Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
Gianna
“Okay,” I say, surveying the scene in front of me. “I think I’m ready.”
The small round table that Juni helped me lug from the storage area has been placed perfectly in the center of the room.
The size and shape give a friendly, conversational vibe like two old friends chatting away, and microphones just happen to sit in front of them.
I kept my signature canary-yellow chairs and placed them across from each other.
I fought a finance bro over those when I first started working at Canoodle.
Screwball thought he could just waltz in and claim ownership of my furniture because he liked it.
He learned a lesson that day, courtesy of moi.
“Now to find some lip gloss and we’ll be good to go,” I mumble, reaching for my bag. But just as my hand hits the strap, my phone glows with an incoming text.
Audrey: Good luck today! I’m tuned in and cheering for you. I know you’re going to do great.
Astrid: I just kicked Gray and Brooks out of the cabin so I can listen. SO excited for you, Gianna.
The way they remember little things that are important to me never ceases to amaze me.
My thumbs dance on the screen as I tap out my response.
Me: I didn’t sleep at all last night, so I overcompensated in the caffeine department.
Three cups of coffee and an energy drink, and now I’m jittery.
I’m not sure if I have too much confidence for this interview or if I’m in way over my head.
I also don’t know whether wearing a Wildfire concert tee was a smart or cheesy choice, but I did it anyway.
I mean, I look good, but is it too pick me?
Audrey: It’s a great idea. It’ll likely make Mercy feel more relaxed, and if nothing else, it’ll be a great icebreaker. You can tell her that you saw her in Atlanta last year. That will form a connection.
Astrid: I agree with Miss Smarty Pants over there.
I grin as my shoulders slump in relief. Even if they’re just telling me what I want to hear, because there’s no time to change if this was the wrong choice, I’m grateful. The validation feels good.
Me: Do you have any questions that you want me to ask Mercy? I might be able to slide in a couple of requests.
Astrid: I’m guessing backstage passes for her next show isn’t what you mean.
Audrey: Please ask her if she feels like she has an ethical responsibility for how her work is interpreted. Or does she feel that once she releases the music that it no longer belongs to her, so the burden of interpretation doesn’t either?
Typical Audrey. Snorting, I type out my response.
Me: I was thinking more like—What rock star is the best fuck? But I guess we can get philosophical.
Astrid: Of course, you were.
Audrey: Whatever you ask her will be brilliant, just like you.
“Oh, sweet Auddie,” I say because even though it reads like she’s full of shit, she’s not. She actually believes I’m brilliant and Astrid is a genius and we’re both goddesses. Audrey Van is the best of the best.
Me: I love you guys. Thanks for hyping me up.
Astrid: We’re just telling you the truth. Now go crush this interview.
Audrey: And text us when it’s over. Good luck!
Me:
I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and toss it in my bag. For a moment, I peer into its depths and consider rappelling to the bottom for my lip gloss. It’s not worth it.
Francine walks past the windows overlooking the hallway and waves before entering the room. “Hey, you. How are you feeling?”
“Buzzed on caffeine, battling impostor syndrome, and simultaneously on the verge of puking and needing a hamburger. You?”
She laughs, swinging a set of headphones from her index finger. “I can have a burger waiting on you when you finish, if you’d like.”
“Why are you so nice to me, Francine?”
“Not that it’s tit for tat, but I do remember someone throwing me a surprise party for my birthday last month,” she says. “That person also got a signed Royals jersey for me to give to my husband for our anniversary and refused to take any money for it, and she also—”
“Stop. Geez. I have a reputation to uphold around here.”
“Sorry. I forgot.” She winks and turns to the door. “Mercy should be here anytime. I’ll give you a heads-up when I hear that she’s arrived.”
A flash of excitement washes through me. “That would be great. Thanks.”
My stomach tightens just enough to notice as I turn on my computer and look over my notes once again.
Three a.m. Gianna did me a favor and put them in meticulous order.
I have a page filled with Mercy’s history and backstory, another listing her professional accomplishments, and a third with miscellaneous facts that I thought were interesting or could come up during our chat.
I also have a flow of questions to guide me in case I get performance anxiety.
That would be a first.
I take a deep, steadying breath and remind myself that this is fun. Sure, it’s my job, but it’s also an amazing opportunity. And, if all goes right, I might find myself in the Thursday slot after all.
“Gianna.”
The urgency in Francine’s voice has me whipping around to face her. As soon as our eyes meet, I stop dead in my tracks. The pale pink lipstick clinging to her lips is pressed into a thin line. Shoulders back and chin lifted, she’s the picture of trouble.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as my stomach careens to the floor.
“Don’t panic.”
“That instantly panics me.”
She holds a palm out as if it will steady me. “I just got a call from Mercy’s team. She’s been in a car accident.”
“What?” I grip the edge of my chair. “Is she okay?”
“I was told that she has some cuts and bruises, but they’re going to take her to the hospital as a precaution. Apparently, a semi-truck driver lost control. They believe it to be a medical emergency—a heart attack, probably—but he smashed into Mercy’s SUV.”
The news ricochets through my brain, barely making sense. “Is he going to be okay? Was anyone in the car with Mercy?”
