by Erin Hahn
I had no idea how deep it went.
Too late now.
She got two tickets just so I can stand next to her and watch as she melts into a puddle on the floor at my feet so I can then mop her up and take her home afterward.
“Oy, Greenly, stop staring at the ginger and grab these fellas a few pints, will you?”
I turn to a round of chuckles behind me and see my dad entertaining a group of soccer fans, Manchester United from the look of their jerseys. He has a clean rag slung over one shoulder and is leaning, propped against their booth, looking as if he’s been painted into the scene.
May as well have been. After the benefit concert, my dad met with Phil and proposed a partnership. He’d gotten a taste for club ownership and liked it, but he preferred Phil’s low-key, practically no-key way of managing things. In return, Phil got to keep his club. A clear win for the rock and rollers.
I take down their (extensive) drink order and promise to hustle. Instead of feeding the ticket to the bartenders, I duck under the flap and help myself to the spare row of spigots.
“Did you hear what song is playing?” Vada asks, nudging my shoulder with her bare one and causing me to nearly foam over at the tap.
“‘Everlong,’” I say after recovering. I am perhaps unsuccessful at keeping the edge from my tone.
Her red lips spread into a wide smile, clearly ignoring my tone, and she nods. “Well done, you.”
I narrow my eyes, my frames slipping down my nose a little. “Wait, did you play this for me?”
Her eyes roll, and she taps my frames back into place. “Duh. It’s romantic.”
“For who? You and me, or you and Dave?”
She takes two of the pints and nods for me to lead us to the table of waiting customers.
“Mostly you. I swear.”
I try to glare at her over my shoulder and nearly trip over my own feet. She gets to the table first, distributing her half and passing out some of her signature smack talk along the way.
“Vada!” my dad says. “Light of my life! You aren’t on today, are you?”
She gives him a side hug and plants a loud kiss on his cheek. When I first met Vada, she had one deadbeat dad. Now she has two rocker has-beens who dote over her every move, two meddling and overprotective gay brothers, and me.
Not that I’m like her dad or anything. Or her brother, for that matter. Thank God.
“You know I can’t stay away, Charlie. I’m already going through withdrawal. California can’t compete with this crowd.”
“Says you.” He turns her to the group. “Have you lads heard? Our Vada writes for Rolling Stone.”
“Just the online version,” she demurs. “I got the gig writing about this genius,” she continues, gesturing at me. “He deserves partial credit for inspiring me.”
“Don’t you mean not writing about me?” I tease.
She shrugs. “Not writing about you not writing a song about me.”
“That’s a lot of denial. It’s a wonder we ever found each other.”
“All it took was one hot kiss on a street corner, and I was convinced,” she says, stepping toward me.
“It’s the Cure, actually. They’re like a Vada-aphrodisiac,” I reply softly so only she can hear.
Her brown eyes darken. “When’re you done?” she asks, staring at my lips and licking hers. Hell.
“I’m not technically on. I came for you.”
Her smile is blinding. “What a coincidence. Charlie!” she hollers. “I’m stealing your son away!”
Phil yells from the bar, “What are you talking about? Kid, you’ve owned that boy since the night you roped him into working for you.” A great cheer goes up from the patrons, and I know my cheeks must be red because Vada is looking at me like I’m a puppy she found under the Christmas tree.
Adorable ginger.
I love her for it.
“True, but we don’t need to dwell on it.”
“Wanna get out of here?”
I tug her close, and even though I know we’re making a scene, with her, it’s always just us. I can’t see anyone else. Her soft lips find mine as if they were created for that sole purpose, and I smile against them and whisper so only she can hear me.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
“Excellent,” she whispers back. “Because I have plans.”
Save Liberty Live Set List
(Holy fuck, we’re doing this!)
“More Than Maybe” Luke Greenly
“Thank You” Led Zeppelin
“What It Is” Kodaline
“Silver Lining” Mt. Joy
“And Then You” Greg Laswell
“Just Like Heaven” The Cure—Phil gets to shout out to his new bride.
