the kind that always feels like a prize, since she tries so hard not to let me earn it.
It’s the damn apps that do it, though. The Massaman curry cheese tots and spicy lemongrass popcorn hit the table and the next thing I know, Mackenzie is standing across the table from me, plucking a tot off the plate and saying, “What the hell are you actually doing here?”