Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
Tom’s up on his knees as two more knocks rattle. “Tom?”
“That’s Jen,” I hiss, drawing my entire body into a huddled naked ball.
Tom nods, his jaw set hard and his cock still sprung out between us. I don’t stare, though it’s an effort not to.
Another, fussier knock. “Halloran?”
Lionel, too. Shit. The whole brigade’s out there.
I search through the bed for my dress but find no black among the sheets aside from Tom’s shirt, which I slip on hastily along with my damp underwear.
With less urgency, Tom pulls on his jeans, until I realize the door is clicking open.
In horror, I dive behind the bed and lay my mostly naked body on the hotel carpet.
The dusty hotel carpet. I hold my breath.
“Jesus, Jen—”
“Sorry. We called and texted. Wanted to make sure you weren’t having another episode .”
She means Philly. My nose itches and I swallow rapidly. Goddamn allergies, not right now—
“I’m fine. Ye bunch need somethin’?”
Bunch? So more than just Jen and Lionel?
“Just checking on you,” a higher-pitched voice chimes in.
Indy. Lionel and Indy are here, breaking into Tom’s room because Jen thought Tom was on some kind of bender. I mentally smack myself with a flyswatter for what I’ve done to Tom’s reputation. The dust prickles my nose…
“Were you in bed already? It’s only eleven thirty.” Jen sounds suspicious.
My eyes are watering. I can’t hold it in—
“Sleeplessness catchin’ up with me at long last.”
My chirping sneeze rents the room.
Followed by torturous silence. And the sound of Tom swallowing a laugh.
Indy’s the first to speak. “Clem?”
One swift thump of my forehead against the carpet in despair and I’m standing sheepishly, winding Tom’s far-too-large collared shirt around my body to hide my nakedness.
Tom doesn’t move from his perch at the end of the bed, but I can see the muscles in his back tense and I know he’s trying not to chuckle.
I wonder if my hair appears as just-sexed as it feels.
Lionel looks like his favorite show’s just delivered a killer season finale. Indy offers me a meek smile, which I return, face hot as a tamale fresh out the steamer.
“Hey, guys,” I say.
Jen sighs. “Good Lord.”
“We ought to procure you some allergy medication,” Tom muses casually.
Lionel can hardly speak. “When did…How long has this—”
“Who cares?” Jen says over him. She looks nothing more than inconvenienced. “Tom, did you happen to check your texts between rounds?”
I wince at her phrasing. Tom doesn’t dignify her crudeness with a response, which I appreciate. I’d like to crawl onto the bed and place my hand on his shoulder in some show of support. It feels like we’re standing before a firing squad and I’m not sure why—we haven’t done anything wrong.
“Brad is here,” Jen says pointedly, as if that explains her entire mood. “In the lobby.”
Tom stiffens. “What does he want?”
“To see you, obviously. Just a drink.”
“It’s nearly midnight. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.”
“No,” Jen warns. “He is the chairman and CEO of Sierra Records. You’ll go see him now.”
“Sure, I know what it is Brad does,” Tom says evenly. “He lives here in the city. I’ll meet up with him this weekend.”
“He flies out tomorrow. He’s been trying to reach you all day.”
“I had a gig this afternoon.”
“And all night.”
“I was at a show.”
“ Tom ,” Jen snaps, voice more severe than I’ve ever heard her. “You know what this is about. Put on a clean shirt and go downstairs and meet with him. For the love of God, do it for me. Do it for your career.”
Tom’s jaw works as he thinks this over, and then he stands, towering over the three of them, and combs through his suitcase for a shirt. It’s a defeat of some kind, and though I don’t understand what’s just transpired, I feel the weight of it in my gut. He’s lost this round.
I stay put, toes curling in the coarse carpet. Indy and I make wired eye contact and Tom heads for the door behind Lionel and Jen. But not before he doubles back to cradle my face and give me a gentle kiss. It’s over as quickly as it’s begun. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs with heat. “Don’t go.”
I nod, dazed. An entire militia couldn’t pry me from this room. He’s almost to the door when he adds, “And don’t change.”
Lionel makes a sheesh sound and I cross my legs beneath his shirt. Jen rolls her eyes and the three of them leave, drowning Indy and me in utter silence.
“Holy hell,” she breathes. “He wants you bad.”
“Indy, oh my God.” Before my knees can give out I sit on the bed.
“Yeah,” she says, joining me. “That was nuts.”
“Everyone’s going to know now, aren’t they?”
“Correct. Lionel’s a talker.”
I bury my face in the sheets and moan my frustration. This is a disaster.
“It’s not that big of a deal. The band will keep quiet, the public won’t know.”
