CHAPTER 33
TYLER
Early the next morning, Tyler tiptoed down the hallway in a robe and slippers swiped from Cary’s suite. She kept her head down and her pace brisk, hoping to make it back to her room before any hungover music industry types stumbled in from a night of debauchery.
“Dammit!” she said as the key card reader blinked red. What was she supposed to do? Go to the lobby looking like this? She practically had “sex” written on her forehead.
Two voices—one low, one high—laughed down the hall. Who was up so early on a Saturday morning?
The Pink Panther music crept into her head as she shuffled her slippers down the hall until she reached the end.
“Holy shit!” she said. Kim and Vegas stopped dead in their tracks. He was more than two heads taller than her bestie and twice her body width. “Are you two—”
“Dude.” Kim grabbed Vegas’s hand. “He’s the best.”
How long had this been going on? And why were they keeping it a secret? She had a long list of questions, but first things first.
“Cary’s been looking for you,” she told Vegas.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice concerned.
Tyler held out her phone and Kim grabbed it. “What’s this?” She squinted at the screen.
“Last night a photographer, reporter, whatever, took pictures of us at the bar.”
“Dude . . .” Kim zoomed in. “You can barely see your face.”
“That’s not the point,” Vegas said.
“Exactly.” Tyler nodded, taking back her phone. “It could’ve been the paparazzi.”
“In Saskatoon?” Kim arched an eyebrow. “Hardly.”
“Sorry, Tyler. It won’t happen again,” Vegas promised. “Is he in his room?”
She nodded, and Vegas kissed Kim on the cheek before leaving.
“It’s not his fault.” Kim opened her door. “We deserve a night off—just like you and Cary. Vegas is his tour manager, not his security.”
Tyler hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m being overprotective.” She followed Kim inside. “So . . . how long have you and Vegas been—”
“Since last night.”
“Tell me everything.”
After Yestown’s awards show rehearsal, Tyler returned to the hotel for hair and makeup.
The gala wasn’t even televised, but she still wanted to look her best for Cary.
These non-broadcast awards were for genres no one listened to and honors no one earned.
Some artists won for selling five records, while executives got trophies just for cashing paychecks.
She slipped into a black fitted dress and three-inch stilettos. Cary didn’t care about the height of her shoes—just her happiness. She made her way into the bathroom for one last inspection.
She grimaced at the mirror, wiping away the clownish makeup. No time to fix it—the SDM team was meeting in the hotel bar, and she wouldn’t be late.
When she arrived at the bar she spotted Cary, Sebastien, Tommy, and Bob sitting at a table and having drinks. Then again, they didn’t have to spend an hour getting ready and a hundred dollars on their hair and makeup.
“Wow.” Cary stood as she approached, eyes raking over her. He looked like a million bucks, dressed in a black suit and shirt. Her smile faltered as she shot him a warning look. Not here. “You’re so fucking hot,” he murmured against her ear. “I want to take you apart right here.”
“Likewise,” she whispered back as her muscles contracted against her underwear. Fanny flutters, the English called them. “Hi, guys.” She nodded to the stunned table. They weren’t used to seeing her in high heels, with her hair down, or wearing makeup.
“Hi, doll.” Sebastien raised a flute of champagne. He wore a black suit jacket, two sizes too small, and that goddamn Quebec Nordiques baseball cap. At least he’d trimmed his beard, although it made his jowls more prominent.
“Baby,” Tommy muttered, practically drooling down the front of his tux. “Give ol’ Tommy a hug!”
He reached for her, but she swatted his arm away without hesitation. “That’s enough, Tommaso.” She used his full name like his Italian mother did when he was in trouble. “Sit down. I just had my hair and makeup done.”
“Don’t bother her,” Cary said, scowling at Tommy while Sebastien casually sipped champagne. Her boss was oblivious to sexual harassment since he was often the culprit.
“Hi, Bob Shaw.” Tyler sat beside him as he lifted his mocktail to acknowledge her. She felt bad for him and his terrible sober time. He wouldn’t be in this predicament if he’d listened to Doug Stanhope.
“Can I get you a drink?” Sebastien asked, inspecting his empty glass. “It’s time to switch to whiskey anyway.” He held up a cocktail glass of amber liquid from the table, presumably Tommy’s drink, and signaled to a server.
Tyler pointed to the magnum sitting in a bucket of half-melted ice. “I’ll have champagne, thanks.”
“I’ll do it,” Cary said, pouring her a glass.
“Cary, my man!” Tommy slung his arm around his shoulder. “Who’s this little minx?” He took out his phone and shared his screen. “Did you get into trouble last night?” He laughed. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
Shit.
