Chapter 53 Wyatt
WYATT
NOVEMBER
I’m doing a small charity set in Nashville tomorrow night and a little birdie told me you’re in town. I’ll send a car for you. -MM
SHE SIGNS IT MM.
I raise a brow. I’ll send a car for you. Presumptuous of her to think I’m interested in attending or even free to do so.
Of course, the answer to both those questions is yes.
And fate must want me to, because I just happen to be back in Nashville this weekend to pack up my apartment. The first cut of my album is done, and I’m going to rent a place in New York while Tobey and I polish it up. I’m thrilled with how it’s shaping up.
I set down my roll of packing tape and type a quick reply to Mollie May, saying I’m in.
My opinion of the pop princess, with her massive online following and platinum records, hasn’t changed per se.
I still don’t love her shiny, overproduced hits, but there was something about her that I really liked when we met.
Her intelligence, her humor. She seemed cool.
Plus, the fact that my mom likes her and even wrote a track for her counts for a lot with me.
Mollie May’s music might not be my jam, but I trust Mom’s opinion about people’s character.
As promised, a car collects me the following evening at my apartment. The venue is tucked inside an old hotel downtown, the event taking place in a large ballroom featuring tables with ornate centerpieces in gold accents and a stage lit by hundreds of candles.
Security is intense, which I’m starting to realize is par for the course for someone like Mollie May.
I read that she had to testify last year at the trial for one of her alleged stalkers.
One of. I can’t imagine living my life being stalked or worried that some unhinged fan is gonna murder me and wear me as a skin suit.
I slip inside the ballroom after security pats me down at the door.
I’m wearing a suit, and I actually styled my hair into some semblance of not-messy.
I scan the room, not sure where to stand or who to talk to.
I expected a lot of industry people, but it seems to be mostly civilians.
Older civilian women. A lot of women. The sign on the posterboard in the lobby said the charity is called the Later Years Foundation.
I spot her by the stage, laughing with a pair of older women. Her dark hair is piled in an artful mess, and she’s wearing a silky gold-yellow gown that looks incredible against her bronze skin. It hugs every curve of her body, and the asymmetrical hem allows her to flash a lot of thigh.
Mollie May waves me over like we’re old friends. “Wyatt!”
She separates herself from the group and saunters over. Her heels are black and strappy and wrap around her ankles.
“Look at you,” she draws. “You clean up nice. I’m loving the all-black. Very Johnny Cash of you.”
I tug at the collar of my dress shirt. “I have a complicated relationship with color,” I answer, and she laughs.
A waiter approaches, his tray laden not with champagne flutes but small glasses of something amber.
“Bourbon theme,” Mollie supplies, grinning.
“What is this charity?” I ask her, accepting the glass.
“They raise money for senior care, with a focus on women. I helped them out last year too. Had lunch with the chairwoman, and she was telling me how most nursing homes have more women than men. Since men, on average, die earlier. A lot of these women, the married ones especially, suddenly end up alone in these places, suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever other illnesses. ”
“That’s really sad.”
“I know. My abuela is in a similar situation,” Mollie May tells me. “So it’s sort of a personal cause for me.”
We chat about the charity for a bit longer, but soon my mind drifts, because I’m still not sure why she asked me to come tonight.
“You seem bored.”
I glance at her amused face. “Sorry. I was just…wondering why I’m here,” I admit.
“Got it. You’re a right-to-business kind of guy.” She sips her bourbon, drawing my gaze to her red lips. “I bribed Tobey to send me some tracks from your album.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did he?”
“Oh yeah, that man will do anything for me.” She winks. “Most men do. But I’ve been listening to them nonstop and—”
“Mollie May,” someone interrupts. “I need to steal you away for a moment. Veronica is dying to meet you!”
I swallow my frustration as she dashes off. I’m forced to spend the next fifteen minutes waiting for her to return. I’m almost done my bourbon when she gets back.
“Why doesn’t anyone ever call you just Mollie?” I ask curiously.
