by Aimee Salter
“And I love what you do, Kelly. What you are. I was glad to be here to see you in the flesh.” His deep, resonant voice is even better in real life than on the radio, but something about the way he emphasizes certain words makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Th-thank you?” I squeak.
The entire circle of guys—all younger than DJ Mink—laugh and mimic me.
My chest tightens and I look at Turk in a panic.
He covers for me quickly. “Ha ha ha, yes, she’s a fresh one,” he says to them all. “Kelly, DJ was hoping to have a word with you about maybe playing one of your songs on his Acts to Watch segment. So why don’t we step over here and leave these idiots to their fizzy wine while we sit at the big kids’ table?”
A chorus of protests and coarse insults peppers the air behind us as Turk leads me along the back wall, past the black-clothed tables where the wait staff are filling more glasses, to a dark corner. I have the sudden urge to run to the better lighting and bored condescension of my position in front of the stage a few minutes ago.
Turk must figure out what I’m thinking because he takes my elbow.
I avoid Mink’s glittering gaze.
“So, Kelly, I do a show once a week where I tell everyone who they should be listening to. As a rule, the albums I highlight do very well. Your situation is a little strange—you’re not actually putting out a solo album yet, is that right?”
“N-not yet, but we’ll work on one when I come back from tour.”
“Bob’s got her a contract from the label. And she’s headed on tour with Crash Happy as a featured singer,” Turk says quickly. Do I imagine the edge of envy in his tone?
Mink folds his arms, then stares at me again. I raise my chin.
“I guess I could be convinced to plug you at the end of the segment after we feature a new album. But if we don’t have an album, I’d have to go behind the scenes. Give the listeners a story instead.”
“What does that mean?” I search the room for Bob, who’s still nowhere to be seen.
“I’m in town for a few days. Are you in rehearsals for a new demo, or writing anything right now?”
“No, I—”
“She’s practicing for the opening appearance with Crash Happy. We have a couple small audiences lined up—and work at Bob’s in between—”
I glance at Turk. We haven’t talked about any audiences.
“—of course, you’d be welcome to come by whenever suits.”
Mink watches me. “So I could see you rehearse, your process, maybe hear something that’s not out there yet?”
I cast a desperate glance at Turk because I know this is a good thing, yet every instinct screams at me that something’s not right. Turk licks his lips.
“Sure. I think Bob would go for that. If she’s on the One to Watch segment.”
Mink still hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “Deal. But we have to do it next week. I’ve got meetings the next couple days.”
“That’s fine. Do we call your assistant? How do you want to set this up?”
Wait, Bob said not to agree to anything on the spot.
“Kelly hasn’t agreed yet. Will you let me come to your rehearsal, Kelly? Watch what you do on a more personal level so I can tell the fans about it?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. Turk glares at me like I just dropped my pants and peed on his leg. “If Bob’s on board. O-of course. I trust his judgment.”
Turk becomes a glittering blade next to me, but I won’t apologize for listening to Bob.
As if there was no blade-edged gaze, no weight in his voice, Mink is suddenly all business.
“Great. Talk to Maggie. She’ll pass it on to me,” he says to Turk. Then, “I’ll see you in a few days, Kelly,” he says and stalks back to the circle of frat boys who’ve been drinking and watching us this whole time.
“Turk,” I start hesitantly, but he’s already on his phone and shoots me a look to shut me up. “Maggie? It’s Turk. Bob Mendelson’s offsider . . . yeah, yeah. Look, I’m glad I got you . . .” he stalks off down the side aisle of the small theater, towards the stage, talking as much with his hands as with his voice.
“But Bob,” I stop, realizing he isn’t listening. For a moment the dark feels like a relief. No one can really see me here except the frat boys, and they’re all too busy kissing up to Mink to look at me. The temptation to stay here until everyone leaves is strong. But I know Bob put a lot into organizing this for me, so I should probably go back to the front of the room and wait for more of the executives.
A heavy hand lands on my arm and I leap for the ceiling, whirling.
“Shit, Kelly, I didn’t mean to scare you. But what are you doing back here? I’ve got a couple producers you need to meet and they won’t wait for the privilege.” Bob tugs me back toward the stage.
I reach a trembling hand for his sleeve. “Bob, look, Turk was just talking to DJ Mink and—”
“Mink talked to you?” His brows pop up as he looks at me over his shoulder, but doesn’t stop walking.
“Yeah. He said he might put me on the up and comers list, but—”
“Finally. A win.” Bob nods. “If Turk pulls that off I’ll give him a bonus.”
“The thing is—”
“Can we talk about the details later, Kelly?” Bob gives me a look. “These guys I’m about to introduce to you to are producers. If you nab one of them, it won’t matter what Mink thinks. So we need you on point, okay? Make eye contact, smile when you talk, and you’re excited and looking forward to whatever opportunities come, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Good. These guys are sharks, but so am I, so we’re golden.” He smiles grimly and ushers me down the aisle toward an older guy in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, and another, even older, in a suit. Both of them are holding drinks, but looking down their noses as they scan the auditorium.
