16. Things Are Coming Together
NICKY
The second Miami concert was as fantastic as the first one, and it wasn’t just my uninformed opinion. I was assigned to help in the VIP suite again, and the journalist from Keep the Beat nodded in appreciation when “Oriza Eh” was moved in the set to the end of the first act.
“Smart,” he said. “She’s leaving the stage as a total winner. They’ll have twenty minutes to bask in the glow.”
Was he talking about Sheree and her band basking, or the audience? It was unclear, but I didn’t want to point out my ignorance by asking. He’d already asked for ten minutes with Aftermath after the concert, and this time I’d gotten a side office where my guys could meet with the press. Dickie’s Sounds of the Southeast episode had dropped that afternoon, and press attention had grown.
Who, me? Feeling proud? Don’t be silly. I was just the little intern who got coffee for Bruce and held programs for Sheree to sign. I didn’t know a thing about marketing or business or promotions.
Go ahead. Keep underestimating me.
I did not let my grin show.
Aftermath made it to the VIP suite before Sheree finished her encores. The three of them smelled like soap and handsome male, all dressed in their signature colors. Archer, blinding as the sun in his beauty, was holding Charlotte’s leash. She was prancing at his side, carrying his now-tattered boot in her mouth.
“Our girl can come with us, right?” he asked me, looking to Fist at the door.
Fist looked at him impassively, and Bruce left his schmooze with an uninterested-looking TV field reporter to come forward to ruin Archer’s happiness.
I grabbed Archer’s lean, muscled arm and tugged him away. “I’ve got you guys an office to meet with the press. Come this way.”
Fist tipped me a wink as I left, and I showed the guys into the office. No view of the stage, but also no objections to having a dog. Archer unclipped her leash immediately, and she flopped to the floor to chew contentedly.
“She had to be leashed to the sofa again during the concert,” he said. “Nicky, can you take her when we’re onstage?”
There was nothing I wanted to do more than make that man happy, but I foresaw problems. “If I’m on merch duty, sure. I’m happy to have her. But when Bianca puts me in the VIP suite . . . well, you saw. Fist and allergies and people who are afraid of—yes, look at you, such a baby. Look at those eyes!”
I indulged myself in a little Charlotte cuddle but got to my feet again when the thunder of applause made it clear that Sheree had said her final good night.
“Okay, two journalists want some time with you, and they both want to be back in time to see Sheree come into the VIP suite, so I’m going to keep you guys on a schedule, and then you can join the meet-and-greet once you’re done here. Good?”
“Two interviews,” Mal said happily. “This tour is awesome.”
Sure, I thought as I went to get the Keep the Beat guy. It’s the tour that’s earning you press attention. Sure it is. Don’t worry about who I’m emailing, the contacts I’m forming, the momentum I’m going to build for you guys. Keep underestimating me.
Both journalists had their interviews, and when Sheree needed an extra ten minutes to meet with the president of her Miami fan club, one of the TV news crews filled the empty time with a quick Aftermath interview, mostly about “The Salesman” and the kinds of jobs Archer had before his career as a rock god. Everyone left smiling.
Once they were released from their interviews, I knew what was expected of me. I collected more commemorative programs for Bruce so Sheree could sign them for the high-dollar ticket buyers. And I kept an eye on Archer, who easily joined the meet-and-greet lineup. Mal and Ian were in the hall with Fist, the dog, and Gavin and Freddy from Sheree’s band. It was managed chaos once Sheree arrived, and I was glad to be helping her.
Until a curly-haired blonde appeared and attached herself to Archer. Like a leech. Give the man room to breathe, darling. He’s a singer. He needs oxygen more than he needs your man-made tits crushing his chest.
I leaned down to grab another armful of programs. When I stood, Archer and the blonde were in the hallway, talking to Mal and Ian.
Then Archer and the blonde were gone.
Maybe she was his sister. Maybe she was a nun trying out spandex clothing in order to better understand her parishioners. Maybe she was dying, and Archer was her last wish.
She was a ho. Going after my man.
Getting my man.
Gone.
Well, shit.
I kept my smile professional and tried not to mind. He was a rock star on tour. Groupies were going to want to sleep with him. It didn’t mean true love. It just meant . . .
Ugh. Paternity suits and sexually transmitted diseases and women of low character who didn’t understand the soul of an artist. The tramp.
The question, I decided, was: Did I want to talk to Archer when we all got back to the bus? The drive to Alabama was long enough that I could gently introduce to him the dangers of casual sex with sluts in some dark corner of a rapidly emptying stadium. It would be awkward. But what kind of a friend would I be if I said nothing?
What chance would I stand with him if he didn’t realize my calmness, my understanding, my—my—high moral fiber?
My willingness to find myself with him in a dark corner of a rapidly emptying stadium?
Damn. I was just as much a slut as she was. The only difference was she had Archer.
For now.
I had him for the entire night. For the entire tour.
Advantage: Nicky.
I needed to buy a spandex dress.
