Chapter 13
BIX
It takes me a few moments to remember I’m in Sam’s apartment when the morning sun nudges me awake again.
This time, my head throbs. There’s a water bottle by the bed. A sweet gesture.
I drain it, listening for sounds of coffee brewing, movement, anything. “Sam?” My voice sounds small in the massive room. “You here?”
Nothing.
I slide out of bed, finding pieces of last night scattered around.
Panties here, bra there, my white dress draped awkwardly over a chair. But no note. No Sam.
My red diary sits open on his sleek white desk. Did I leave it like that? Something feels off, but my hung-over brain can’t process it. I stuff it in my purse.
Once I’m dressed, I pause at the door Sam entered to take the call last night. “Sam?” I say as I knock.
No answer.
I turn and head down the hallway to the living room. The elevator button marked L seems obvious enough. But my fingers shake slightly as I press it.
Seventy floors is a long way down when your heart feels heavy.
The new concierge isn’t the friendly face from last night.
This one’s younger, sharper, probably wondering why I’m wearing a nightclub dress at 8 AM.
“Hi.” I try to sound confident. “I’m Sam’s guest.”
He nods, perfectly professional. Too professional.
“Did he leave any message for me?”
“I’m sorry, he didn’t, miss.”
Of course not. “If you see him, tell him I said goodbye?”
“Will do.” His eyes follow me across the marble lobby.
Or maybe that’s just my imagination, my cheeks burning with the squeaky sound of my Converse sneakers against the floor.
The morning air hits me like reality.
Last night feels dreamlike now—the wine, the kisses, his hands in my hair. The way he stopped when he realized... God, what must he think of me?
The subway car is packed, but I manage to catch my reflection in the window—curls wild, lips still slightly swollen, looking exactly like what I am: a girl doing the walk of shame.
Keesha’s in her usual position on the sofa when I enter, staring at her computer screen. She looks up at me, her chocolate brown eyes sparking with curiosity.
“Thank God you sent that email saying you were okay.” As always, her tone manages to be both relieved and disapproving. “And here I was thinking Zaza was teasing about your birthday man.”
I drop my purse, avoiding her gaze. Our pristine kitchen smells of strong Ethiopian coffee. “It’s not what you think.”
“No? Then what is it? Is this cousin even real?”
“Yes,” I lie uneasily. Then I meet Keesha’s unwavering eyes. “No. But I made up the story because I needed to be alone. To celebrate with Hilary,” I say quietly.
She nods, seeming glad to have the truth out in the open. “But then what?”
I exhale. This is why I didn’t want to have a roommate. Hilary never quizzed me like this. But then again, Hilary and I went everywhere and did everything together.
“I did meet a man, though I didn’t plan to. I spent the night with him. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. I’m here. You can see I’m alive. End of story, okay?”
I go to the bedroom we share.
Keesha follows me.
“That’s not like you.”
She’s right. It’s not like me at all.
I’m the sensible one. Was the sensible one.
“People aren’t always what they seem,” I say, turning to her. “Sometimes they surprise you.” That explanation feels inadequate. “This is my first birthday alone,” I add after a moment.
“I understand,” she says, nodding. “I have coffee on the stove. Can I get you a cup?”
“That would be great.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve shifted gears, preparing to collect my canine clients. Though I have to get going early, my summer job as a dog walker is great.
It gives me lots of free time to compose lyrics and melodies in my head, then jot them down in my notebook.
And I do it all while walking the tree-lined pathways of Central Park. Lots of folks who put money into my hat as I sing also walk their dogs through the park.
So my daily rounds are like hanging out with family and friends.
Since the weather is sunny and warm, I choose a lightweight sundress and top it off with my signature strands of pearls. They’re not real, but no one has to know that.
Then I grab my dedicated fanny pack filled with spare leashes, poop bags, and treats and head out the door.
Today’s clients include Winston, a golden retriever who thinks he’s a lapdog; Princess, the neurotic Yorkie; and Thor, a Chihuahua with delusions of being a German Shepherd.
I pick them up one by one and find that they’re exceptionally energetic today, like they can smell that something’s different about me.
And it's not just the spice from the noodle shop that won’t wash out of my hair.
