CHAPTER 31
TYLER
The awards show weekend was Tyler’s least favorite time of year.
Sebastien paraded the SDM team around to prove he was still thriving and relevant.
He’d even sprung for business-class seats—using points, of course.
This year, he was going all out since Cary Kingston was receiving the Lifetime Achievement award and being inducted into the Hall of Fame.
Ever the opportunist, Sebastien knew the optics mattered.
Tyler had some time to kill when she arrived at the hotel in Saskatoon. Cary’s flight wasn’t arriving until later that afternoon, so she called Dylan on FaceTime.
“What’s up?” her sister asked, lowering the phone to her belly.
“Oh! I can see the bump! How do you feel?”
“A little tired but pretty good, in general.” Dylan brought the phone up to her face. “Where are you? Where’s the little panda?”
“I’m in Saskatoon. I dropped Rory off at the Rex Dog Hotel. The little stinker didn’t even look back when I left.”
Dylan inched the phone closer. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I haven’t talked to you since I was in Austin.”
“How was Austin?”
She paused for a moment, not sure what to say. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
“What did you do?” Dylan asked.
“Nothing.” She rolled her eyes. “We ran into Dave.”
Dylan’s eyes flashed open. “What the fuck?”
“I know. His band was playing at the bar we went to, and I nearly died, Dylan.”
“And he saw you?”
“Oh yeah. And Cary, too.”
“No!” Dylan covered her mouth with her hand. “What did you say?”
“I told him to fuck off.”
“That was a long time coming,” her sister said. “How did Cary react?”
“Kind of jealous.” She giggled, still not understanding how her ex-boyfriend could pose a threat to him. “If you want to know the truth, he took me back to the hotel and nearly ripped my clothes off.”
“Men.” Dylan sighed. “It’s always some pissing contest.”
“We had period sex.”
“Well, it happens every month, Tyler. Although right now, I don’t miss having it.”
“I’d never had it before.”
“You’re kidding? Even with Dave?”
“He wouldn’t touch me that week,” she said. “It was like I was hexed.”
“Fucking Dave.” Dylan breathed heavily. “I never liked him.”
“That makes two of us, three counting Dad.”
Later that afternoon Tyler’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Cary.
Here. Club Level. Where are you? xo
She replied, Room 909. Come :)
After Cary agreed to accept the award, she told Lara to reserve a block of rooms on the same floor for the SDM team.
But Sebastien insisted on staying next door to his number-one client—without paying for a suite.
Not that he needed to. The hotel upgraded him the moment he dropped Cary’s name, which he did often to score perks.
Moments later, Tyler opened her door and peeked out, scanning both ways as if she were crossing the street.
The music industry thrived on gossip, and no one could know about her and Cary before Sunday’s awards show.
Sebastien still had the power to shut down her band, and she couldn’t let that happen.
Millions would see Yestown’s TV debut—no matter what it took.
“Hi, babe.” Cary planted a kiss on her cheek. “God, you look beautiful.”
“Shh!” she cautioned, closing the door after him. “We’ve got to be careful.”
“It’s nuts we aren’t sharing a room,” he said. “We’re sneaking around like criminals.”
“Smooth criminals.” Michael Jackson’s song was one of her favorite dance jams and she didn’t care who knew it.
She had no problem separating an artist from whatever bad things they allegedly did.
It wasn’t her job to judge them. “It’s just until Sunday, I promise.
” She kissed him quickly. “After your rehearsal I thought we’d grab dinner with Kim and Vegas before the show. ”
“I’d rather stay here and grab you.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “Are you trying to babysit me?”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe a little. Sorry. You don’t have to come.”
“Like hell.” He straightened his arms and looked at her. “You’ve only been raving about the Oh Claires for how many months?”
“I know! I had to pull some strings to get them on the showcase.” She popped off his beanie and tousled his hair. “I even played the chick card.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’d imagine being a girl band is a hard sell around here.”
She gave him a flirtatious smile and edged her fingers down his zipper. “I don’t mind that it’s hard. I prefer it.”
