12. Cinderella
NICKY
I was slightly breathless at the thought of Archer dressed in nothing but white. (Very faded denim would do it too. His dark blue eyes would be lethal weapons if he were wearing faded chambray.)
But when I saw the panic in Ian’s eyes, I had to chastise myself. Yes, I was plotting ways for my next kiss with Archer to be the best kiss he’d ever had.
But Ian had become my friend. I’d spent two nights sleeping next to him. So far, I’d managed to keep that fact away from Archer, but during that time, Ian had become more than a scar and a guitar. He was a decent guy. And I was pushing him pretty hard.
So, while the major part of my brain was fanning my face at the thought of Archer in a supple, faded white button-down, opened just a few buttons extra over beat-up jeans (oh my god), a small part of me was impressed by Ian’s courage.
I could be brave too.
We had no right to ask Sheree’s hair team to help us, but Fist, the big security guard, had texted me the full roster of tour phone numbers. The only thing stopping me from asking for help was a belief that I’d be overstepping.
But Aftermath was a part of the tour. And I was in charge of their publicity and marketing. Plus, I brought value to this project.
I keyed in the number for Sampson, listed as “lead hair,” to ask for his help.
The residents of bus seven were thrilled to be asked. Sampson wanted to know what had taken us so long.
“Let’s do this before we get to the hotel!” he said. “We’re at mile marker . . . where are we, Newton?”
We coordinated at a Walmart parking lot north of Orlando. By the time we pulled up, two buses were waiting for us.
“That’s bus seven and bus six,” Ken confirmed. “Looks like wardrobe wants to get in on this.”
So my guys walked off our bus and onto a runway of scrutiny. A whole cluster of beautiful people had gathered to stare at them and offer commentary. It seemed to me that all of them were also eyeing Archer with lust. Who could blame them?
But the one who looked like a dancer could back up a little, there.
There were a lot of big personalities on the tarmac. Charlotte and I nosed around the parking lot until a beautiful Black guy clapped his hands for attention.
“That’s enough chitchat, children. We’ve got hotel rooms in our future, and I’d like to get to Miami, so let’s move this along. Who’s in charge here?”
To a man, Aftermath turned to find me. “Oh,” I said. “Well, okay.”
I inhaled to steel my nerves and explained my vision to the assembled masses. The group was nodding as a whole as soon as I got to Archer in all white.
“Maybe a touch of bronzer? I’m Queenie—makeup.” She was a small Asian woman whose lust had faded into thoughtful calculation as she studied Archer.
“What kind?” Archer asked. “Because I’ve got a good one that I’m using.”
She took him by the elbow and attempted to draw him into her bus lair.
“I need that man’s hair!” the Black man called. “You do not own that guy, Queenie!”
“Finders keepers, Sampson. You’ll get him when I’m done.”
Sampson shook his head, but it seemed more out of loving irritation than actual annoyance. “What’s next, Norway?”
I had a new nickname. Okay. “I want Ian to shave his head.”
Sampson turned to Ian, who held his stance with determined rigidity. Sampson reached out a gentle hand and pushed Ian’s hair back.
“I see. You want him to stop hiding from the camera. I can see why. You have excellent bone structure, Ian. Look at those cheekbones.”
Ian swallowed but remained still under Sampson’s examination.
“Good hair. Too long. You sure you want it fully shaved? I can shape it.”
I replied but looked to Ian as I spoke. “I’m thinking Archer is the angel, Ian is death, and Mal is judgment. So, the close-shaved skull would suit best. What do you think?”
Sampson stood back and crossed his arms, squinting at Ian. “He’s got the skull for it. But how are you going to keep him from looking like a skinhead? You’re not a skinhead, are you, darling?”
Ian spoke at last. “I am not.”
“Of course you’re not. I’ve seen you people perform. You’re excellent. All right—ideas, people. Ian is going to be a smoking-hot death figure with almost no hair. How do we make that work?”
The woman at his elbow offered a thought. “Ponytail off the back of his head, Last Airbender style.”
Sampson considered.
A woman with flame-orange hair shook her head. “Not if he ever wants to be taken seriously. You need jewelry. No skinhead ever wore jewelry. Can we pierce your ear, sweetheart?”