“I Know” Tom Odell
“Who’s That Girl” Bad Apples—Give Charlie the lead so he can have a public midlife crisis onstage. I saw that, you ungrateful little shit. Doesn’t mean it’s not real, Dad.
“Anna Begins” Counting Crows (Be cool, it’s just Duritz, man.)
“Break for You” Luke Greenly After which Vada gets to kiss Luke forever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing your second book is terrible. It really is. Don’t get me wrong. I am obsessed with Luke and Vada (and Phil and Mary and Kaz and Cullen and Charlie and Zack and Meg, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…) but oh my gracious, telling their story took all of my magical unicorn powers.
It also took the hard work of so many others.
To my super-agent, Kate McKean, who read approximately seven thousand versions of Luke and Vada (ranging from bank heists to spurned best friends working in radio) and pressed me for just the right setting. I always knew who Luke and Vada were meant to be, but I didn’t know how or where they would be until Kate said YES! That one! That feels right! And of course, as usual, she was spot-on. Thanks, Boss! I love our dive bar kids.
Vicki Lame, Supreme Editor and Lover of Lyrics. This book would’ve gone nowhere without someone who just got it. And me. And that’s Vicki. Not every editor would have taken the time to actually listen to all the songs Luke and Vada sent each other over the course of the book, but Vicki did and that’s hard-core. When I worried about too many songs, she replied with, “Actually, what if we added a playlist to the end?” See what I mean? She. Gets. It. Thank you, Vicki, for giving my adorkable music nerds a chance to shine.
My Wednesday Books team. I have the best publisher in the world and I don’t care who knows it. Thank you to Jennie Conway for always being the first to respond to my panicked emails with a calm and collected response, keeping me sane. I am positive the inside of DJ DeSmyter’s brain must be a beautiful place because he creates the loveliest things I’ve ever seen. Natalie Tsay’s enthusiasm has literally made my day so many times over the past few years and when I’m scrambling to figure out how publicity works, she will respond to my email on a Saturday morning like it’s not even a thing. Who does that? The sweetest publicist in the world, Natalie, does, that’s who. I’m very lucky.
To Karen McManus, who has stuck by me every step of this journey and was the first to fall in love with the British cupcake who is Luke Greenly. She even made a (photoshopped) T-shirt in his honor, which was exactly what I needed to press on through the early stages of drafting this book. I really hope I’ve done right by our boy, Karen.
To Jenn Dugan, the Derek to my Stiles. Thanks for being broody and gorgeous while I get to play the role of the ridiculous one. That sounded sarcastic, but I swear I’m completely sincere. Your feedback made Vada stronger and your friendship makes me stronger. This is a tough career we’ve chosen and I’m glad to have you by my side. Or in my texts. Whichever.
Kelly Coon. You offered to beta and ended up “just throwing together some light feedback.” Girl, you are a frigging miracle-Hermione and I am so grateful for you. Your future is so damn bright, and I am extra grateful that I get to tag along and watch you soar. Let’s change some hearts, friend.
I hav
e two (super talented) author friends who have Lifetime Passes to my first drafts: Steph Messa and Samantha Eaton. I’ve known and loved them both since before You’d Be Mine and treasure their responses even while I cannot for the life of me understand why they would want to read my early messes. But whatever. I’m beyond grateful for them and their feedback and their encouragement. Thanks, ladies!
To all the book bloggers who have encouraged me and loved on my characters: I fucking love you guys.
To my sister, Cassie. She is always my very first reader, which means, she, too, read every one of those seven thousand iterations of Luke and Vada. Even when she was busy graduating and falling in love and raising her little girl, she read. I don’t know that anyone on the planet will understand Vada the way my sister does. Cass, remember that night I sang to you under the covers while we shook and cried at the noise? Me too. This book is for the girls we were. I’m so proud of who we grew up to be.
