Beauty and the Bassist (The Extra Series Book 9)

by Megan Walker

  “Okay,” Allison says. “You want my advice on the Anna-Marie situation?”

  I groan. “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “I think you need to talk to her,” she says.

  “No way. You saw how well that went.”

  “Okay, sure,” she says. “When you were yelling at her. But I think you need to apologize.”

  She’s right about that, but I don’t think an actual conversation would do anyone any good. “I don’t want to start another fight, but I could probably send an email.”

  Allison looks doubtful.

  “What, you think I can’t write an email?”

  “I think you clearly still want her in your life,” Allison says. “Which will probably require more than that.”

  “You saw what happened!” I say. “We clearly shouldn’t be in each other’s lives. Besides, are you even okay with that? Last night you thought I was in love with her. Why would you want her in our lives?”

  “I feel threatened by how charged all this is,” Allison says, “by how much emotion you have wrapped up in it. But if you guys could just be friends and not be so worked up over it, I’d be fine with it. I like Anna-Marie. I’d like to be friends with her.”

  So would I, but I don’t think it’s possible. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. We haven’t been friends in almost a decade, and I don’t think one apology is going to change that.”

  “Maybe not,” Allison says. “But you can try.”

  She’s right, and I just said I would listen to her, and I already regret it. But it’s the kind of regret that I don’t really mean, because I know she’s right.

  I just don’t want to do it.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. “Is that good enough?”

  Allison sighs against my shoulder. “It’s not about being good enough.” She moves closer, so our faces are close and our noses are touching. “I was angry with you, and I was pissed you didn’t show up for work. But I didn’t think for a minute that we were going to break up.” She’s quiet. “Did you want to?”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not. But I thought maybe you would. I know it’s a lot to deal with. My baggage and my psychosis and my history with Anna-Marie.”

  Allison shakes her head and rests her forehead against mine. “I don’t think I was even worried about Anna-Marie, so much. But I think sometimes I worry about you wanting to go back to your old life. What happens when you’re sick of being with the girl who’s good for you, and you want to be a rock star again?”

  “Allison,” I say, “you’re not like a vitamin. You’re not some chore that I’m with because you’re good for me. I want this. And that part of my life is over. That person I was—he’s dead.”

  “You keep saying that,” Allison says. “But what if you find out he’s still in there after all?”

  I press my lips to her forehead. “Even that person would have wanted you. I was running away from something I was afraid I’d never find. Avoiding commitment because I was sure no one would ever really want to be with me, that I was incapable of meeting someone’s needs, of making them happy. I would have jumped at the chance to have this, if I could have stopped being an idiot long enough to admit that I wanted it.”

  Allison kisses me, and it’s deep and beautiful and everything I need. “I’m in this,” she says. “I’m scared, but I’m not going to let fear drive me away.”

  “Me neither,” I say, and we dissolve, tugging desperately at each other’s clothes, falling into the frenzied dance of her and me and our passion for each other. It’s raw and dizzying, and though I feel completely defenseless, more tender than anything I’ve ever known.

  Afterward, I admire her lying in my bed, fully naked, looking like the goddess she is, and I hold her between the layers of cotton until she falls asleep in my arms.

  And as I lie there listening to her breathe, I can’t help but think that if someone as amazing as her can love me back, then I must not be as much of a mess as I think I am.

  Twenty-one

  Allison

  The pageant rehearsal is chaos the next day, as everyone grows increasingly stressed. This is normal for the day before the pageant, even on years when the emcee doesn’t decide to skip a whole day of practice, so I can’t blame Shane for this. Honestly, even though I was worried about him and pissed at him for not responding to my texts, I’m so glad he went to see a doctor and talked to Kevin that I don’t even mind so much that he missed rehearsal for it. And though Carlyle asked if I thought he should show up early today to make up for yesterday, I said I didn’t think it was necessary.

  Now I’m starting to regret that choice, but not because I don’t believe that Shane will be able to memorize the script in time or because I think the girls need the official host reading the script instead of Trevor the sound assistant, who’s been filling in. Really, I feel like having him here with me right now would help me feel more centered, more comfortable, in that strange but incredible way he has.

  How far we’ve come since the beginning of the week, I think with a smile. I definitely wouldn’t have thought then I’d feel anything but stress and annoyance (and, admittedly, sexual frustration) at being around him.

  I definitely wouldn’t have imagined how deeply in love with him I’d fall and how happy about that I’d be.

  Shane hasn’t gotten here yet, but Nix has, and that helps. It’s not her job, but she usually pitches in; right now she’s working with Deena on the scarf dance routine. I don’t think Deena needs the help—she’s an excellent dancer, and while Nix is, too, scarves aren’t Nix’s usual form of expression—but what it’s really doing is calming the girl down from an emotional meltdown she had earlier when her coach told her she was one breakfast muffin away from planning a funeral for her thigh gap.

  God, I hate some of these coaches. Deena’s not only a great dancer, she’s a brilliant girl with a master’s degree in chemistry, and her damn coach has her worrying about her thigh gap.

