CHAPTER 7 #2
“Wow!” Cary clutched his chest. “We are definitely not wearing the same thing.”
He was all smiles, and she smiled back until her cheeks hurt.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she teased, resting her hands on her hips. “I bet you have this exact dress in your closet.”
Cary laughed and hugged her. She was wearing kitten heels so she was slightly taller than him, a perfect height for hugging, and she inhaled him like a drug.
“Sorry about the meet and greet,” she whispered into his ear.
“Thanks for telling me.” His breath on her neck was warm, giving her tingles.
Fresh from a spray tan, Tommy flashed his used car salesman smile. He wore his hair slicked back like a greaser from the fifties and stunk up the hall with cheap cologne, masking the smell of cigarettes on his person.
Twenty years ago Sebastien dumped an unknown artist into his lap, and a year later, Cary’s debut record went number one worldwide. Tommy had won the booking agent lottery. Lucky fucker.
“Save some for me,” Tommy said, cutting into their hug. He squeezed Tyler like a creepy uncle unrelated to the family.
“Tommy!” She pushed him away with one hand. “Get lost.”
“Hey!” He yanked on his sleeves. “Watch the threads, will ya?”
Tommy wore a suit every day as if he had a permanent court date. “Can you believe this dude?” He latched his arm around Cary’s shoulder. “Twenty years later and this fucking guy is still selling out arenas. Arenas. Tyler. Let me tell you—”
“You can tell her later.” Cary saved her—and himself—from listening to an epic tale to nowhere. Tommy Napolitano was no raconteur, although he wore many shades of black.
“Ready?” Vegas asked Cary with his hand on the green room door.
“Ready.” Cary nodded, and they walked into the room full of cheers and applause.
Sebastien and Tommy stayed in the hall, loitering like teenagers outside a convenience store.
“We’re heading up to the fucking suite,” Tommy said, running his tongue along his upper teeth. “And you’re coming, Tyler.”
“I’m leaving soon,” she said. “It’s my family’s benefit concert.”
“How’s Bert?” Sebastien asked insincerely.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? You’re more than welcome to come by after the show.”
Of course she was fucking with him. He wasn’t welcome at all.
He snorted. “Tell him I said hello.”
“Will do,” she lied. As if she was going to tell her dad anything coming from that idiot’s pie hole.
“The afterparty’s going to be a fucking rager,” Tommy added. “I’ll finish my story.”
Hard fucking pass, Tommy.
She waited until Sebastien and Tommy entered the elevator before heading to the dressing room. She had to leave at seven-thirty and not a second later.
As Tyler turned, she spotted an older man and woman approaching. How had they slipped past security unnoticed?
“Hi, we’re looking for Cary Kingston,” the woman said, tugging on the lanyard around her neck.
Tyler examined the couple, squinting as if it would help her to place them.
“We’re his parents,” the gray-haired man said.
“Of course! Mr. and Mrs. Kingston.” She rushed to shake their hands, going overboard to impress them. “I’m Tyler. I work at SDM.”
“Please, call us John and Pamela,” he said. “Mr. Kingston was my father.”
Hi, Mom and Dad! No. She stopped short of embarrassing herself.
“He’s in a meet and greet, but I’ll show you to his dressing room,” Tyler said.
“We don’t want to be a nuisance.” Pamela’s eyes sparkled like her son’s. “We’re just happy to be invited.”
That was my idea, Pamela.
“Don’t be silly.” Tyler opened his door. “Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Pamela smiled. “Thank you, Tyler.”
“No problem . . . I hope you had a great birthday!”
Brownie points.
A few minutes later Tyler entered the green room and pushed her way through the crowd. Cary sat at the end of a long table, signing posters and autographs.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, not really meaning it.
He looked up from signing his name with a Sharpie. “You’re hardly a bother.”
She bit her bottom lip, trying not to smile. “Your parents are here. I showed them to your dressing room.”
“Thanks for doing that.”
“Don’t mention it.” The line behind the table was a hundred people deep. “I know you’re busy, so I guess I’ll see you later?”
Cary continued signing autographs and posing for selfies. “Sounds good.”
Sounds good? You practically begged me to come here.
Maybe he was just being polite last night, but why pay all that attention to her when he didn’t have to? Ugh. She’d never understand men as long as she lived and if there was an afterlife.
The house lights dimmed and the audience chanted, “Cary! Cary!”
Tyler folded her coat over her arms and watched from the backstage area.
The first song in his set was one of her favorites, and she danced to the beat until Cary turned to the side of the stage and played his guitar right in front of her.
She stopped mid-dance and laughed, embarrassed.