To the Hahn, Jenkins, and Vrtis families. I am who I am because you were all who you were. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
To Cate Unruh and Meg Turton, my Themed Sleepover besties: Looks like Tom Selleck with a side of toe-mah-toe, sea birds, and I want to buy a boat! Nicely, nicely thanks. (I realize that doesn’t mean anything to anyone else. That’s the thing about best friends who’ve been around since you were fourteen and fifteen years old, you have a secret language of movie quotes and nonsense.)
To Ryan Kearley, in the immortal words of Kurt Cobain, SEND ME WORDS, MAN. But also, thanks for being such an awesome friend. I can’t believe I still talk to the guy who wrote a poem in eleventh grade about boobs, but I guess if it had to be anyone, I’m glad it’s you.
To the radio station of my youth, Q101, out of Chicago. I don’t know if anyone has ever thanked a radio station in their acknowledgments, but I was raised on grunge, alternative, and punk rock. I speak fluent flannel and I learned how to feel all the feels and navigate my teens from my deejay Sherpas, so thank you.
To my students, thanks for generally not caring that I’m an author.
To Mike. Every day I get to watch our kids thrive because they know they are loved by their dad. Phil and Charlie exist because of you.
To Jones and Al. Thanks for being my reasons, always.
And finally, to my Jesus. Thank you for giving your all for me. It defies logic, but I hope, in the end, I’ve done you proud.
Want more swoony romance?
Read on for an excerpt from You’d Be Mine
Available now from Wednesday Books!
YOU’D BE MINE © 2019 by Erin Hahn
1
CLAY
APRIL
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
If I die, it’s Trina Hamilton’s fault. She’s hard to miss; statuesque blonde with angry eyes and tiny nostrils wearing top-of-the-line Tony Lamas so she can kick my ass at a moment’s notice. When the early-morning sun finally burns through my irises and kills me dead, she’s the one you want.
“Christ, Trina, it’s barely seven.”
My road manager flashes cool gray eyes at me while pressing her matte red lips into a thin line. Her expression hasn’t changed in the minutes since she came pounding on my hotel room door. She’s a study in stone, but not for long. Better to get this over with.
I mumble another curse, yanking the frayed brim of my baseball hat lower. “At least slow down. I have a migraine.”
Trina whirls around and shoves a manicured nail in my face. “Don’t,” she spits, “pull that migraine bullshit, Clay. You look like death, smell like sewage, and if you think those glasses are doing anything to hide that black eye, you’re sorely mistaken.”
I scratch at the back of my neck, playing for time. “Are those new Lamas? Because dang, girl, they make your legs look incredi—”
She grabs my chin in a painful squeeze, her sharp claws digging into my bruised cheekbone. “Don’t even try it. What happened to you last night?”
I wrench my face away. “Nothing serious. A little scuffle with some fans after the show.”
Trina stares at me a long minute, and I start to fidget. It’s her signature move. I might be a country music star, but Trina makes me feel like a middle schooler who just hit a baseball through her window.
“A little scuffle,” she repeats slowly.
“Yeah. A scuffle.”
“Really. Just a few good old boys shooting the breeze, probably,” she offers with a too-bright smile.
“Right.”
She nods and starts walking, her heels clacking on the asphalt and ringing in my ears. A couple of middle-aged tourists halt, curious, midway through loading their golf bags into a rental car to watch us. I tug the brim of my hat even lower and hustle to match her strides through the hotel parking lot.
“So, that’s it?” That can’t be it.
“No, Clay. That’s not it. Your face is all over TMZ this morning. We, as in you and me, because I’m irrevocably tied to your fuckery, are due at the label at 8:00 A.M. sharp.”
I release a slow breath. “Trina, I have a contract. They already started presale on the summer tour. It can’t be that bad.”
