Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
I n a conservative country, drug accusations would put the band and their mentees in a police station answering the rumors. Stop. He was in France, the dude was simply trying to sniff out a spectacle to make a living, not send him to Gangnam police headquarters.
Sit here. Give them an answer. Sway the situation. Make them fans.
Bax was better at that on every continent. He’d leave him and Nipnip to do that dance.
Dylan rose.
Francois backed up quickly.
Nipnip’s greedy look scrunched further, ready for the drama.
Don’t. Dylan blew past them and headed straight for the door to the alley.
“Dylan, wait up,” Bax called after him.
Dylan didn’t wait.
The twilight air cooled his face, and the beauty of the sun setting behind the grey zinc rooftops calmed his temper.
Bax caught up within ten steps. “Bro, you can’t keep bailing on interviews.”
Dylan sighed, his shoulders easing, his stride slowing. “I know.” The influencer had only wanted a reaction. Still. Rumors killed careers. He shot Bax a glance. “Out of all the problems we’ve had lately…drugs?” The false insinuation would worry his family and fans, leading Dylan to have to make even more appearances to show off their wellness.
“I’ll talk to Jack, see if he can’t fly over and slow Oliver’s roll.”
Did he want their agent with them? Or would Jack add to the meetings? He rubbed his thumb over his jaw to ease the tightness. Jack might help. Might not.
Bax held up a hand. “Don’t argue yet.” He gestured around them to the broad, bustling boulevard. “Let’s take it behind walls. The granny behind us has a camera up our butts.” He hailed a taxi.
Dylan preferred to walk, but they were already drawing attention.
A petite woman’s head tilted at an angle that threatened to dislodge her beret as she wondered where she knew them from. And she wasn’t alone.
A dogwalker halted, pulling the leash on his overly groomed poodle without a patch of grass in sight.
Snap a photo and leave, that would be fine. But they wouldn’t.
They’d shove the cameras in his face and pace after him like aggressive human-sized fruit flies with handheld zooms.
Dressed the right way, he could sometimes get around town on his own without recognition. But wearing studio clothes, with Bax beside him, it was only a matter of minutes before their location blew up and the crowd grew.
The fallout would be disproportionately ridiculous.
Their security team would get in trouble for letting them leave the bar without ensuring they were encircled like toddlers learning to walk.
The driver would be reamed for not being at the curb. Walking back wasn’t an option.
Dylan got in the cab and slid down the scarred leather seat. A grimy plastic partition separated them from the driver. This was the kind of springless ride they’d taken when they were first coming up. How were they here again? Did they need a new manager? A new company? A lucky horseshoe?
The route to the hotel took them around the Arc de Triomphe. How could that visual fail to inspire him?
He cracked the window, letting in the city sounds. Honks. Tires on pavement. The urban symphony was not music to his ears.
Bax hummed the chorus from their last hit.
As they neared the luxury hotel, Bax’s phone buzzed and he hit the speaker button. “What’s up, Jack? Angling for an extra percent?”
“You know I deserve an extra 2 percent.” Jack came through as clearly as if he were in the backseat between them.
“You’re getting a quarter of a 1 percent increase, and that’s only if you get us a new batch of merch prototypes.” Bax and the agent bantered back and forth.
Dylan gave the cabbie a wad of Euros. “Let me out here.”
The car pulled up to the curb.
Dylan climbed free and sucked in a deep breath.
Bax followed.
Good decision, because the agent’s joke about needing a bigger cut of their income meant a lecture was coming.
That would be the cherry on top of their twelve-hour workday.
Dylan tapped his fingers on the side of his thigh while they walked up the circular drive leading to the luxury hotel.
Bax had an easy stride. He didn’t care what was coming, or his tension didn’t show. British reserve hid a ton of discontent.
Dylan wasn’t alone. All his bandmates were about to snap. He was just leading the way.
Their agent launched into a lecture about being part of the solution and making sensible choices.
Called it .
Bax made conciliatory noises.
Dylan stayed silent.
“Can Dylan hear me?” the agent asked through the speaker.
Dylan answered for Bax. “Jack, you’re coming through loud and clear.” Let us have it some more. Make sure the meter is running. Earn your fees.
“How are you going to handle the interview tomorrow?” Jack asked. “Are you excited? Got some ready anecdotes to call up?”
More French press. Who didn’t want that? If it hadn’t been for that interpreter murmuring nonsense in his ear, he would’ve lost it back at the studio in front of a live audience. At first, he’d needed a moment to understand what his interpreter was saying. Going off about dragons, like his sister, who was a huge fantasy novel fan. Then once he’d gotten a handle on her meaning, he’d realized his interpreter had his back. Her feminine, sexy, supportive voice had been the perfect distraction. Dylan blew out a breath. Bands needed to get press to boost their careers. He should be grateful.
Should be.
Wasn’t.
Other than performing, only his interpreter had been fun.
He’d recognized the pretty woman as his initial makeup artist right away. Though she’d only made doubting murmurs when she’d messed with his eyeliner, he remembered her honied voice. He’d been certain she’d be as bad at interpreting as she was at eye makeup, but she’d held up. Between her lux vocal tones and her quirky suggestions, he’d been engaged enough to keep from bouncing out of the studio early.
Yeah. He’d use the feisty interpreter at tomorrow’s interview too.
“Get me the interpreter the studio gave me. The woman,” Dylan clarified so the sneering Francois wouldn’t become his sickly wingman for the remainder of this trip. He preferred the woman who’d smelled of warm vanilla.
“Done.” Jack sounded relieved. As if his agent had thought Dylan would cancel on his commitments.
Dylan’s gut tensed at the lack of faith. He showed up. He was here, not secluded away like he wanted to be. Did the agent not get that?
“What’s her name?” Jack asked.
Dylan blinked.
“The interpreter’s name,” the agent clarified.
Right. Dylan looked at Bax for the answer.
Bax rolled his shoulders in a dance move. “Don’t ask me. Mine was a dude. I don’t think it was Francois, though. He didn’t sound like he was going to blow chunks every other word. He had a definite sneer though. Cracked me up. I’d use him again.” Snarling his lip, Bax spat out a few French words about tourists, disdain, and other world’s ills.
“I didn’t catch her name,” Dylan said.
“You didn’t get her name?” The agent spaced the words, as though by dragging them out he could charge more. “You know, you get the most out of staff when you at least introduce yourself.” The agent made a disapproving cluck. “I’ll ask around.” He ended the call..
The French interpreter had been in the back when they’d mic’d him. Then later, she’d been a lovely voice in his head. And after the interview, she was gone. If she’d been backstage, he would’ve thanked her and gotten her name.
They reached the front of the hotel. Two doormen swung open the tall doors.
Dylan crossed into the lobby that was all pale blue marble and gilt trim. Piped-in classical music played in the background underneath the typical hotel sounds.
The reception on the left checked in a queue of elegant guests. The concierge on the right was setting up opera tickets for an older couple in full evening wear. All of that made the woman on Dylan’s right stand out. She wore a plum sweatsuit and tennis shoes and was getting a takeout bag from a food delivery guy.
American.
In a lobby of polished guests who mostly wore black, she popped. Was it the feminine color or the curves turning his head? Or was it that he needed a piece of home?
Her brunette hair waved down the graceful lines of her back and caught his attention. Then he saw her profile and heard her lovely voice.
Ha . Got ya .
He’d found his interpreter himself. Dylan smoothed his hair off his forehead.
Leaving Bax behind, Dylan strode over to her.
Lucky her.
She was about to get a job offer from a rock star.