“How much time do we have?”
Tyler had scheduled his awards show rehearsal for five p.m.—the exact same time as the dullest event of the year: the President’s Reception. Her plan was flawless. No Sebastien, no distractions—just the two of them. Sebastien loved schmoozing with music execs more than life itself.
“Two hours,” she told him, unable to keep the smile off her face. “Plenty of time for what I have in mind.”
He tilted his head, eyes dark with amusement. “I’m afraid we’re not on the same page.”
She dropped onto the edge of the bed, her heart giving a little skip. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
He stepped closer, voice low. “A hundred years wouldn’t be enough time for what I have in mind.”
She glanced at her watch, pulse quickening. “Then you’d better get started.”
Kim and Vegas skipped the showcase to catch up on sleep, and Tyler couldn’t blame them. They’d been running on fumes for weeks, with barely a break—aside from that one lazy day in Austin, which already felt like a lifetime ago.
Tyler and Cary arrived at the venue with their all-access passes in hand, flashing them at the bouncer to bypass the line. A few people gave Cary a second glance on the way in, but with his beanie pulled low and dark-rimmed glasses in place, no one bothered him.
Their timing was perfect. A local band from Vancouver had just wrapped their set.
She’d seen them a million times, and somehow, they still hadn’t improved.
Why hadn’t they called it quits already?
The only explanations she could come up with were free drinks and the occasional groupie.
Not exactly a sustainable business model.
Tyler surveyed the room, but as she’d suspected the only music industry person there was Allie Kowalski. Everyone else was out partying like it was SXSW.
“I’m stoked to see this band,” Allie said, standing on her tiptoes and peering over Cary’s head. “No fucking Tommy?”
“No fucking Tommy,” Tyler said, hugging her friend. “I wasn’t about to invite him.”
Allie blew out a breath. “Fucking asshole.”
“I know,” she concurred. “Him and Sebastien.”
“Is Porter coming?” Cary asked.
Porter Reynolds was the president of Allie and Tommy’s booking agency. He’d made the “30 Under 30″ list at twenty-one after selling his first company for a ridiculous sum. Sebastien and the old guard couldn’t stand him—for his swagger, his millions, and the fact that he didn’t play by their rules.
“Totally not his scene, man,” Allie said, thumbs flying across her screen. “He thinks everyone in the music biz is an idiot.”
“He’s not entirely wrong,” Tyler muttered, glancing around the room. “I don’t see anyone we know here.”
Allie didn’t even look up. “Good.”
“Can I get you ladies a drink?” Cary offered.
Allie nodded. “Sure, I’ll have a beer. Thanks.”
“Beer, please,” Tyler said. What if someone recognizes him? Then again, Cary Kingston in a shitty bar in Saskatoon? It wasn’t very likely.
After he was out of earshot Allie gave her a sideways glance. “What’s that about?”
“It’s exactly what you think it is.” She wasn’t about to lie to her. “He’s my boyfriend.”
“Nice!” Her eyes drew inward. “Does Sebastard know?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t worry, man.” She angled her head toward the bar. “My lips are sealed. So, how’s the sex?”
Tyler closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. “I can’t even.”
A few moments later the Oh Claires plugged in their guitars and cranked their volume knobs to eleven. Their Marshall amplifiers looked like Hollywood Squares, stacked 3 x 3.
“It’s loud!” Allie shouted, twisting foam plugs into her ears.
“What?” Tyler leaned closer.
“I said it’s loud!”
“Loud like AC/DC.” Tyler grinned. Her dad had taken her to the Stiff Upper Lip tour when she was a kid. She was still amazed she hadn’t lost her hearing—or her eyebrows from the pyrotechnics.
Allie laughed. “It’s weird that AC/DC is from Australia, right?”
“I think of them as British,” Tyler said, agreeing.
“I’m going up,” Allie beamed, heading toward the stage.
“Wow!” Cary yelled over the music. “It’s a little loud, don’t you think?”
“Rock and roll ain’t noise pollution,” Tyler said laughing.