“How was the fan event?” Tyler asked, changing the subject. “I saw the socials.” She scrolled through his Instagram. “You were there all afternoon, weren’t you?”
“I was.” He nodded proudly. “I must’ve signed a thousand autographs.”
“It was freezing,” Sebastien said, plucking a glass of whiskey from the server’s tray without so much as a nod. “And they didn’t even bother to pay us.”
“It was a charity event,” Tyler reminded him.
“It looked fucking awful,” Tommy said. “Tyler, let me tell you—”
“Where’s your wife, Tommy?” Tyler asked bluntly. He never brought her to music industry events. In fact, she’d never met or even seen a picture of Mrs. Napolitano. It was hard to imagine what kind of woman would put up with him.
“Not fucking here, thank god.” He slapped his knee and laughed at her expense before Sebastien joined him.
Fucking idiots.
At that moment, Lara appeared in her signature strapless leopard-print dress with matching heels. Leopard print was practically her second skin. If she’d been in the wild, a lion would have mistaken her for dinner—and regretted it instantly.
Tommy whistled with two fingers while Tyler rolled her eyes.
Dirty old bastard.
Not to be confused with Old Dirty Bastard from the Wu-Tang Clan, her favorite member next to Method Man.
“Hi, Cary.” Lara clasped her hands below her waist, squishing her boobs together.
Cary nodded politely. “Maybe you could move down my way a bit, Tyler?”
At least he didn’t say “ babe.”
“That’s okay.” Lara pulled up a chair beside him. “I’ll scoot around.”
Get away from my boyfriend.
“Where the fuck is Vegas and what’s-her-name?” Sebastien glanced at his watch, annoyed.
“Kim,” Cary said. “Her name is Kim, once and for all.”
Tyler texted Kim: ETA?
She wrote back. Sorry. 2 seconds.
“There they are.” Tyler gestured toward the lobby.
Kim wore a simple blue dress and Vegas wore a navy suit he must have bought at the big and tall shop.
You guys look cute together!
They arrived at the convention center, and Cary stepped onto the red carpet with Sebastien a few paces behind.
Cameras snapped like popcorn as the rock star struck a pose—like he was up for Best New Artist instead of a Lifetime Achievement award.
A music journalist had once called him a national treasure, and his band never let him forget it.
When the SDM team found their seats, Cary’s bandmates had already devoured the breadbasket, leaving only a few sad pieces of pumpernickel—everyone’s least favorite.
The musicians weren’t about to turn down a three-course meal—saying no to free food violated the American Federation of Musicians’ bylaws.
Cary pulled out the chair next to Tyler, but before he could sit, Sebastien cleared his throat and patted the seat beside him. “Sit here. Next to me.”
Without missing a beat, Cary slid around the table. Tyler kept her expression neutral, pretending not to care. Lara, of course, seized the empty chair beside her boyfriend like it had been reserved for royalty.
Meanwhile, Tommy plopped down beside Tyler, with Kim settling on her other side and Vegas sliding in next to her, so it wasn’t a total disaster.
“Dude, what’s Lara even doing right now?” Kim glared across the table. “She shouldn’t be sitting with the talent.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Tyler said. “Maybe Vegas shouldn’t sit next to you. Sebastien keeps looking over here.”
Kim bit her bottom lip and glanced at Sebastien. “Do you think he’d, like, fire me?”
“On the spot,” Tyler said. “And he’d probably do it with a smile.”
Ever since Vegas came back, Sebastien had been trying to push Kim off the tour.
He kept saying she was “money coming out of my pocket,” like having one more tour manager would send him into bankruptcy.
But Vegas needed the backup, and Kim was damn good at her job.
She knew her shit better than most TMs out there—male or female.
When everyone was finally seated, Cary picked up the bottle of red wine on the table and examined its label.
“Don’t do it,” Tyler warned him, eyeing the bottle in his hand.
She’d been to enough industry galas to know exactly why this particular vineyard kept showing up.
Every year, the same bottle from Niagara.
Every year, the same hangover from hell.
They didn’t donate it out of generosity—they just couldn’t sell it.
Cary nodded and put down the bottle. “I’m ordering wine for the table.”
“It’s red or white”—she shrugged—“or nothing.” She picked up her glass. “I’m drinking water.”
Cary flagged down a server and whispered something in his ear. Then, the server promptly returned with six bottles of Mission Hill Oculus. Knowing Cary, it was the most expensive wine on the menu.
Confused, she shook her head. “How did you do that?”
Cary stretched a grin and handed his credit card to the server. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
“Fucking right,” Tommy said, pouring himself a glass instead of waiting to be served like everyone else.