Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
M allory leaned forward. I can do this .
The music show host, a forty-something woman wearing a brick-red scarf, took her seat. She had an air about her that said she’d seen it all but still appreciated this group of five handsome stars.
As the crowd calmed, the host gave a spiel about the band’s global number-one status, upcoming spring tour, and unique fusion of K-pop and rock, and then had each member introduce himself.
Basically, they went from handsome man number one through five, with various levels of broodiness thrown in.
Mallory interpreted the opening with an ease that helped her relax into the job.
After the intros, the host began the question and answer segment. “Netizens are abuzz with rumors of scandals at Texk Entertainment. As insiders, what can you tell us?” The host’s style hovered between rude and blunt.
Mallory interpreted. “Hold your composure. The host is a wicked French dragon, swishing her tail. She’s asking you about scandals coming out of Texk. Say nothing. Widen your eyes. Add in a helpless look. Women are suckers for babies.”
Tae, the band’s leader, responded. He waved his hands and pled ignorance, while a male interpreter relayed his words in French to the audience.
That was one way to go. Mallory shrugged. The shrug, a very French response, helped her further settle into her role. If only she had a scarf. In the fantasy book she was writing, she’d give her dragon a dislike of the cold and the need for a scarf. A flame-colored one with singed ends.
The host pivoted to Dylan. “Dylan. Netizens fear there’s a delay with the new album. You write the music. When will we hear a new song from Tempo Rain? Can you share the concept? Any holdups? Any wish to drop the instruments and fall back on classic K-pop structure? Are you blocked?”
Yikes. As a writer herself, the host’s questions scraped against the core of her keyboard-tapping soul. “Dragon is trying to curse you. She’s hinting at writer’s block.” Mallory whispered the last word to lessen its power. “Say you’ll reveal your music to your fans first. Maybe toss heart fingers toward the audience. Show some abs. Your call on the most effective distraction.”
Once the band members defused the first few loaded questions, the host eased off. She tossed out a few softballs, which the band readily answered, and the interview ended. The host had started off with a pleasant intro, given them meanness in the middle, then ended nicely, with a garbage macaron.
The band rose to wave a final time.
The crowd’s claps contained an edge of anxiety, as if they were truly realizing their time with the band had come to an end.
As was hers. Her job was done.
Oliver, the entertainment rights attorney she’d been meeting with when the interpreter fell ill, motioned for her to join him in the wings.
Mallory headed his way. A sting of pain shot through her toes. A cable was trying to trip her. The cable, determined to make her fall, moved left then right, rolling under her feet. She barely caught herself without face-planting.
Heat flushed over her body, more from embarrassment than the exercise. She extended both arms and held steady in a half-squat. Once certain she wouldn’t fall, Mallory straightened.
One way to handle the next few minutes would be to scurry off and pretend the stumbling had never happened. The other was to sacrifice herself for the greater good.
Mallory pointed out the trip hazard to two of the set crew in case they’d missed her arms flapping like she was attempting liftoff.
The French crew ambled over to assess the problem, barely concerned while Oliver stayed back with a slight frown, probably calculating the proceeds from a slip-and-fall lawsuit.
Mallory reached his side, and Oliver’s expression smoothed out. “Thanks again for filling in.” He took her microphone pack. “That went well.”
Clumsiness notwithstanding, she had provided an excellent interpretation. Very few French words had escaped her, and she definitely got the gist across. Gramps would be proud. Though he’d envisioned her using her skills at the family hotel corporation, not for an impromptu rock star interview, he’d enjoy hearing about this. “It was fun.”
More than fun. She’d been in sync with the lead singer of the number-one band in the world and had helped him commune with his fans. It wouldn’t be too extreme to envision an entire album dedicated to her, or a chorus with her name chanted into future microphones.
While they exited into the corporate hallway, bubbly success gave a bounce to her steps, and grandiose visions formed in her head. “I worried my bit of French wouldn’t hold up.” The words praise me wiggled in her chest. She shoved them down. Traveling on her own was making her needy.
Oliver’s attractive face had been extremely stressed going into the event. That combined with his tense posture had made him seem much older than her. She now gauged his age to be mid-thirties.
“You did great,” he assured her.
Yay . She glowed.