Cary continued to watch the band. “They can really play!”
She frowned. “Do you mean for girls?”
“No.” He shook his head. “For anyone. They play better than me.”
She gave him a don’t bullshit me look and drank her beer.
After their set, Allie clinked her bottle against Tyler’s. “I’m signing them.”
“I’m not managing them,” Tyler said. “Not officially, anyway. But they’d be perfect for my imaginary roster.”
“So manage them unofficially.” Allie gave a lazy shrug.
Tyler wrinkled her nose. “Behind Sebastien’s back?”
“Who cares, man? This band’s gonna blow up with or without us.”
Tyler glanced toward Cary. “What do you think?”
“Just quit,” he said.
“I’m not ready.”
“I am.” He winked. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll call an Uber,” Tyler said. “You can’t get a taxi around here.”
A minute later, her phone buzzed. “It’s here.” She grabbed Cary’s hand. “Follow me.”
“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said.
She didn’t look back, but a smile tugged at her lips.
As she stepped outside, the blustery Saskatchewan wind clawed at her face until her eyes stung and blurred. She blinked hard, fingertips brushing skin that felt numb—like that song by the Weeknd.
“Over there!” she said, spotting a gray minivan rolling up to the curb.
“Cary Kingston!” a man’s voice bellowed from somewhere down the street.
They both whipped around. A burst of camera flashes blinded them.
“Is that the paparazzi?” she asked, hustling toward the van.
“I don’t think so. Maybe a local reporter or something.” Cary yanked open the sliding door and helped her inside as another wave of flashes went off.
“The James Hotel,” he told the driver, his tone sharp. “And hurry.”
“Are they following you?” Her voice shook despite her best effort.
“I don’t know.” He kissed her forehead, lingering. “You okay?”
She nodded, breathing heavily. “What if they post pictures?”
“I don’t care. I’m more concerned about your safety than anything. I hate waking him, but I’m calling Vegas to meet us in the lobby.” He hit a button on his phone. “Weird. It went straight to voicemail.”
“Call his room,” she suggested.
“Good idea.” He put the phone to his ear.
“Yes, this is Cary Kingston.” The driver glanced over his shoulder.
“I need my tour manager’s room, please. Vegas—yes, that’s right.
Thank you.” He placed his hand over his phone.
“They’re connecting me.” After a lengthy pause, he said, “No answer there, either.”
Luckily, no one followed them to their hotel, but their driver asked for an autograph—not a shocker.
It was the first time she’d feared for her safety, and it rattled her.
How did Cary do it? Or any famous person, for that matter?
It was one thing for people to take his picture when he was on tour, but this was an invasion of privacy.
As a precaution Cary went to his room first while she took the next elevator up to the suite. The host hotel of the awards show, where everyone was partying, was down the street, but they couldn’t be too careful about being spotted.
She beeped open his door and stepped inside. “I didn’t see anyone on my way up.”
“That’s weird,” Cary said. “Where the hell is Vegas?”
“Maybe he needed sleep?”
“Maybe.”
She sank onto the couch, refreshing her phone every few seconds. “Nothing online yet.”
“People will find out after Sunday, babe.”
“I know. I just don’t trust Sebastien not to screw over Yestown.”
“I’m telling you, you’re worrying for nothing.”
Her phone vibrated.
“Who is it?” he asked.
She exhaled sharply. “Just a Google alert.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, there’s a picture.” She pinched the screen. “Fuck me.”
He grinned. “Is that an offer?”
“I’m serious, Cary. There’s a photo of us. Online. Right now.” She turned the phone toward him. “Shouldn’t you call Cheryl for damage control?”
He squinted. “Your face is blocked. No one can tell it’s you.”
“But my jacket—” she pointed.
He chuckled. “I couldn’t pick that jacket out of a lineup, and I know you intimately.”
She licked her lips. “How intimately?”
He leaned in, mouth brushing hers. “Why don’t I show you?” Then he pulled back, brows lifting. “Wait—do you have a Google alert on me?”
“Obviously.”