30. Her New Normal
NICKY
I should have been asleep.
Behind me, Ian’s breathing was deep and even. Hearing him sleep was as soothing to me as feeling his arms around me, his chest firm against my back, his knees tucked under mine.
The bed was luxurious, the harsh light of the desert day was blocked by blackout curtains, and my body was wrung out and sated from Ian’s impressive attentions.
But the email was sent, and until it was answered, there was no resolution in my soul.
It was almost seven in Las Vegas, still the middle of the night to people who played huge concerts every night. But in Philadelphia, where nebbishy, fussy professors probably got to work each day on a carefully safeguarded schedule, it was not quite ten in the morning.
I reached out again to refresh my phone, which was lying on the bed next to me. Had Mr. Diventura emailed me? Had he had a chance to read my email?
Had he read Bruce’s email?
What was going to happen?
Nothing on my email. I’d have to call my parents,. Tell them the story. God, they’d be so disappointed. And who could blame them?
But how seductive it was to think like the guilty party. I chewed my lip and reminded myself that I hadn’t stolen anything. Buck up, Nicky. Buck up and calm down.
It wasn’t me stealing merch, so who was it? My money was on Bianca. It would explain why she hated me, except if she was somehow stealing merch while I was on duty, it would have been smarter of her to be sweet to me, to make me think she and I were friends. As it was, she’d all but painted a target on her chest. Carried a sign saying “Hate and suspect me.”
If not her, then Bruce.
But that was tough too. Except for the final reconciliation every night, Bruce never came near the merch booth. And why would a guy who’d risen through the ranks to manage the biggest concert tour in the world decide he needed to lift a few hundred girls’ bracelets? What sense did that make?
In the abstract, I would have put my bet on the penniless intern, too, except I didn’t do it.
Shit.
I refreshed my phone again. Nothing.
Then it rang. While I had it in my hand.
The sound was like a jet engine going off next to my skull. I screamed and jerked. Ian’s arms tightened around me.
“What?” he said. “Are you okay?”
I shook him off, and he let me go as the phone rang again.
Mr. Diventura. I was sitting up and staring at the screen before I knew I’d moved. Tension pushed the muscles in my fingers and shoulders to near rigidity.
“It’s him,” I croaked, showing Ian the screen.
“Okay.” He was up on one elbow. “Take a breath. Now answer.”
I whimpered but pushed the terrifying circle on the screen.
“Hello?” My voice sounded like I was a mouse. A little gray, squeaking, scared mouse. I’m not guilty, I told myself.
“Nicky? How are you?”
My eyes flooded with scalding tears. He sounded concerned. Not angry. Not judgmental. I gasped in relief. Ian ran a warm hand down my arm. “I’m okay,” I said stupidly. “No, I’m really not okay. I’m kind of a wreck.”
Now I sounded like a sobbing mouse.
“Well, take a deep breath,” he said. Ian smiled at that; he must have been hearing Mr. Diventura, even though I wasn’t using the speaker. “I’m going to put the whole thing in front of the dean this morning, but I wanted to talk to you first and reassure you that this Mr. Cantrell doesn’t seem to have any proof that you’ve done anything wrong.”
“I swear I haven’t!”
“I’ve known you for two years now, Nicky, and I would be surprised if you had done something wrong. Obviously, if you were stealing, you’d be expelled from the program. But I’m sorry to tell you that this wouldn’t be the first capstone project that uncovered something the host company would have rather kept silent, so don’t do anything rash, and don’t lose hope.”
Ian nodded at me, his hand steadying me. “Thank you,” I said, my voice still watery.
“No decisions will be made without ensuring you can tell your side of the story in full. Do you have a moment now to walk me through the situation? Your email was thorough, but I have a few questions.”
“Yes! I’d love to talk to you about it! Give me two seconds.” I set the phone down and scrambled for the first thing I found, which was Ian’s T-shirt. It hung like a dress on me but meant I wasn’t sitting naked on the armchair. Ian sat up against the headboard and gave me enough space to tell my tale of woe.
Mr. Diventura’s questions were probing and thoughtful. We talked through the inventory system and the process of reconciliation, as well as the system for loading the merch into the storeroom and getting it back to the trucks. He calmed me with his thoroughness.
“Thank you for giving me this information, Nicky. I will ask Mr. Cantrell for an independent inventory and about any security measures in place to stop the drivers from unloading merchandise at any point between concert venues.”
