Chapter 22
Theo
I like to think I’m playing it cool about climbing aboard Manifest’s private jet. That’s one of the things I had to learn early on, working in this business: don’t bat an eye, no matter what, and you’re more likely to fit in. The Future Saints, however, are taking the opposite approach.
“Look at these seats.” Kenny runs to one of the large, cushy chairs and shakes it like he’s going to rip it out by the screws. “This is real furniture.”
Ripper rushes past him. “There’s a dining table.” He slides in, planting himself at the bench. “We’re going to eat a meal thousands of feet in the air like astronauts. And they have real blankets too. Made of wool.”
“It’s like they’ve never seen tables or blankets before.” Hannah shoves her way down the aisle. Behind her, I chuckle. We’ve been polite but reserved toward each other since the Vegas show. A whole week of cautious navigation.
The flight attendant walks out of the back holding a green bottle of champagne in one hand and a plate of crystal flutes in another. “May I offer anyone a drink? Compliments of Mr. Braverman.”
Hannah, who’s in the process of lifting headphones over her ears, launches out of her seat. “Well, if it’s from Mr. Braverman . . . ”
Kenny and Ripper, to no one’s surprise, fall over themselves. But I wave away my glass, settling back into my chair and emptying my pockets instead.
The reason Manifest gifted us the use of this private jet is right here on my phone, saved as my new lock-screen photo: the Saints made the cover of Rolling Stone.
It turns out we never should’ve doubted Matt.
His article was so good the magazine’s executive editor green-lit it for the issue’s top story and flew a team of photographers out to Vegas to stage a photo shoot.
And what a cover. I don’t know how many times I’ve opened my phone to stare.
In huge, swirling black letters, it roars: “All Hail the Queen of Sadness.” Then, lower and smaller, the subheader: “The Future Saints Usher in a Raw New Era of Rock.” Hannah’s front and center, glammed up but in her trademark disheveled way, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip, a saucy contrast to the look in her eyes, haunted and searching.
She’s flanked by Ripper—shirtless, chest gleaming, mouth open in the middle of a shout—and Kenny, daisies poking through his twin braids, smiling beatifically.
It’s the perfect encapsulation of the three of them.
After reading Matt’s article, a talent booker from Jimmy Kimmel Live! called to ask if the Saints could fill a last-minute slot. Now we’re on our way back to LA for the live taping—and apparently, when you’re Rolling Stone– and Jimmy Kimmel–level buzzy, you get the jet.
The Future Saints manage to drain the bottle of champagne during takeoff, and by the time we’re cruising through the clouds, everyone’s mellow and sleepy.
I wish I could bottle this feeling. In a seat across from me, Hannah sinks back, closes her eyes, and starts humming.
It’s catchy, a slow-burn tune with an undertone of longing.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Her eyes squint open, nearly the same blue as the sky outside the window. “Just an earworm.”
“I like it.”
She raises a brow.
“It’s got something.”
“You think? I was—”
Astonishingly, my phone rings. “Uh . . . ” I glance at it. “Hold that thought.” I pick up the phone and walk to the back of the plane, gripping the seats to steady myself.
“How are you calling me?” I ask as soon as I pick up. “I’m thousands of feet in the air.”
“The wonders of the good life, baby.” Roger’s voice is ebullient. “How you liking the private jet?”
“It’s amazing. Though I’m not sure if Bowie will ever forgive us for leaving him back with the bus.”
“What’s a Bowie?”
Before I can answer, Roger shouts at someone on his end. “Sorry—anyway,” he says. “Look, I’m calling with good news.”
“More?” I’ve spent my career at Manifest either fixing problem bands or firing them, which means I don’t have a lot of experience with good news. Is this how success works—like a snowball? Once you get a little, the world starts handing you everything, and it all piles up?
“The biggest news so far,” Roger promises. “The head of SNL booking’s an old friend. I pitched her the Saints, showed her how many hits they’re getting on the web, and she bit. She wants them on the show.”
I have to brace an arm against the faux-wood wall. “Saturday Night Live?” I whisper it so the band doesn’t hear, in case Roger’s pranking me.
“It won’t be for a couple months, but yeah, you’re coming back to New York. You excited?”
“Of course I am.” I press my free hand to my mouth. “This is huge.”
“Don’t tell the band until the details are firm. But keep steering them in the right direction and more stuff like this will happen. You’re doing good, kid.”
“Thank you, Roger.” It’s possibly the most weight I’ve ever packed into those words. His approval is what I’ve spent my career chasing.
“Oh, hey, when you’re in LA,” he adds. “You can tip off the paps if you catch Hannah acting like she did in Vegas.” He laughs. “It turns out we had nothing to be worried about. People like when she’s off her rocker. That stunt she pulled at Caesars Palace helped us sell concert tickets.”
“What do you mean, tip off the paps? You can do that?”
“What, you think paparazzi have Navy SEAL–level tracking skills? Or they’re bugging celebrities’ cars?
Everyone does it. I’ll send you a few guys’ numbers to keep in your back pocket.
If it looks like she’s going to have a wild night, maybe text them her location.
We gotta promote her new brand—no more surfer girl, it’s all dark and tortured from here on out, got it? ”
It feels like whiplash, how quickly I shift from excited to alarmed. “Roger, I’m not calling paparazzi to come gawk at her.” “I’ll text you their numbers,” he says quickly. “Think about it. Gotta run, but hey, you know I’m happy with you, right?”
“Right,” I echo. “Thanks.”
“Tell the band to kill it on Jimmy Kimmel and tell Kimmel his good friend Roger says he still owes him a beer. Peace.”
He hangs up, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. When my phone doesn’t ping with paparazzi numbers, I shove it into my pocket and make my way back to my seat, hoping Roger was just joking.
Hannah tugs off her headphones and watches me as I sit. “What was that about?”
I wave a hand. “Just Roger, checking in.”
“Kind of a micromanager, that Roger.”
“Yes, well. I’m aware of your disdain for management, trust me.”
She grins.
“Back to the song,” I say, crossing my legs. “I think there’s something there. Let’s work on it.”
She draws her legs up and hugs them. “Right now?”
I stand up, cross the aisle, and drop into the seat next to her. “Why not? Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. Lyrics, ideas. It can be messy. I’ll be your sounding board.”
She eyes me for a moment, then glances over at the dining table, where Ripper and Kenny are wrapped in blankets, zonked out next to empty champagne glasses and a cheese board that somehow never made its way to us. She bites her lip. “Okay.”
Hannah starts to hum, then looks at me self-consciously. I wave her on and she takes a breath. “The bartender asks if I’m okay,” she sings softly. “I say sure, man, I’m doing great. Empty heart, low stakes.”
A small spark catches in my chest as I pick up the rhythm. “At least empty girls aren’t prone to ache.” My voice is terrible—really awful—but I’m amazed at myself for rhyming and having the guts to sing it out loud.
She smiles, humming more bars. “I’m telling you, it’s a hell of a plan.”
“Of a plan,” I echo. I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I can feel the quiet longing of the song deep in my chest. Helping bands with the creative process is my favorite part of the job.
“To live as the ghost of a woman.”
“A wo-man.”
She hums the start of a chorus, then breaks off and starts laughing.
“What?” I’m acutely aware of how bad my voice is, so I brace myself.
She shakes her head. “You’re not the worst manager, you know?”
I clutch my heart and pretend to keel over. “Ladies and gentlemen, what a compliment!”
“Don’t let it go to your head. I just mean you’re not so bad, all things considered.”
“Well, you make it easy,” I say, and surprisingly, it doesn’t feel like a lie.