  At least, though, she’s not worrying about getting sick, like half the girls are. My “Mendez family secret” tea (which is really the cheapest brand I could find at the grocery store) seems to be working, and many of the psychosomatic sniffles have disappeared. I’m hoping this also has the effect of tamping down the fears that one of them will break their nose on stage, which the other half of the girls won’t stop talking about.

  I’m stitching some of the feathers back on Yvonne’s costume (again, because no matter what I do, this thing inevitably starts molting) while Becky-of-the-camellias practices answering interview questions five feet away and begs for my input on each one, even though her coach is right there with her. We’re barely an hour into today’s practice, and I already feel like I’m losing my mind.

  “ . . . And I think that as a free society, we should be free to embrace, um, diversity,” Becky says, waving her hands around as she talks. “Like with flowers. I love my prize-winning camellias, but that doesn’t mean daisies and tulips aren’t also beautiful and valuable.” She beams. “America is a big, lovely garden, and that’s what makes it so great.”

  Her coach frowns. “Say it again, but stop moving your hands,” the older woman says. “You’re not directing a symphony.”

  “Allison?” Becky says. “What do you think about my stance on diversity?”

  I think it’s cloying and dismissive of real racial issues, but the truth is, it’ll play well with the largely white and old-fashioned judges.

  And I love Becky, but I don’t have time the day before the pageant to be the voice of racial education. I open my mouth to tell her that the judges will love it, when a guy’s angry voice cuts through the din.

  “I just don’t think it’s appropriate, is all,” the voice says, and my hackles start to rise. Collette’s boyfriend, Thomas. Of course.

  “But it’s for our group dance number,”
Collette says, her voice sounding more tired than usual. I turn to see them arguing by the rack of glittering green “poppy stem” dresses for the big floral dance. “And all the other girls have the same slits on their dress.”

  “Just because they all want to dress like—” He cuts off when he sees several of the girls—and myself, I admit—shooting him death glares and daring him to finish that sentence. His brow furrows and he lowers his voice. “I just don’t like you showing the world your whole leg like that.”

  Her “whole leg”? What the hell? Is he not aware of the swimsuit competition? Her suit is more modest than most, but she’s not exactly wearing a burlap sack.

  “But—” she starts, clearly flustered and not nearly as pissed as she should be at him.

  He leans in, stroking her arm. “You know I don’t like other guys seeing those parts of you. I like keeping you all to myself.”

  My stomach turns, and my hackles are higher than Lord Shelldon’s when he sees a squirrel outside the window. It’s a leg slit in a dress on a locally televised pageant, for god’s sake, not like she’s dancing topless at a strip club. And even if she was, he has no right to—

  I force myself to calm down, because feathers are getting smashed in my tightening grip.

  Collette worries at her lower lip. “I know, but I’d have to talk to my coach, and I don’t know if I could dance in it right if I stitched it up, and . . .” She sighs. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  He looks like he’s going to argue more but sees me watching them. He nods, and looks away. “Good, babe. That’s good. I just want what’s best for you.”

  Yeah right, you do, jackass, I think.

  Collette gives him a wan smile, and he takes off to “hit the vending machine,” and I hear a few of the other girls muttering under their breath. I’m debating whether I’ve finally reached the point where I can’t keep my opinion of him to myself any longer and am officially making this my business, when my phone rings from the purse slung over the back of my chair.

  I hope it’s Shane, because I could definitely stand to hear his voice right now, but there’s not really any reason he’d be calling me rather than texting. I fish my phone out and blink at the name.

  Jaspar Meagle.

  Now my stomach is unsettled for other reasons. Mr. Meagle is one of the top investors in my fashion line, but he’s also the most skittish of them, the one it took the longest to convince.

  And while I get regular emails from him requesting detailed updates and more-than-occasional assurances, he’s never called me before.

  I doubt this means anything good.

  “But if I don’t gesture with my hands,” Becky’s saying, “I don’t think the judges will understand how important my garden metaphor is. Right, Allison?”

  I make a motion for “I’ll be back” and drop Yvonne’s costume into a feather-laden pile on my chair, then hurry out of the noisy room as I take the call.

  “Mr. Meagle,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too breathless as I jog into the foyer. “So good to hear from you.”

  “Ms. Mendez,” he says coolly. I try not to read anything into his tone. He sounded just as underwhelmed with life when he finally agreed to invest—and nearly made me shit myself when he announced the amount he was putting in.

  “I hope you received the latest projections I sent over,” I say. “I updated the fabric pricing, and while the base price increased, I hope you saw that once I negotiated down the shipping—”

  “Yes, I saw all that, of course. But that’s not what I’m calling about. It’s another thing I saw that has me far more concerned.”

  My palms feel sweaty. “And what is that? You know I’m always happy to address any concerns.”

  “There was an article in the entertainment news recently that featured you and Mr. Beckstrom, who I am to understand is your . . . ?” He trails off.

  “My boyfriend, yes,” I say, uncertain as to where exactly this is going. My romantic life isn’t his business, but I’m also not ashamed of it.