He laughed, too, before turning back to the crowd, holding out the microphone, and making them sing the verse.
He had a commanding stage presence, like it was second nature.
The lyrics made her body yearn for him, desperate for his affection.
Was it possible that her sister was right? He’d written some of the most heart-wrenching love songs she’d ever heard. If he’d felt those things, even half of those things, she was in trouble—the biggest kind.
Dammit.
Two songs turned into five before she checked the time on her phone: 7:35.
She had to go.
When Tyler arrived at the casino, she went straight to the dressing room and pushed open the door. For a split second she braced herself, half expecting a flood of balloons spelling out Happy Birthday.
But the room was exactly as she’d left it. Thank god for small miracles.
She looked around the empty room, bummed that she wouldn’t be seeing Cary later. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth.
Happy fucking birthday.
Hours later, after most of the bands had played, Tyler finally handed off her babysitting duties to the casino’s stage manager—just before he lost his patience.
Besides, it was still her birthday for another hour, and it was time for a drink. Or two.
Her phone vibrated, and she held that thought. It was Vegas on text.
On r way 2 casino.
Shit. What if Sebastien was calling her bluff? Nadie was hitting the stage in ten minutes and she didn’t feel like dealing with his bullshit. Or smelling his breath.
She texted back. Who are you with?
CK.
As in Cary Kingston.
Oh my god. She placed her hand on her chest. Why was Cary with him? Maybe Vegas was joking. But maybe he wasn’t.
The casino was a far cry from the venues Cary played.
The sound bounced off the metal roof, harsh and hollow—this place was never meant for live music.
And on top of that, she’d have to introduce Cary to her family, somehow explaining why the biggest rock star in the world was here for her mother’s benefit.
Where was that bottle of champers?
Five minutes later her phone vibrated. It was Vegas again.
We’re here.
She took a second to respond.
Meet you at the back door.
With the theme from A Summer Place—her grandma’s favorite movie—swirling in her head, she drew in a breath and strolled down the hall as if it were a Sunday on the seawall—without the hazard of cyclists.
Tyler opened the door. Yep, that’s Cary—fresh out of the shower, judging by his damp hair. Not that she’d worry about him catching a cold. That was just a myth, anyway.
“Where are your parents?” she asked, tilting her head.
His forehead creased, confused by the question. “They’re staying at my aunt’s.”
Right. He had family in Winnipeg.
She pointed to his guitar case. “Are you planning on busking or something?”
“No.” He scowled at Vegas. “Didn’t you tell her?”
“Sorry, man.” Vegas shook his head. “You didn’t ask.”
“Ask me what?” She cut Vegas off, ears perked.
This ought to be good.
“I thought I’d play a few songs.” Cary tapped on the side of his guitar case. “Help out a good cause if I can?”
Ha! Like she was going to say no to him. She opened the door wider. “I think we can squeeze you in.”
The knots in her stomach tightened into a ball. Maybe this was his grand plan all along. Or perhaps it was an afterthought.
A few seconds later Tyler caught the stage manager’s eye and he flashed his hands, holding up three fingers.
“You’re on next,” she told Cary. “But they only have time for three songs.”
“No worries.” He swept his hair away from his eyes. “Sorry for crashing your concert.”
She smirked. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
As a precaution Tyler guided him to the side of the stage. She didn’t want Nadie to see him and freak out. She was freaking out enough for both of them, and then some.
Bert, the MC and musical director for the night, lifted the microphone from its stand. “Please give a warm welcome to Winnipeg’s next big star, Nadie Grant!”
The crowd followed suit and applauded.
Nadie sang the same Joni Mitchell song she’d rehearsed earlier in the day and Tyler choked back the tears pooling in her eyes, preventing a waterfall down her face. She didn’t want to cry in front of Cary Kingston, especially not on her birthday.
“She’s amazing,” Cary said.
“Really good,” Vegas agreed.
“She’s my niece.”
“Your niece?” Cary’s eyes shocked open.
“She’s sixteen,” Tyler added. “Almost seventeen.”
“Wow.” Cary pointed to the stage. “She’s talented.”
Tyler nodded. “It runs in the family. The Robertsons are backing her up, and my sister made her the dress she’s wearing.”
After the song ended Bert boomed, “Give it up for Nadie Grant!” The crowd cheered and whistled. “Don’t forget to bid on the silent auction! It ends at midnight.”
Nadie skipped down the steps and smiled at her aunt.
“You killed it,” Tyler said, hugging her niece. “As Kim would say, straight fire.”
Nadie stammered, “Ho-holy shit.”