I still wasn’t sure how I was going to handle it by the time I got back to the bus. I greeted Ken as if it had been more than two days in the hotel. Mal and Ian were in the front of the bus, Mal (as usual) at the kitchen banquette, where he could bang his hands on the table if he needed to, and Ian (as usual) in the swivel chair that let him hold his guitar comfortably to play endless scales.
Charlotte slithered off the banquette by Mal to wiggle delightedly to me, and I fell to my knees to greet her. “Hi, baby!”
“Okay, Ken,” Mal said. “We’re all here. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”
Ken leaned around his enclosure. “Where’s his royal blondness?” he asked. “He not coming?”
Mal waved a hand in dismissal. Was he avoiding catching my eye? “He’s meeting us in Montgomery in time for sound check.”
What?
“Picked up a road chickie, huh?” Ken shook his head. “You kids. So fucking young. Sorry for cursing, little missy.”
The big bus engine rumbled to life and we pulled out, from the artificial daylight in the subterranean garage to the darkness of night over the highway.
“Archer’s meeting us in Montgomery?” I repeated woodenly. He was spending the night with her?
“He’ll be there. Don’t worry.” Mal looked unhappy saying it.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Nicky.” Ian’s sympathy was hard to bear. “He just likes women.”
“Sure,” I said brightly. I kissed Charlotte’s fuzzy head and stood. “Of course. I’m going to get settled in. It was nice having a hotel room for a few nights, huh? ’Scuse me.”
More nervous drumming on the table. More guitar scales.
Blech. What a bad night.
I pulled myself together. Changed my work clothes for sweats and a T-shirt. Found my laptop and charger and joined Mal at the kitchen table.
And found reasons to smile in my emails. “That’s two—no, three journalists who want to meet with you guys in Montgomery.”
“No shit?” Mal was happy for a reason to smile back at me. “That’s awesome.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” Ian added. At least he knew why the press was suddenly interested in interviewing them.
“Aw,” I said modestly. “I’m sure it’s Dickie’s blog episode.”
“Sure,” Ian said, changing keys as he played endless scales. “And Dickie just happened to be wandering past. Stopped by to see if anyone had anything interesting for him to talk about.”
I looked back to my laptop to mask my smile.
Mal was confused. “He came for Sheree, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said staunchly. Ian smiled. I had another seven journalists to contact in Montgomery and eleven more potential contacts for the St. Louis concert after that. I got busy typing.
It was a tribute to the nocturnal nature of the music industry that the Lyre Records legal department sent me an email at 2:42 in the morning.
“Hey!” I said, delighted in the face of endless guitar scales. “Lyre Records signed the merchandise contract for you guys!”
Mal pulled out his earbuds. “What?”
“Yeah! Morey signed for you guys, and my adviser approved the project. We’re official!”
“Congratulations.” Ian’s half smile didn’t interrupt the notes flowing out of the guitar.
“What now?” Mal asked.
“Now I have to get competitive bids from five vendors, including the two that Lyre Records recommends.”
“Bids for what?” Mal was interested.
“I’m thinking hoodies. You guys like the idea? Sheree doesn’t have a hoodie in her merch, and I’ve watched plenty of people buy fifty-dollar Sheree sweatshirts for these skinny daughters who can’t handle the stadium air conditioning before the concert starts. I figure an Aftermath hoodie might be a good seller.”
“She’s getting fifty bucks for a sweatshirt?” Ian’s eyebrows went up thoughtfully. “That’s pretty good money. How much would you sell a hoodie for?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what kind of a deal I can get on manufacturing. And I only have a few weeks to get them in, which lets out China entirely. Fortunately, I have contacts at some manufactories in Delaware.”
“You do?” Mal asked.
I bopped my finger lightly on his adorable nose. “You’re looking at the corporate services manager for Swan Soft Cleaners in Dover, Delaware—at least, when I’m not in college. I know some people.” It wasn’t often that I got to feel smug about having contacts in the clothing industry.
“Well, let’s get going!” Mal leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s talk color and style and images! What are you thinking?”
I had to talk them into the photo I wanted to use on the front. They didn’t think Archer nose to nose with Charlotte was rock ’n’ roll enough. I had to remind them that we were looking to sell hoodies to teenage girls who’d come to see Sheree.
“Put it on a black hoodie,” Ian said. “You’ll get the teenage boys too. Skateboarders. Guys who want to look like skateboarders.”
“Too girly!” Mal cried again.
Ian shut him down. “Handsome picture of Archer? What else do you think is going to sell? Put that mug and pup on a dishrag and it’ll sell.”
And that settled the argument. If Archer had wanted to get in on the discussion, he should have avoided picking up a floozy for meaningless sex.
“How about the back?” Mal asked. “Something more manly?”
“I was just thinking the word “aftermath.” Like it’s a motorcycle club?” I said.
Mal liked the motorcycle-club idea. “Yeah. That’s good!”
I needed two-thirds of Aftermath to approve the design by contract. I looked to Ian. “You do what you think is best,” he said firmly.
“Agreed,” Mal added.