“I’m not sure. Most of the information is being held close to the vest, as you can imagine.
Mercy’s publicist made it sound like there weren’t any serious injuries, but that could be a misunderstanding on my part.
I’m just uncertain.” Her chest rises and falls beneath her pretty cream-colored blouse.
“Mercy is obviously not going to make it this afternoon to the interview.”
The interview. Right. Shit.
I glance at my watch.
What do I do now?
“We aren’t allowed to say anything about the accident on air,” Francine says. “They’ll put out a statement later.”
“Oh, of course not. I wouldn’t want to out her like that. It’s not our business to share.”
Francine nods. “We have about ten minutes to figure out how to handle this. Do you have any ideas? Any preferences? I know you’re prepped for Mercy, but could we do call-ins?” She nibbles her bottom lip. “That doesn’t really explain the promised fireworks, though.”
I look at the ceiling, regretting all the yapping I did this week about today’s show. It could’ve been left as a true surprise. If it had, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.
“Do you have any clever ideas?” Francine asks. “You work well through chaos.”
Think, Gianna. “Well, we could say that our guest had an accident, right? And just not say her name?”
“Maybe. But news will break this evening that Mercy was in an accident in Nashville. If you say that, people will put two and two together. We’re better off not to touch it at all.”
“Okay. Let’s take a step back,” I say, pacing the room.
My heart pounds with each step I take, reminding me that every second that passes brings us another moment closer to the start of the podcast. “The worst-case scenario would be that something bad happened to Mercy or someone else in the accident. This just … sucks.” How can you fix this?
“I’ve played this up for days, and now I’m going to show up on air with a smile and an empty chair. ”
“Eight minutes doesn’t give us much time to work with. You could just not go on today. We can say you’re under the weather and run a previous segment. Oh!” She points at me, her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I know. We can run the live you did with Drake. People have gone feral for that.”
They have … And we could …
My attention is snagged by something over Francine’s shoulder. Something tall, muscled, with bright blue eyes.
The Tilt-A-Whirl I’ve been riding for the past couple of minutes screeches to a halt.
Drake isn’t Mercy Malone, but something tells me my viewers would be just as happy to see him for an hour. And it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship for me, either.
A quiver rumbles through my stomach as I check the time. Am I out of my mind? What would we talk about? What would I ask him? How do I make it as exciting as I’ve promised everyone?
I have no idea. But with time ticking, I don’t really have another choice.
Blood pounds through my veins, roaring over my eardrums. Sweat dots the back of my neck as adrenaline kicks in fast and hard. I’m not sure what kind of crisis my body is anticipating, but I know the one I’m about to give it.
“Francine, we have seven minutes,” I say, forcing a swallow down my throat. “Please get to your booth because we’re going live.”
Her brows arch in surprise, but a grin smooths the reaction. “You got it.”
I follow her to the doorway. As she exits, I reach out, wrapping my fingers around Drake’s forearm, and pull him to a stop.
He lifts a brow, grinning. “That’s one way to say hello.”
“Drake, I need you.”
“I knew it,” he says playfully. “Glad you’re finally on board.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you busy right now?”
“If I were, I’d cancel all my plans for you. Why? What’s up?”
Did he just flex his biceps? Damn. “This isn’t the time for jokes.” Or foreplay.
He smirks. “Who said I was joking?”
Other podcasters and support staff move past us, giving us curious looks as they go. A clock ticks in the back of my brain, reminding me that time is not on my side. Neither is privacy standing in the middle of Canoodle.
“Come here,” I say, dropping his arm and stepping into my recording studio. “Shut the door behind you.”
“I like where this is heading.”
I take a deep breath. Three minutes. “Keep this between us?”
“Absolutely.”
This isn’t going where he thinks it’s going, and that’s a shame. I wipe any indication of levity from my features. “Mercy Malone was supposed to be my guest today, but she’s been in an accident.”
His eyes go wide, but he doesn’t speak. Thankfully.
“I have three, maybe two minutes to find a replacement and—”
“What do you need?” He stares at me earnestly. “How can I help you?”
Francine taps the glass and holds up two fingers. Fuck.
I was so organized. The planning was done. I had a flow chart of topics, memorized Mercy’s life history, and even dug her concert T-shirt out of the back of my closet … for nothing.
“Need me to fill in?” Drake asks, already slipping off his jacket. “I think we’ve already established that I’m quite the draw.”
“Will you?”
He sits in the chair across from my computer and adjusts the mic. “Do you have a game plan for this, or are we winging it?”
Relief touches every piece of me as I drop into my seat. My entire body takes a breath. I start to speak, but choose that same moment to look up … and into those clear pools of blue. The genuineness in them pauses time, and the frantic pace of my brain finally eases.
I sense Francine motioning at me to be ready for the intro and see out the countdown flashing on my computer screen in my periphery.
The corner of Drake’s lips tilt to the sky in a mischievous smirk and I’m hit with a connection—the familiarity of him.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until now.
“Let’s wing it,” I say, putting on my headphones. “Are you ready?”
He puts on a set of headphones that were sitting by the mic. “I’m always ready.”
I grin. “Then let’s make some magic.”