Trina’s cackle is edged with hysteria. “That guy you punched after throwing a beer in his face and waving a knife—”
“Knife? Really? It’s a Swiss Army pocket tool. Every self-respecting Boy Scout owns one.”
She plows on. “He was the SunCoast Records CEO’s youngest son. His legally old-enough-to-drink son, as a matter of fact. Which you are not. How you manage to get served time and time again—”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been playing bars since I was fifteen, Trina.”
“—when you are so publicly underage—”
I lift a shoulder and wince as pain shoots down to my elbow. Must have tweaked it last night. “I’m a celebrity.”
Trina grunts, her derision clear, just as my phone chimes in my pocket. I pull it out, ignoring her.
SAW TMZ. ON MY WAY.
“Is that Fitz?”
I nod, texting back.
TOO LATE. TRINA’S HERE.
“You can tell that good-for-nothing fiddler he’s on my shit list, too. He promised he’d watch out for you after the last time.”
SORRY, BRO.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Trina.”
MAYDAY, MAYDAY.
“Obviously. Just get in the car, Clay.”
* * *
We pull into the lot of SunCoast Records fifteen minutes early. Trina slams the door with her bony hip and pulls out a cigarette, lights it, taking a long drag, and leans back against her outrageous banana-yellow convertible.
“I thought you quit.” Fitz Jacoby lumbers over from where he’s parked his crotch rocket and tugs the stick from between her lips. He stomps it out with his boot, and she glares but doesn’t protest. Trina might have said Fitz was on her shit list, but she’d never hold to it. No one could.
“I did, but then Clay happened. He’s fixing to kill me and my career. I wish I’d never agreed to manage you guys.”
“Aw, now, Trina, that ain’t true. You love us.” Fitz pulls some kind of fudgy granola bar from his pocket and hands it to her. “Have some breakfast. Have you even taken a second for yourself today? I bet not,” he croons. “Probably been up since dawn fielding phone calls and emails. You take five right here. Have a bite, find your chi or whatever. I’ll make sure Boy Wonder here makes it up to the office, and we’ll see you there.”
Before she can protest, he silences her with a look and a waggle of his rusty brows and grabs my arm, tugging me along. “One, two, three, four…,” he mutters.
“Clay needs a clean shirt!” Trina yells, and Fitz holds up a plastic shopping bag without even turning.
“How the hell did you have time to stop for a shirt?”
“I have spares,” he says, his jaw ticking.
I blow out a breath, trying to shrug out of his grip. He doesn’t let go, just keeps dragging me to the glass doors of the lobby. “It
wasn’t as bad as they made it sound.”
Fitz doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leads me straight past the security desk to a men’s room. He checks the stalls before locking the door and shoves the plastic bag at my chest. “There’s deodorant and a toothbrush in there. I suggest you use them.”
I remove my hat and glasses and pull my bloodstained T-shirt over my head before leaning over the sink. I turn on the cold full blast, splashing my face and rubbing the sticky grime and sweat from my neck. Fitz hands me a small hand towel, and I pat my skin dry. I use the deodorant—my usual brand—and brush my teeth. Twice.
“I like the shirt,” I say.
“You should. You own three of them already.”
“I have a contract.”
Fitz laughs, but it’s without humor. “Man, I don’t care about your contract. You could’ve been seriously hurt. You could’ve been shot. You could’ve got in a car accident. You did get in a fistfight like some kid.”
“He started it,” I say, but Fitz is already holding up a calloused hand in front of his face, cutting me off.
“We don’t have time for this. We’re going up there, and you aren’t gonna say shit in your defense. You’re gonna say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and you’re gonna eat whatever crow they throw in your face and pray to God Almighty they don’t sue you for breach of contract. Do you hear me?”
I sprint to the toilet. The coffee burns as it comes up.
“Christ,” Fitz is saying when I come back to the sink, but he doesn’t seem as mad. I splash more water and brush my teeth again, and then he holds the door open for me. As I pass, he grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
Time to face the music.