“It’s going to change the dynamic. Everyone will think I only got the duet because we’re fooling around. If word gets out, I’ll never be taken seriously for another tour.”
At that Indy’s brows rise. “You’d do this again?”
I hadn’t actually thought too much about it.
But I can’t deny how thoroughly I’ve enjoyed life on the road.
Even the never-vacant front lounge has become a comfort.
I’ve made great friends, seen more of the world than my entire twenty-four years combined, and gotten to sing day and night. “Maybe, yeah.”
I pick at a loose thread in the duvet before curiosity bubbles up in me. “What was all that tension? About Brad and Tom and Jen?”
“Brad Engelmann has been pushing Halloran to sign on for another album. His last contract ended with Kingfisher and the start of this tour was the end of his exclusivity.”
“So what? Doesn’t that mean Tom’s the one with the leverage?”
“I think Brad Engelmann is always the one with the leverage. The old whale basically runs the music industry. If Halloran doesn’t sign soon, I’m not sure they’ll ever do another album with him. It’s like a kiss the ring kind of thing.”
“That’s slimy.”
Indy shrugs. “Kind of, but Brad’s all right. That’s just how this business works. It’s Jen’s neck on the line really. She’s Halloran’s manager. It’s up to her to make sure he keeps making music and for the right people. It’s also her paycheck.”
“And his,” I add.
“Yeah, but you know Halloran. Does it seem like he cares much about money?”
I shake my head, wondering where my expensive dress has gone. Likely in a heap somewhere.
“You and Molly were right. He hates all of this,” I admit. “Hates being famous. Hates doing press. I think he’d rather make music back home in Kerry.”
Indy tips her head, thinking. “But he still does it. He records in LA and in Nashville. Sings to thousands of people every night. Goes on the podcasts and morning shows and makes the artsy music videos. Collaborates with superstars like Cara.”
I don’t like the seasick way her name makes me feel.
“At the end of the day,” Indy says, “he’s doing the damn thing. He’s making great money and sharing his music with the world. If he hated it that much, he’d stop. But he doesn’t.”
“That’s fair,” I admit. And she’s right: people can talk all they’d like, but they generally do whatever it is they were always going to.
There’s a strange peace in that. A release of control.
The heart wants what the heart wants, and Tom’s wants to keep sharing his music with others. “I just want him to be happy.”
Indy quirks a brow. “I thought you were just banging.”
“We are. I mean, we’re friends, too. He took me to a show tonight. And dinner.”
“And you messed around this morning. I have the eye bags to prove it.”
Guilt I can’t comprehend creeps up my spine. “Actually we just went to the park. And laid in the grass. And…talked.”
Indy rubs her temples. “Oh, brother.”
—
“She’s a genius.”
I close And Then There Were None, spine creased and pages weathered, still in a daze.
The afternoon sunshine reflects off Lake Michigan from Halloran’s suite window and casts his entire body and all our mussed bedsheets in pools of light.
He puts down his notepad and pen, and beside some scribbled stanzas I can just make out a rough sketch of a tree in a meadow.
Some round fruit hangs from its leaves. “They didn’t dub her the Queen of Crime for no reason. ”
I stretch in the pleasant coziness of his bed, my toes up by his hips. We’ve been lounging like this for hours and I could stay in the same spot for a hundred more. “I just love how all the loose ends come together perfectly. Nothing left up to chance or fate.”
“How very Clementine.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I see why you like them, that’s all.” Halloran picks up the guitar that’s been lying by his head. He’s been strumming new and old chords all morning. “ My methodical lover ,” he croons.
My snort sounds through the room. “Doesn’t have the best ring do it.”
“I think it sounds like bliss,” he says.
I try to swat at his thigh with my foot, but get caught in all the extra fabric of his Trinity sweats.
Even though I’m swimming in them, I’ve taken to wearing his pants around the bus on lazy afternoons between stops such as these.
Tom and I have been surprised to discover what an enormous relief it is to have our fling out in the open.
Nobody’s seemed to care much at all. Our friends are happy for us—color me shocked.
“If you’re going to write a song for me, wouldn’t it be about my eyes?” I bat my lashes like a cartoon character. “Irish musicians love brown eyes.”
“And how would you know that? You’ve a plethora of Irish suitors I dunno about?”
“?‘Brown Eyed Girl’ by Van Morrison, of course. And in that U2 song, doesn’t he say he meets a girl with brown eyes?”
I sing the line in question and Tom strums the following notes. The masculine veins on his forearms flex with his movements and my jaw goes slack. “Ain’t love the sweetest thing,” he sings softly.