Heart pounding, I follow Bob’s lead and talk when he gives me an opening.
They don’t notice my hand trembling when I reach out to shake.
Throughout the ten minutes we talk with them there’s a spot on my neck that feels like a laser prickling on my skin. I rub it, try to scratch it surreptitiously, wonder why I’m getting goosebumps—I’m not having an allergic reaction, am I?
But, in a moment when both men’s attention is focused on Bob, I look away to hide getting my hand up there to pinch my skin, and in the process, cast a look over my shoulder.
The rest of my skin prickles as, past the thinning crowd and rows of seats, on the other side of the frat boy circle, Mink smirks at me and raises his glass.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Two Weeks Ago
Crash
Watching her under the lights is intoxicating. And devastating.
Why didn’t she sing me the song?
Merv grabs my shoulder and squeezes.
Yeah.
The thing is, I know how bad I hurt her. There’s no new information here. But it’s because I know what goes through a person when they’re writing like that. The emotion that fuels it. The inner turmoil because of the vulnerability you’re trying to access and cover at the same time.
And she’s still emotional about it. That much is clear.
When you write a song—especially one that’s about hurt or anger—it has a lot of power. So much, you have to hold it back a little to keep control. It’s why I record those songs when I still can’t sing them by rote. The emotion comes through even though you’re fighting.
And that’s the secret that many people never figure out.
It’s not just feeling emotion when you sing that gives a song power. It’s restraint. Especially when that restraint is hard to maintain.
I got to the point where, after I figured this out, I’d get myself all messed up before I went on stage—close to tears, or wanting to punch someone, depending on the night—just so when I sang I’d be forced to hold it back.
Watching someone feel and not give in
to it is compelling.
Kelly doesn’t have a clue, but that’s exactly what she’s doing. And it’s why this song works. Why Bob wanted her to sing it. She’s been so separate from the words of everything she’s singing lately—nerves, I guess—that she needed something to shake her up.
Bob’s a genius.
I just wish he didn’t do it with that song.
When it’s finished she looks at me, her forehead lined. I’m glad for the dim light. Because if she could see enough to know I forgive her for that song, she’d also be able to see that I’m eviscerated by it. The fact that I put her in that place, made her feel those feelings that are so destructive—and so familiar to me—makes me sick to my stomach.
The rest of the performance passes quickly. Her hair glows under the lights. Her voice is stunning. But it’s not enough. Not as much as she gives us on the deck at home. And I hate that they don’t get to see how amazing she is.
Then the lights come up and I step out, beaming. The crowd claps, Kelly tracks me from the wings to the second mic. I wink at her. “Isn’t she great, folks?” Bob won’t be happy. But she didn’t embarrass herself either.
Kelly leans into her mic. “. . . this song is called Forever You.”
The crowd settles quickly because they’re big music types who pride themselves on not getting excited about anything.
“You never knew the truth,” Kelly soars.
“The ends, the means, they broke me,” I gravel back.
“You never heard my heart.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for you.”
At the end, the applause is stronger than it was at the beginning, but still not overwhelming. I hug Kelly but have to leave. Bob was very clear: I stay out of the way so none of these people are distracted by me. Fair enough. But it sucks standing in the wings, peering through curtains like a pervert, to watch her stand there, all nerves and fear, while half the people who came tonight leave without even talking to her.
My heart sinks. When we had our first showcase they practically rushed the stage. We were shaking hands and meeting people until three in the morning. This isn’t a good sign.
But at least half of them stayed, right? I just hope it isn’t for the free booze.
A couple men approach Bob and Kelly, but it’s making me sick wondering what they’re saying. And Bob’s staying at her elbow. So after a few minutes Merv—still being way too overprotective about this whole security threat thing—ushers me back to the dressing room to change and head home.
Should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.
When I get inside the little room, Amber is in a chair while Tommy leans back against the make-up counter, arms folded, looking thunderous.
“What’s going on?”
Amber’s face lights up. “There you are!” She gets to her feet, but I shoot her a dark look and she hesitates, putting one hand up in surrender. “I was looking for you after the duet. It was great! The best part of the night.” She glances at Tommy. “Really the only good part of the night if I’m honest.”
Tommy’s jaw rolls.
“What’s going on?” I repeat to him since Amber’s doing that thing I can’t stand.
“Amber thinks Kelly choked tonight and won’t get the interest.”
“It’s not just me, Bob had some concerns too,” she says, suddenly all professionalism. She takes her seat again, but leans forward, talking with her hands. “She wasn’t ready for this tonight, and it showed. She didn’t really light up until you came on stage, Crash. And they could see it.”
“Her voice was beautiful.”
“But she won’t get the response you guys had after your showcase.”
Inwardly I wince at the echo of what I thought. But I won’t throw her under the bus. “How about we don’t borrow trouble.”
Tommy glares at me. “We need to help her. If we let her keep trying and she’s not ready, this could kill any hope she’s got for a career later when she is ready.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe we should put on the brakes. Tell her to come on the next tour, or—”
“Fuck no. I thought you were on her side?”
