Chapter 2 #2
Vivienne taps her tablet; the wall screen fires up. “Agenda: we’re supporting a literacy charity here in New York.The city’s library foundation expects a record turnout if Storm the small beauty mark just right of her mouth, uncovered when our kiss smudged her lipstick; the perfect V in her upper lip where my tongue traced the edge of a gasp.
You don’t forget geography you’ve mapped with your own heartbeat.
In the publicity shot she’s framed by orderly bookshelves instead of chandeliers.
A librarian bun replaces the feathered fascinator, pearls replace glitter, and the contrast hits harder than any encore spotlight.
My pulse stumbles into a new tempo—half terror, half holy-shit wonder.
Out of eight million New Yorkers, the foundation paired us with her.
And just like that, last night’s reckless spark ignites into strategy.
I want another taste of that laugh—sharp and clever, not the practiced giggles I hear in green rooms. I want to see if the woman who challenged me with that sharp mind will spar with me over coffee—then maybe let me kiss the comeback right off her tongue.
Part intrigue, part conquest—the kind of challenge that used to keep tour boredom at bay—yet something warmer thrums underneath: the hope that she might see the man beneath the stage lights and still decide he’s worth a second chapter.
Lucas says something, but the words reach me as if through aquarium glass; all I hear is the blood-rush in my ears and the roaring thought that fate just called my bluff—and this time I’m going all-in.
Vivienne keeps talking. “She’ll be our liaison. Press says she revived their adult-literacy nights and runs ESL storytelling for immigrant grandparents.”
Lucas whispers, “Still breathing, bro?”
“Barely,” I mutter.
Vivienne flips to the logistics assignments. “The city’s offering a contractor for stage load-in, so they’ll handle everything.”
Opportunity.“I’ll do it,” I cut in—too loud.
Every head swivels. Lucas nearly chokes on his cronut.
Vivienne blinks. “What do you mean you’ll do it? You can’t be running cable and setting up porta-potties.”
“Why not?” I shrug. “I like the groundwork. Lets me scope out the venue ahead of time. Reminds me of the good old days. You know I used to do all this back when we were nobodies.” I say it casually, but my heart’s hammering against my ribs.
She inspects me. Vivienne can sense half-truths like a wolf smells weakness. “Fine. But you go incognito—crew bus, no security entourage. Pick an alias.”
“Matt Donovan,” I answer instantly. Matt was my middle-school stage name the year I fronted a garage band that folded after three gigs. Feels like borrowed innocence.
Lucas is still gawking. “Dude, you hate early call-times.”
“Love a good charity more,” I shoot back. This gig is my chance to see my mystery lady—Nora—again.
When the meeting breaks, Vivienne hands me a thick cream folder. “Hard copy for the liaison. Study it, stick to the plan, and try not to turn this into another sideshow, understood?”
I give her my most innocent grin and keep the real answer—too late—to myself.
She sighs—the kind that precedes extended damage control—and motions me toward the hallway.
Before we exit, she pauses. “I need you clear-headed, Damien.” She’s the only one who calls me by my middle name—used to be stage name pre-rehab, back when Max Donovan was always on a bender.
“Last year’s sobriety milestone doesn’t erase temptation. ”
“I know.” Truth: every day since rehab has involved some degree of temptation. I chew it like nicotine gum.
She strides off with one last warning glance my way, heels staccato against concrete.
Back in the loft I crack the folder. Nora’s résumé rustles like fresh pages. Academic credentials, grant-writing accolades, a quote from her grad thesis: “Stories are blueprints for the futures we dare to build.” My future has been nothing but raucous noise; her blueprint hums quiet possibility.
Goal: find out if Nora Davidson is even half as intriguing as my mystery woman from last night. Then figure out my next move.
***
My phone dings—email from Jake Armstrong, Senior Entertainment Columnist. Subject line: Legacy Questions.
I open it. Inside: a clipped, official photo of my father—press conference backdrop, suit sharp, smile practiced. He looks every inch the polished man he wants the world to believe he is. Underneath, one line: “Remind you of anyone? Genes don’t lie.”
No threat. No signature. But the message is clear. Jake is chasing my DNA.
Lucas slips in, reading my expression. “Journalist?”
“Yeah.”
“Something interesting?”
“This time he wants a paternity scoop.”
Lucas whistles. “That secret’s held decades. Think he can crack it?”
“Everything was buried—we made sure of that.”
My stomach knots. I don’t want my mom dragged into this. She means too much to me.