  “Right. Well. I’m not the most current with the pop culture scene, but after the . . . allegations in the article, I did some digging to find out more about this Mr. Beckstrom, and I must say, I wasn’t thrilled with the things I found.”

  My throat feels tight, and my hackles are rising again. “I see,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “Of course you understand that much of what gets reported about celebrities is rumor or outright lies.” I feel the need to say this, even though probably most of what he’s referring to about Shane—the whole sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll lifestyle—is more or less true. “And I don’t see how that would affect our business relationship, regardless.”

  Mr. Meagle lets out one of his dissatisfied sighs, this kind of drawn-out hmmmmph. “Normally it would not, but I’ve taken quite a financial risk with you, Ms. Mendez. Much of that has been based on how impressed I’ve been with your responsible nature.”

  “Which I appreciate, but I don’t see how my personal life changes—”

  “A responsible nature that I can’t help but doubt, when I see this kind of thing,” he continues smoothly over me. “And more than that, I worry about my name and business being associated with such public dramatics.”

  The rising fury I feel over his snap-judgment of Shane mingles with the rising panic of what this might mean.

  Panic, for now, wins out. I need this guy’s money.

  “Mr. Meagle, I can assure you that my relationship with Sha—Mr. Beckstrom will not in any way affect my responsibility to my line or my professionalism in moving forward with it. And as for your reputation, I am confident that nothing from that article will reflect negatively on you or on the line. The celebrity news cycle moves quickly, and by the time the line is launched, the public will have long forgotten any—”

  “Ms. Mendez,” he says, and there’s a note of wearied finality that makes my heart sink. “I’m afraid my decision is already made. I’ve contacted my lawyers and have proceeded with a contract cancellation, which, as you recall per the terms . . .”

  He drones on for bit of legalese, but I can barely hear him over my own crushing dismay. My knees feel weak, and I lean against a wall for support.

  My biggest investor is pulling out. Mr. Meagle’s investment share of my line is how I was going to be able to pay for all the fabric that is due to start shipping in the next few weeks. It’s how I was going to cover the warehouse and more. I’ve gotten a portion of it, which he won’t be able to get back, but it’s only a small portion of the full amount he was going to fund. And I’ve already contracted with my suppliers overseas . . .

  Shit, what am I going to do?

  “ . . . And of course, I’ve notified a few of the other investors, the ones I personally recommended this project to, of my intentions,” Mr. Meagle continues, and now I’m back to paying attention again, my heart pounding even harder. “They are free to do as they will, but I felt they should be aware of the situation.”

  “Mr. Meagle,” I say, and I hate how I sound like I’m about to cry, because dammit, I am about to cry. “Please, let’s not be rash. I can assure you—”

  “I don’t think I am the one who has been rash in this situation, Ms. Mendez,” he says. “And I don’t feel that any assurances you could make would change the nature of my problem here. The damage has already been done, as far as I am concerned. But I wanted to tell you myself before my lawyers contacted you, out of respect.”

  If he wants praise for that fine and honorable decision, he’s not going to get it from me.

  “I understand,” I manage, and he says a curt good-bye and hangs up.

  I stare at my phone for a long moment and sink to the ground. I can’t believe this just happened. And if he talks to the others, and if they pull out too . . .

  My dream, the one I’ve had for years and years, the o
ne I’ve worked my ass off for, will be dead in the water.

  My whole body feels numb, and yet I can feel the tears burning in my eyes, ready to spill out.

  More than anything, I want Shane to be here right now. I want to cry to him and call Mr. Meagle every mix of obscenities I can think of and have him hold me and agree with me that Mr. Meagle deserves every one of those names and probably several others that Shane would think of.

  I’m just about to press the button to call him, but stop.

  I can’t tell him this, can I? He’d only blame himself. And yeah, Mr. Meagle is bailing because of that article, but that’s not Shane’s fault. Honestly, it says way more about Mr. Meagle than it does about Shane, that the asshole is disregarding the many, many hours of our professional working relationship based on his interpretation of my dating life.

  Shane already feels like shit about what happened at the benefit. He already feels like he’s somehow unworthy of me and can’t believe me when I tell him otherwise.

  He wants this dream for me almost as much as I do. If he thinks he took it from me . . .

  The door flings open, and Nix comes out. “Allison,” she says with a grimace, “Carlyle is freaking out about whether the girls are prepared for the—” She stops, seeing the look on my face. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I shake my head, though the answer is already obvious. “No.”

  Nix crouches next to me, her brown eyes questioning.

  “Mr. Meagle is withdrawing his investment,” I say, my voice wooden. “He saw the article about Shane and me, and he’s out.”

  Nix gapes. “What?”

  “He thinks my dating Shane shows some fundamental lack of responsibility on my part, which will somehow affect my business. And he doesn’t want his business involved.” Now I can feel the edge in my voice coming back, the outrage.

  “That’s—That’s—” Nix sputters, her own anger tripping her up. Nix tends to get really flustered when she’s pissed, something our brothers take full mocking advantage of.