Tommy straightens. “I am on her side. If we kill her career because we want to hang out with her on tour, how does that help her?”
“We sucked when we first started too!”
“We started in front of freshman dances and dive bars,” Tommy points out. “Not Sony execs and nationally syndicated radio hosts.”
“Tommy’s right,” Amber says.
I whirl on her. “You can shut up.”
Her lips thin. “Trust me or not, Crash, I know what I’m talking about. And it’s not just me. Bob and I talked while she was singing. It might be a good idea to push her first appearance back to a smaller venue. You guys are opening at the stadium, and she just choked in a theater with less than a hundred people.”
“She didn’t choke.”
“Okay, fine—she was average. Nothing special—until you got on stage with her. If anyone's interested in her it’ll be because of that duet.”
“Which is exactly why she should come on tour. She lights up when she plays with us.”
“Her set includes three solo songs to give you guys a break! You can hate me. But it’s the truth. This is a risk.”
I’m about to shoot her down again when Tommy pipes up. “Amber was saying maybe we open without her, then fly her to Portland. The arena’s a lot smaller and we’re playing five nights. She could—”
“No.” Every muscle in my body is rigid. I’m not losing her again. I won’t go without her. And she’s not coming as a groupie. “I’ll help her. I’ll practice with her. Give her some advice. Cheer her on. That was her first performance. It’s the worst she’ll be.”
“You can’t know that.” I hate the gentleness in Amber’s voice.
“Yes, I can. She’s always been nervy. We should have had a lower pressure appearance before this one, but it’s done now. So back off. I’ll help her and she’ll do great.”
“But—”
“I’m not arguing with you, Amber. I’m telling you.”
“You aren’t the only one in the band,” Tommy says, his voice deeper and quiet. “You don’t get to make decisions for me.”
“So, you want to boot Kelly from the tour?”
We glare at each other for a long beat.
Tommy runs a hand through his long hair. “No. Crash is right. We need to give her a chance. She’s helped us too much before. She wants this.”
Amber looks back and forth between us, then throws up her hands. “Fine. Ignore me and ruin her. You guys know best. Whatever.” She leaves without another word, her tall heels clacking on the cement floor in the long corridor outside before the hydraulic door swings shut and cuts off all sound from outside.
“If she fails and this ends her, I won’t tell her that you forced her into that position. You can thank me later.” Then Tommy’s gone too.
I slump. Even though he pissed me off, I know he doesn’t want Kelly hurt. Is it possible he’s right?
No, it can’t be.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and send Kelly a text.
Give me a call when you’re
on your way home. No matter
how late.
Then I slip the phone back in my pocket and grab the wipes to remove the make-up they made me wear.
It isn’t until hours later, when I’m asleep, that my phone rings. I leap on it in the dark, almost cutting off the call in my haste to answer it.
“Kel?” My voice is gravel. I pinch my nose in the dark and try to clear the fog of sleep. “You okay?”
“I woke you up. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. How’d it go? Tell me everything.”
She says they had some interest, but no commitments. That Bob is concerned, but sure he can help. And how she’ll be rehearsing every moment she’s not in school for the next week until our concert.
>
“ . . . so I won’t be hanging out this week, I don’t think.” She sounds like she’s trying not to cry.
“It’s fine, Kel. We’re gonna be on tour in a week. We’ll see each other all day after that.”
“I know,” she says. “I just don’t want to make you guys get bad reviews or whatever. I’m scared, Crash. I know I didn’t do great tonight. I was so nervous—”
“Hey, don’t do that to yourself. You did the hardest part. You’ll never have to do that again. So pack your bags, gorgeous. You’re going on tour. And it’ll only get better from here.”
“Bigger, you mean. Crash, how can I sing in front of thousands of people?”
“Easy,” I say, grinning so she’ll hear it in my voice. “You’ll be with me.”
“That sounds so good,” she yawns.
“You’re tired. Go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning.”
There’s a beat where I think maybe she’ll come over and my heart speeds up.
“Okay. Yeah. I think I will go lay down. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Kel, I wasn’t—”
“I have to talk to Dan, anyway. He’s waiting for me. He thinks I’m in the bathroom.” The hint of a smile creeps into her voice, but it’s strained.
“Okay, well, do whatever Bob says and let me know when and where you’re rehearsing and I’ll make it as often as I can, okay?”
She agrees, then gets off the call.
I drop the phone to the blankets and stare at the ceiling in the dark.
Nothing that’s happening right now is good—except Kelly coming on tour. Nothing else is as important as that.
Nothing.
Chapter Forty
One Day Ago
Kelly
It’s one of the hardest weeks of my life. I’m running every second from school to rehearsal at Bob’s to fittings for the tour, to homework, and back to school.
Rehearsals go great. But that’s not the problem. I’m confident sitting in Bob’s studio basement with no one except him and Turk. We did one, tiny local open mic last night. It went well. But it was a dingy little bar on the rear-end of town. I couldn’t see more than the first row of tables and booths. And I still lost some of the magic.