We get underway, and fellow dog walkers nod as we pass, just living their normal lives—like I was, twelve hours ago, before meeting Sam.
“Hey, pretty girl!”
It’s Mr. Harrison, one of my best clients, looking crisp in his banker suit.
Thor yaps at him, protective as always, and I offer a friendly wave.
“Didn’t know you were a dog walker,” he says, nodding at my mismatched pack.
“Student life.” I shrug. “Any job to make ends meet, right?”
He slides something into my hand. “Meant to give you this last week, when I saw you performing. You’ve got real talent.”
I glance down. A hundred-dollar bill. “Mr. Harrison, this is too much—”
“Nonsense. You deserve every penny. And anything I can do to see your name in lights.” He smiles.
The dogs pull me away before I can protest further. But his words echo strangely, reminding me of Sam’s penthouse. Of possibilities I shouldn’t think about.
My phone buzzes just as I’m positioning the dogs for their daily photo op by Bethesda Terrace.
“You naughty girl!” Zaza doesn’t bother with hello. “Spill everything about this birthday man!”
“Not now, Zaza.” I adjust my grip on the leashes as Winston spots a squirrel.
“Fine, be mysterious. But I’ve got news. Big news.” Her voice shifts to serious. “Jimmy called.”
“The VIP who gave us our table at the club?”
“Yes. He wanted me to give you a message.”
“But I don’t even know him...”
“Right. Last night, Maxwell Sterling was there. He heard you sing. Jimmy said he wants your phone number.”
I nearly drop the phone. “Sterling Records? That Maxwell Sterling?”
The dogs sense my tension, circling closer.
A million possibilities cross my mind. The first is that he wants to sign me to a million-dollar contract. And Sterling Records isn’t just any label—they represent Slayer.
My pulse quickens at the memory of his performance last night, before everything else happened.
Once that fantasy dissipates, the second possibility occurs to me. Maybe this Sterling guy makes a habit of selecting a girl of the night.
“Why does he want my number?”
“Jimmy didn’t say,” Zaza replies. “But this could be your shot at fame.”
I hope so. But the last thing I want is some horny music mogul thinking he has me on speed dial. I temper my enthusiasm and force myself to be realistic. “Just like that? How do I know it’s legit?”
She scoffs. “You don’t. Not until you meet him.”
“Thanks, Zaza, but I think I’ll call him.”
“Okay. The ball’s in your court. But don’t overthink this one.”
When we hang up, I Google the number for Sterling Records on my phone.
The dogs stare up at me, tails wagging, noses twitching, ears perked—as if they’re eager for me to make the call.
“Okay, guys.” I hit call.
A receptionist answers, her tone clipped but polite. “Sterling Records. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes, hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “Could you put me through to Mr. Sterling, please? Ms. Bismark returning his call.”
After almost no wait, a man’s voice comes through.
Clipped. Arrogant.
“Ms. Bismark. This is Milo Holmes, Mr. Sterling’s assistant. He saw your impromptu performance last night and would like you to come in. Would noon be convenient?”
“For an audition?” I ask. “He wants to sign me with Sterling Records?”
But Milo only repeats himself. “Would noon be convenient?”
I run a mental checklist. My resume is ready. But what will I wear? What will I sing? “Today? Yes, it’s possible. But I need—”
“The situation is urgent,” he continues. “Mr. Sterling will tell you more when you arrive. I’ll send a car. Please give me your address.”
It’s all happening so fast, I find myself giving my address before I have the chance to think it through. Why does he need to see me immediately? A warning bell goes off, but before I know it, I’m thanking Milo and ending the call.
“Well, guys,” I say, grinning at the dogs. “Looks like somebody tossed me a real bone this time. I’ll share the bounty.”
I reach into my sack and pull out a container of biscuits, giving them each a premium treat.
They crunch happily, sharp teeth working overtime.
For a second, the world narrows to just the sound of them. Safe and simple.
I wrap the leashes around my wrist, pulling them in closer.
“All right, you freeloaders,” I tell them. “Let’s get you back to your mommies and daddies.”
I feel a dangerous flicker of hope.
Time to go home.
Time to get ready.
Time to see what happens when luck finally calls my name.