“Because my name is Mollie May. Technically, it’s one word. My birth certificate has a hyphen. Mollie-May Rivera.” She grins. “Courtesy of an Irish mother and Puerto Rican dad. If anyone calls me by a nickname, it’s usually Mol. Anyway, back to business. I wanted to—”
But then we hear, “Mollie May, you’re on.”
She stops again. “Shit. Hold that thought again. Time to shine.”
My head is spinning as I watch her saunter toward the stage. I chat with an assistant to one of the record label execs as we wait for her set to start. He whispers that it’s ten thousand dollars a head to get into this event. Jesus Christ.
A hush goes through the ballroom. The ambiance is intimate and seductive with the candlelit tables and velvet ropes.
There’s no band onstage, only a piano, a guitarist on a stool, a cellist, and a lot of candles.
That startles me. Mollie’s shows are usually such productions that it feels wrong to watch her grace such a simple stage with just her sleek yellow gown.
No Auto-Tune, no backup dancers, no pyro. Just her and the mic.
And holy fuck, she’s good. She covers a Patsy Cline song, soulful and sultry, then launches into one of her own tracks, only it’s been stripped down to acoustic guitar.
For a moment, I have to grit my teeth, because I hate being wrong. Plus, I feel like an asshole. This woman is talented. I’ve spent years judging her as bubble gum, and it turns out she might have more talent than I can ever dream of having.
When her set ends, she glides off the stage and spends the next thirty minutes chatting with attendees, accepting their heaps of praise, and flitting from group to group like a pro. I can see why they paid her the big bucks to attend. She’s probably raking in the cash for this charity.
Finally, she sidles up to me near the silent auction table. “Well?” she says, tipping her head.
I tip my head back. “Well, what?”
“Did you like my set?”
“It was incredible.”
She nods, then casually says, “You want to open for me on tour?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before. My opening act got a DUI last week.”
“Stylo Lewis?” I say in surprise.
“Yep. Not a good look. So we’re hunting down a replacement.” She shrugs. “I’m thinking you.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. You in?”
I’m still battling shock. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Mollie May, the biggest pop star in the world, to invite me on tour with her.
“But…” My head spins. “Our styles are…”
“Day and night?” she fills in.
“I mean, yeah.”
“That’s why I want you.” She winks and I get the feeling it means in more ways than one. “I always go with singer-songwriter openers. It helps ease the audience in before I drop them into chaos.”
I have to grin, because I’ve seen clips of her tours. Fire, pyro, backup dancers in latex.
“I loved what Tobey sent me. Those tracks. Especially ‘Lightkeeper.’” She shivers.
“Slow in the right places, moody where it needs to be, and then you belt out that last chorus and holy Jesus. That balance is hard to pull off, but you do it so well. And it doesn’t hurt that you have that”—she waves vaguely at me—“face.”
“My face?” I echo with a grin.
“You’re hot,” she says frankly. “And we need to make these straight girlies and gay boys happy. Give them some eye candy.”
“You’re really selling me on this tour.”
She laughs. “I don’t need to sell it. You’re already saying yes.”
I smirk. “Am I?”
“Well, you’d be a fool to say no.”
She’s called away again then, leaving me reeling from the invitation.
Mollie May wants me to open for her. Am I fucking dreaming? And am I really going to say yes? I’ve spent years mocking her songs like a pretentious jackass, insisting it’s not real music. I’d look like a goddamn hypocrite if I joined her on tour.
But I also just watched her perform without any effects, flash, or gimmicks, and I’m big enough to admit I’m wrong. She is a musician.
And like she said…
I’d be a fool to say no.
Three hours later, the ballroom has mostly emptied out. I expect Mollie May to be whisked off by her bodyguards at any second. I’m already edging toward the door, wondering if the car that deposited me here is also going to deposit me home.
Mollie May notices me trying to leave and shakes her head no. Then she waves her handlers over and says something to them. Within minutes, the staff and hangers-on are ushered out, doors closing behind them.
“Wow,” I tell her when she joins me. “You know how to clear a room.”