“Tempo Rain is…gifted,” Oliver said carefully. “They have to be handled delicately.”
Yep, and she’d just slayed one of their swoon-worthy rock stars in black jeans. “Word nuance is my superpower.” Book ideas flooded her mind. The upcoming battle scene in her draft just wrote itself. Her fingers itched to pick up a pen and jot down her new ideas. Instead, she’d focus on business. She was here to work on some exciting contracts related to her book series. Texk had led a number of authors to next-level success. Though author pictures weren’t framed in larger-than-life images along the walls. Texk had reserved that hallowed space for musicians.
Oliver stopped in front of Tempo Rain’s promo poster.
The image showed the five musicians holding their instruments with lovers’ hands. Every fan who looked at that poster had to imagine stepping into the arms of her favorite. Hers was Dylan.
The alcove to the right of the poster showed off the band’s gleaming awards. If an onlooker failed to be entranced by their physical charms, the sheen of their golden success would awe them.
“You saved the day. Your interpretation must have been spot on. If it weren’t, I’d already be hearing about it. The guitarist, Dylan, is in a mood.”
“A rock star? In a mood?” Mallory’s tone held playful disbelief. “That can’t be.” She resisted the urge to snicker.
“Food poisoning took down half the interpreters and translations group. And even though my assistant Francois said he didn’t eat any of it, he’s mighty green right now.” Oliver rubbed his temple. “People without foresight are my baguette and butter, but I’m sorry this impacted your schedule. Again, I apologize on behalf of Texk.”
She’d lost a day of sightseeing in Paris. A minor tragedy, but like the writers who came before her, she could return again to visit the City of Lights. Like Hugo, Hemingway, and Proust, but with more dragons splashing in the Seine.
No need for Oliver or Francois to feel bad for her. Mallory waved off the lawyer’s apology. “I got a free show. And a vocal one-on-one with a world-famous voice. None of the hotel’s tourist brochures offered that experience.”
Dylan Lee had been in her head. If she had to compare the experience to anything, it was like singing along to his songs on the radio, the beauty of a star and fan fusing together, elevating a shared moment.
Dylan angled away from the pub’s alley-facing window in a practiced move that minimized the chance of anyone recognizing him.
Bax kept his head down, took two lagers from their security guy, and carried them over.
The chatter and clink of glasses in the Art Deco bar registered more as a bother than a melody. The thump of lagers hitting the walnut tabletop had a better sound.
“Cheers, mate.” Bax tapped their heavy pint glasses as his British accent pronounced the toast he always threw out before the first sip.
Dylan took a healthy drink of the malty liquor while the thump of the beer mugs replayed in his mind. That could be the opening for a song.
No. That was a trash idea. Like the dumpster idea he’d had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. He needed the group to bounce ideas around, but the rest of their band had jetted off to other commitments.
He searched for a melody, but the only chords playing in his ears were the repetitive drumming of his schedule. If he couldn’t be with his bandmates, he needed to go home. An extended solo break in Montecito would drag his muse out of hiding. No, a group hang would be better. If the guys hung out in Aspen, they’d knock out their next album before the fall leaves hit the mountains. How could they make that happen with their current schedule?
Not an option.
Paris was only the latest leg of their post-summer tour obligations. Corporate needed them in South Korea next. Texk and their overcommitments. There was no going home with this workload. He needed to get his mind right while on the road.
A string of curses played through his brain in a nice pattern, which was why he was in charge of music, not lyrics. Dylan squeezed the back of his neck. At least he’d get to see his family soon. His parents and sister always gave him perspective. After seeing his family, he’d write the music for their next tour in a Texk corporate apartment in Seoul and infuse as much heart as he could. He’d get this done.
Bax arched his eyebrow. “Are we going to talk about it, or what?”
What would they even talk about? That interview, the rumors, the lack of new music… No. There was enough discordant noise in his head.
Bax waited with an expectant expression.
Dylan took another swig of his drink.
Bax had always been one to poke, ever since they’d started out. He didn’t let things fester.
Dylan appreciated that characteristic. Bax was a good bandmate. Dylan was the one dropping the pick.
A damp circle formed on the cork coaster. That’s what the proposed artwork looked like for the new concert shirts, a damp ring of disappointment, a soundwave unheard.
“Eh?” Bax prompted.