“Good. That’s good. Thank you.”
“I get the sense he won’t be very forthcoming, though, so let’s talk about your capstone. Do you have any faith that you’ll get information on sales of the—the Aftermath hoodie, is it?”
“Yes sir. They’re going to sell the hoodie at the last twelve concerts. That covers ten cities.”
“Mm-hmm. What alternatives do you have to concert sales if you can’t rely on information from Mr. Cantrell?”
Guh. This was the worst pop quiz ever. “Do you mean, like, selling the hoodies in retail stores? I think that might be . . . um, hang on.” My brain was trapped in a tunnel, but was that daylight ahead? “Mr. Diventura, what if I sold the hoodies on the band’s website? It would be a significantly smaller market than Sheree concerts, but that was always a huge overreach, right? I mean, if I sold hoodies for the next month on the website?—”
“I see,” he said. “You’d need to sell enough to have statistical significance. Why don’t you write up a modification of your original capstone, and we’ll look at it?”
We’d need a secure sales platform; that would mean moving the band’s website. State taxes. Shipping. How to pay to get the hoodies manufactured. How to get the word out that the hoodies were even for sale. There was a lot to think about.
If I could get a photo of Sheree wearing the hoodie . . . while Archer signed her shoulder . . . and she posted it on her social media . . .
Wait.
What if the hoodies sold at Sheree’s concerts were black, but the ones on the Aftermath website were white?
And what if we found a way to tape ten or twenty white hoodies to the ground and got Charlotte to run across an ink pad and then across the shirts so they were paw-print–autographed by her?
We could charge more for the autographed versions.
“Nicky?” Mr. Diventura sounded amused. “Does your silence mean you’re considering your options?”
“I think I have some ideas,” I admitted.
“Of course you do.” His dry voice sounded like he was smiling. “I’ll let you know after I talk to the dean. You keep me informed too.”
“I will. Thank you, sir. Thank you!” After we ended the call, I sat for a moment, trying to regain my balance.
Ian was grinning at me. “Call went okay, huh?”
I left the ground when I was still a good five feet from the bed, leaping to land on top of him.
“Oof!” He laughed as he caught me.
“Thank you,” I said as I peppered his face with kisses. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
He held me back and laughed at me. “What are you thanking me for?”
“For being you. For taking care of me. For telling me everything was going to be okay. Ian, I can sell hoodies on the band’s website, can’t I?”
His smile softened, and his hands on my shoulders turned into a caress. “Of course you can. Like we could stop you. But Lyre Records paid for the hoodies that will be sold at Sheree’s concerts. Who’s going to pay for the ones you sell on the website? Need an investor?”
I curled into him so I could hug him with all of me. “I think I can get credit. I’m friends with the guy who runs the factory in Delaware, and he liked that I got him in with Lyre. Thank you for offering. You’ve spent enough already. I’ll get back to you. Oh, Ian, I have so much work to do!”
I squeezed with my arms and thighs and every muscle in my core, and Ian laughed. Then I rolled off him and came to my feet.
“I’m going to take my laptop to the living room. You sleep. You’ve got another concert tonight, and you haven’t slept enough.”
“Work here.”
“I have phone calls to make.”
“It’s daylight. I’ve got sound check in a while. It’s time to get up anyway.”
I eyed him, my impatience to get started warring with the overpowering desire to take care of Ian as he’d taken care of me. “Bring a blanket. You can lie on the sofa and try to nap.”
“Yes ma’am.” He rose out of bed fluidly, suddenly so much taller than me, and folded me into his arms. “I want to be there to watch you kick ass.”
His confidence made me light-headed. I clung to him. As I relished his warmth and size, the ideas bubbled up in me. “What do you think about you guys signing a white hoodie and Charlotte can run across the shirt with ink on her paws?” Ian laughed, but I was still thinking that one through. “No, that won’t work. We can’t ink her feet with permanent ink. But I bet we can get a rubber stamp made of her footprint.”
I pushed away and headed for my laptop. Ian dragged the cover off the bed to follow me. “We could get a footprint stamp made every month until she’s full-grown,” he said. “So you could date the shirt by the size of her feet.”
I seized him and climbed up his body to kiss him. “I love that idea! Now lie down right here. I need to call my guy in Delaware. He should be in by now.”