Mal laughed. Ian shook his head with a look dark enough to make the woman back down.
Sampson heard something he liked, though. “Jewelry is a good idea. We don’t have to go the full Johnny Depp. What about a few gold chains? No skinheads wear gold chains. Do they?”
A Black woman shook her head. “Too ghetto for this guy.”
“Or too Guido,” the white guy beside her said. “It’s a very fine line.”
Sampson flapped his hand at them. “The last thing we need is the two of you reinforcing hateful stereotypes. That’s enough of that. Norway, what are you thinking?”
I almost laughed; was calling a blonde woman “Norway” not reinforcing stereotypes? Never mind.
“I like the idea of something around his neck,” I said thoughtfully. “But I think it should be one thing. A leather cord with a medallion of some kind on it.”
Smiles all around. “Medallion,” Sampson said, nodding. “What kind?”
“A sacred eye?”
“A diamond-encrusted cross!”
“A silver guitar pick? He’s the guitarist, after all.”
Ian’s eyebrows were creeping lower and lower. He wasn’t into it.
“Something to do with electricity,” I said firmly.
Ian glared at me while the others blinked in confusion.
“Electricity?” Ian hissed. “You want my other life to hang around my neck? A reminder of what I’m supposed to be doing instead of this?”
“No!” I stood forward, my hand on his arm to placate him. “As a reminder of the electricity you feel when a show is going good. Like last night’s performance.”
I’d taken the wind out of his sails. He exhaled and deflated.
Mal joined the discussion. “It’s not a bad idea, man,” he said. “You could use a fuse from one of the amps. Like that one you and I built when we were fifteen, remember?”
Ian’s look was guarded, but I felt like he was coming around to it. “How big was that fuse?” I asked. Ian and Mal both held up their fingers, the span about an inch long. “Too small,” I said. “Got anything bigger?”
The left side of Ian’s mouth crept upward. He was fighting a grin. “Like the fuse for one of the big Fender amps. Concert size.”
Mal’s grin was blazing, making up for Ian’s version. He turned to me, and this time, his fingers were about three inches apart. “That’s a man’s fuse,” he said with a chuckle.
I looked to Ian. “Can you get one?”
He was fighting the grin. Had I seen the right corner of his mouth twitch? “I can get one.”
“And you’ll wear it? And maybe one or two black bangles on your wrist? Just rubber ones,” I hastened to add. “Like insulators,” I said, inspired. “To control the electricity.”
“Insulators.” Ian shook his head, but he was agreeing. “You’re sure this isn’t the full Johnny Depp?”
He let Sampson lead him onto bus seven. Sampson called over his shoulder. “You come too, hottie drummer. I have plans for that mop of yours. Pepita, you start with him.”
Orange Hair nipped in to take my elbow as Charlotte and I followed. “I’m Nadia. Wardrobe mistress. These are my people. Oh, sorry, that’s Ocean, Rafe, and Quincy. So, what are you thinking about them wearing?”
Where our bus had a back lounge, bus seven was fitted out with salon chairs and impressive lighting. I stood with Nadia and her team while we considered who would wear what, and Nadia contacted friends in Miami for where we should go to shop.
“What’s your budget?” she asked.
I froze. I had no idea.
“We’ll spend what we need,” Ian called from the chair. His knuckles were white on the arm, but he wasn’t moving as Sampson turned on the shaver. “Don’t worry about it.”
Mal was already caped in the second chair. “Thanks, Ian.”
“Thanks, Ian!” Archer called from the front, where he was still bent over tubes and pots of makeup with Queenie. “We’ll pay you back!”
Pepita, combing through Mal’s tangle, was interested. “He’s got money?” she asked artlessly.
Ian’s nose wrinkled, but he remained silent. It was for Mal to explain.
“He’s an electrician. He makes a pretty good living.”
“And you don’t, honey?”
Mal’s big shoulders shrugged. “I teach drums to ten-year-olds. And Archer quit being a salesman about a month ago, didn’t you, Arch?”
“I am a rock star now,” Archer called back. “A poor rock star, but a rock star all the same.”
“Yes, you are!” Queenie agreed. “A rock star with the perfect bronzer! Now, not too much, right? Like I showed you.”