What did he want to hear?
Bax had been in the same studio listening to the same interview questions.
The simple promo gig was supposed to consist of praise for Paris and their endorsement deals. Instead, the questions had been about album delays and company scandals.
To be fair, if Dylan wanted interviewers to talk about their new music, he had to provide some.
Bax hadn’t ridden him about the delay. Bax was good like that.
“Eh?”
Bax would keep up that same British nudge if he didn’t give him something.
“Oliver assured me the rumors wouldn’t come up.” He sounded like a trainee again, believing their corporate handlers. Dylan tightened his grip on the pint glass. “Gossip. Scandal. Like we’ll provide fuel for the interviewer and tank someone’s career.”
Bax curled his fingers, indicating Dylan should continue.
“Someone’s drugged out, dead, or—gasp—they’re dating.” The wrong sentence would have rabid fans picketing corporate global offices, demanding answers. It’d be comical if it weren’t true.
“I don’t even want to know the truth behind the rumors.” Bax’s mouth turned down. “If I know, I have to hide it. You know?”
Dylan grunted. They had extensive training in keeping their private lives private. Dylan had always been able to handle the pressure, but lately, the restrictions pricked on his last nerve. He was a guitar string about to snap.
In the past, Bax had been the one who’d let a joke get out of hand. How had Dylan turned into the volatile one in the group? He needed to get off the road.
Or would his unhappiness follow him home to America? Was that how life worked? Was he the problem?
“Tae’s more interested in how the leaks are happening in the first place. He’ll sort out the dodgy roots and stomp them out.”
Now that was interesting. Tae was great with problems. In August, they’d had a run of guitar string snapping and mics going out mid-concert. Tae had hired a dedicated crew member to manage their gear who only reported to him. Problem solved.
Their security, discreetly sitting at tables angled around them, let their corporate attorney Oliver and his assistant through to their table.
Oliver looked ready for court in his usual three-piece. Francois looked ready to list their schedule. Francois was looking skinnier than usual and had the green complexion of a roadie on a bender.
The lawyer whisked away their beers. “P.R. has scored you a quick interview with a key social media influencer, Nipnip. 4.2 million followers.”
Bax’s lips formed the name Nipnip. He wanted badly to tease. Name recognition hit him. Nipnip was infamous for exposing the worst gossip. Bax’s grin fell away.
Oliver pointed his thumb to the puke-complexioned assistant. “Francois will interpret.”
Francois plopped down two bottles of French Alp water in place of their confiscated beers. Sure. The influencer would believe he and Bax popped into a pub for alpine water.
“Really, mate?” Bax asked.
Oliver scrolled on his phone. “We’re lucky to fit this interview in.”
Their schedule was already overpacked. Now Oliver was squeezing away their short break too.
Bax arched his eyebrows, expressing his resistance with a look. He was a bare inch from saying something that crossed the line. Wouldn’t be the first time, but the timing wasn’t ideal.
Dylan grimaced. He’d take the hit. “The interview can wait until tomorrow.”
Francois nodded in strong agreement. Then, as if the motion upset his stomach, he became a thin, frozen mime.
“We need the press. Good press. Press with more than monosyllabic responses from Dylan.” Oliver was good at subtle points and in-your-face points. A necessary skill for a seven-figure attorney.
Being right didn’t make him right.
True, Dylan hadn’t been the best interviewee lately, but Oliver’s pressing wouldn’t help him regain his ability to tolerate B.S.
Without waiting for their agreement, Oliver gestured for security to let the influencer through.
Nipnip’s jumpsuit, the dark navy of the French flag, matched his dyed hair. He’d garner a million followers tuning in to check out his patriotic dye job. A cameraman accompanied him.
His cameraman’s lens was larger than his head. Seriously, either the cameraman’s head was oddly small or that lens could spot a topless celebrity from a mile away.
Nipnip started right in with the questions. “Any truth to the new album being delayed due to drug use? No judgment here. I’m from Amsterdam. Or are netizens’ hints about a different band? If so, who?”
Francois interpreted. He relayed every word in English coated with a nasal whine. He even added a Parisian sneer to make sure they understood every insult.
Red haze hit Dylan’s vision, and he shoved down the protest boiling up inside him. His fists clenched.