“You realize you’ve just given me the right to sell candy-pink hair scrunchies with your names on them?”
Mal laughed, and Ian smirked. “Where were you a few days ago when I needed a candy-pink hair scrunchie? I’m damn near bald today. Do your worst, Nicky. You’re far and away the best manager we’ve ever had.”
“Amen to that,” Mal cheered.
The small bloom of warmth in my chest, I decided, was pride. It did a lot to erode the anger and pain at Archer’s absence.
Ken pulled over a little after four so we could take Charlotte for her good-night walk, and that was the signal for all of us to realize how tired we were. Charlotte took her boot and dragged it into Archer’s bunk. “That can be her den.” I sighed in resignation. “She’s going to be big enough to fill it alone in about five minutes.”
“Serves Archer right,” Mal said before he disappeared into his upper-level bunk.
Ian was standing in the back lounge. He looked at me, and I looked back.
“He’s not even here,” Ian said, gesturing to the daybed behind him. “Care to sleep in here?”
When we finally settled on the sofa together, I sighed. “I did have nightmares last night,” I admitted.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Ian asked. “I called you.”
“I did. I called you back. You didn’t answer.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I took Charlotte for a walk, and I forgot my phone.”
I couldn’t get my head around the concept. No female I knew would dare to walk late at night without a phone at the very least.
He finished his thought. “By the time I got back, I decided you were probably already asleep.”
“I probably was. Dreaming of being battered into a bloody mess by bonus Sheree CDs fired at me by cannons.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. It was so stupid. And I was so scared.”
He turned onto his side and rubbed a knuckle along my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I hate that you have these nightmares.”
“Me too. But now that the contract is signed and I can get started on the design and manufacturing, I think the pressure is going to ease.”
He was silent. “So when you don’t need me to ward off the nightmares anymore, how am I going to get to sleep?”
His tone said he was trying to make a joke, but the underlying pain was more obvious than he realized. “You didn’t sleep last night?”
He sighed and rolled to his back again. “A little while. Not long.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He turned to look at me. “Not your fault, Nicky.”
“Not my fault,” I agreed. “But it sure seems like we can help each other. At least for now.”
“I’ll settle for at least tonight. I don’t know what it is, but when you’re beside me, I can feel sleep right beyond my reach. Like, if I close my eyes, I could catch it.”
“Then close your eyes, Ian. Catch it. Go to sleep. When you do, your playing is nothing short of brilliant.”
I shouldn’t have said it because his body tensed up again. Not a tranquil thing, I thought to myself, to say to a musician on an important tour.
“You think?”
“Not just me. One of the journalists who interviewed you tonight? He was watching you guys play and he said you were—what did he say? Blistering, I think.”
“Good blistering? Or bad blistering?”
“There’s a bad blistering?” As soon as I said it, I realized how stupid it sounded. It made me laugh, and he chuckled with me.
“Did he say it like it was a good thing?”
“Like it was a very impressive thing. That’s when he wanted ten minutes with you guys. Before then he just wanted to meet you.”
“Oh. Nice.”
I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. I ran my fingers down his arm until I found his hand. I traced the fingertips but missed what I was looking for. “I thought there would be calluses here from playing.”
He snorted and swapped hands, putting his left hand in mine. “Try those. That feel more like what you were expecting?”
“There it is.” The tips of his fingers were toughened and slightly rough. “All four fingers but not the thumb?”
“Here.” He moved my fingers to the inside of his thumb. “I don’t play as much over the keyboard, but there’s a little callus here. How about this one?” He used my finger to trace along his pointer. “That’s from bar chords. Now you know all my guitarish spots.”
I smiled in the darkness, tracing the long lines of his warm hand, then realized I was essentially holding Ian’s hand while we both lay in bed. I pulled my hand away and tucked my arms into my body.
“Want me to nudge you with my foot so you relax?” he teased. I chuckled but didn’t answer. What was there to say? “It’s okay. He won’t know, Nicky. He’s not even here.”
“I know.” I looked away. Why was I pining for a man who was probably already balls-deep in a curly-headed harlot?
“Okay.” He sighed. “Stop thinking about it. Think about—about the hoodie. Or how you’re going to promote Aftermath. Or maybe firing bonus CDs from a cannon at Bianca.”
That made me giggle. “Sharp edges first,” I said.
“All edges of a CD case are sharp,” he agreed.
“All right, then.” I felt better. “Let’s try to catch that sleep.”
“Close your eyes.”
“You close your eyes.”
“Together. Like we’re jumping off a diving board.”
“Here we go.”
“Do your breathing trick so I can listen to you.”
“You breathe like me.”
“Okay. Let me hear you.”
The nighttime was foolishness and breathing and then the oblivion of glorious, delicious sleep . . . until I realized that with the arrival of sunlight, something else had arrived.
Something that was now poking insistently into my ass.
Ian, sound asleep and tucked up behind me, was large and as hard as iron.
I’d led him on. Caressing his hand. Tucking carelessly into the curve of his body. This was my fault.
Uh-oh.