“I know. The eyes are the important part.”
“Good. Good, handsome man. That’s fine.”
Ian’s long hair fell like autumn leaves to the floor of the bus.
Unlike the members of Aftermath, I wasn’t assigned a hotel room to myself when we got to Miami. I briefly met my roommate, a woman named Saunders who was on the lighting tech crew. “Hi, nice to meet you, don’t worry if you don’t see me, I have friends in Miami and I am going to get hammered tonight!”
Her grin was a mile wide, and then she was gone.
I blinked as the hotel-room door closed after her, and then Charlotte and I looked at our boring room to decide where we could make her the den that all the books agreed she needed.
Hmm.
I set up the two baby gates in the corner with the small round table to make a roof. The puppy and I regarded the shaky structure with a mutual lack of confidence.
“Baby,” I told the dog. “This is not going to work, and you’re going to end up on Saunders’s bed. Do not eat any of her shoes.”
Charlotte was astonished that I’d even think she could do such a thing.
Sheree had summoned Aftermath to a rehearsal room with her band and dancers to audition horn players and then run through the Celia Cruz song. They had two concerts in Miami, and she was determined to have the song ready for the next night.
I wasn’t invited and assumed that Fist and the other security guards would keep me out along with the rest of the world, so I took care of my chores. I gathered a week’s worth of laundry, and Charlotte and I went to find the machines promised in the basement. Then we opted to take a walk. We strolled together down the broad, bright sidewalk for a few miles, and I had a trio of insanely good enchiladas from a food truck. The sun set over the city, and my walk turned out to go right through a sort of eternal street party where strangers stopped me to coo at Charlotte.
When we made it back to the hotel, I called Selene and Judy to update them on the new Aftermath look. I had a good gab with my folks, I took a long and luxurious shower in my very own bathroom, then I pulled out my laptop and got some work done.
The revised contract for the Aftermath T-shirt. A report to my adviser. A review of promotional options. Emails to some social media influencers. I wrote the first Aftermath newsletter, even though we only had seventeen subscribers.
Still, seventeen was a beginning.
I kept myself busy for as long as I could. Charlotte and I had a Now It’s Bedtime sniff-and-pee in the empty area between our hotel and the conference center next door, and at last, I stretched out on the large, flat bed. Charlotte attempted to sleep on the foot of my bed, but I put her on Saunders’s bed, and she was a good dog and went to sleep.
I hadn’t pulled the curtains tightly, and the wall and ceiling were painted with light. The sound of a bass beat thumped from some distant party. There was air above me, and room to sprawl if I wanted to, and the mattress was thick and firm and fabulous.
But sleep escaped me.
Oh. I’d already adjusted to the nightlife. It wasn’t even two in the morning. Why would I assume I could get to sleep before then?
Plus, I wasn’t exhausted from the stress. No VIP lounge. No merch-counter inventory. No trying to figure out why Bianca hated me.
So restful. Right? No reason to toss and turn.
I settled myself again. Straightened the covers. Closed my eyes and took five deep breaths. Envisioned green fields and fluffy clouds. Counted very slowly until I drove myself mad.
Try again.This time, I envisioned sand pouring into my hollow body, filling me with dry, warm weight. First my toes. Then the balls of my feet. Then the arches of my feet.
I thumped my pillow into shape and sighed hugely at my sleeplessness. Why hadn’t I bought some chamomile tea while I was out walking?
I stared at the ceiling. I needed Bruce to sign the contract for the Aftermath T-shirt. Did I write to Opinionated O’Connor when I wrote to the other social media influencers? Was this a good capstone? Would I be able to take over my folks’ business? I needed to remember to taper the sides of Ian’s new black shirt so it hung right for the concert. Archer’s ass was nothing less than spectacular in the white jeans, even though I think he could have pulled off the long board shorts. Was Mal’s T-shirt draping right? If we’d been able to afford it, I would have made him get a silk-cotton blend. That would hang better and still be cool. How long before Charlotte needed another walk? If she broke her training and left a gift here in the hotel room . . .
My endless mental-wheel–spinning was interrupted when my phone rang on the bedside table.
Ian.
Oh, good.