“Practice.” She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the grand piano on the stage. “Come on. Music’s calling,” she teases. I watch as she sinks onto the bench, the silk of her gown pooling around her knees and ankles. “Let’s play something.”
Shrugging, I join her, and we spend the next several minutes messing around with melodies and harmonizing until we find a groove.
We sing the duet that my mom wrote for Mollie May and Stylo Lewis, and I’m a bit floored, because we sound like a real duo.
Our voices go well together, hers rich with surprising tenderness.
Once again, I feel like a piece of shit for thinking she lacked talent.
The last strains of the song echo in the ballroom. Mollie May turns to me, her brown eyes soft.
Then she kisses me.
It’s bold and unexpected. Her mouth moves against mine like she knows exactly what she wants, and I hesitate only for a moment before kissing her back, giving in to the teasing strokes of her tongue.
“Fuck, you’re a good kisser,” she mumbles.
I deepen the kiss and try to drag her closer, but she laughs and then hops up. The ivory keys clang under her thighs as she climbs onto the piano’s glossy black top. She pulls me to my feet and yanks my body toward hers. Her dress rides up as she wraps her legs around me.
“You sure about this?” I murmur against her jaw.
“Wouldn’t have cleared the room if I wasn’t.”
Our mouths collide again, rougher this time. I skim my hands along the curve of her spine, stroking the bare flesh that’s exposed by her backless gown. She responds eagerly, tugging my shirt out of my waistband. But when she reaches between us, she finds me completely soft.
She eases back, panting slightly. Her lipstick is smudged. Pupils blown. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow hard, still gripping her hips. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Now she frowns.
“I want to want this,” I say with a heavy breath.
“But?”
“But I don’t. Not really.” My hands drop to my sides. “I’m in love with someone else.”
I step away from the piano and scrub my fingers through my hair. What the hell is wrong with me? Blake and I are done, and there’s a beautiful woman sprawled on top of a fucking piano wanting to have sex with me.
But I can’t make my body or my heart cooperate. They’re not even at odds with each other—they’re in perfect harmony that I don’t want to do this. Kissing her felt nice for all of ten seconds before it turned hollow, empty, like trying to light a fire with wet matches.
There’s a long beat before Mollie May lets out a little laugh and wipes the corner of her mouth. “Jesus, you musicians. Always bleeding from somewhere.”
“Sorry,” I say roughly.
“Don’t be.” She slides off the piano, smoothing her dress as if what just happened between us was no big deal. “Honestly, I was mostly curious if the mouth matched the voice.”
My answering laughter is equal parts guilt and relief. “Guess I’m off the tour?” I quip.
“Not a chance.” She flashes an impish smile.
“That kind of sexual tension makes for great shows. I’m already envisioning at least one duet.
Besides, I’m sleeping with one of the guys in the band, and he’s not in love with someone else.
” She steps toward me and fixes the lapel of my shirt.
“You’re allowed to bring someone, by the way. ”
I blink. “What?”
“My drummer always brings his girlfriend along. It’s not a big deal if you want to invite this girl you’re in love with. As long as they don’t mind living out of a suitcase for six months and don’t get in the way, significant others are welcome.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“Yes, you have.” She pats my arm. “Tour starts before Thanksgiving. Boston’s up first. See you there.”
brEAKING NEWS
New couple alert?? Mollie May spotted with MYSTERY MAN at charity event!
Looks like the annual Later Years Foundation gala in Nashville last night was a lot more exciting than expected… Cameras caught pop princess Mollie May getting cozy with a mystery man, sources revealing that the pair were inseparable all night.
But who is our mystery man? As of yet, nobody knows, but these photos have sent the internet into a tailspin and the internet sleuths on a hunt for answers.
Our exclusive sources reveal not only was the couple whispering to each other during the gala, but Mollie May’s staff cleared the entire ballroom after the event so the two could enjoy a little…privacy.
Mollie May is notoriously private about her romantic life, so last night’s PDA is raising eyebrows and creating much speculation. Is this a PR stunt, or has Mollie May finally found a [read more]