“Me? Nothing.”
She bit her lip and her head shook a little. “I know who you are, Oliver Cabrera. You can't be doing nothing. Aren't you in the middle of a tour right now, writing new songs, something like that?”
Then, a new sensation. He felt embarrassed that she knew who he was. For years, that was not the case. He had taken it for granted that every attractive woman he'd get to talk to would know who he was and was even talking to him because of that fact. It was the future he had seen for himself, as the pre-teen music geek, and he actually enjoyed it. Took pride in it. Indulged a little too much in it.
But today, with Haley, he felt for the first time what the pre-teen music geek's future was probably really destined to be had the rock star stage never happened. It felt more than a little crappy.
“Like I said, I'm not doing anything,” Oliver told her. “You probably know that my record company dropped me last month?”
That was the simplest way to say it. What actually happened was that the record company had decided that they were going to make it impossible for him to finish the album they were obligated to release if he did not make one exactly the way they wanted.
In his mind, they had already dropped him.
But for Chris, who had quit his job to manage Oliver, this deal was worth saving. And to the producers of Tomorrow’s Talent, the show that had catapulted him to stardom (however briefly), this was their final shot. The show had been tanking in the ratings for years, producing winners who barely made a dent in pop culture let alone music sales, and the ax of cancellation was dangling over them. Unless Oliver, their Oliver, the odd, unlikely success they had released into the wild, could do one more thing for them.
You owe us.
If it were just the TT folk, Oliver had no problem telling them to fuck off and enjoy a last martini as the ship sank. He was not the kind of artist they wanted their winners to be, and his victory was one of those flukes of time and space that never happened again. They made sure it never happened again: making little changes in the rules to prevent another Oliver Upset, promoting him as little as possible, leaving him out of show retrospectives, providing only the minimum of support when he needed them.
Get your darlings to suck popstar dick for you. (He actually said.)
You know we tried, right? But let’s face it—you were the best thing to come out of this program. Because you actually knew what you were doing. The others are drones who listen to people who don’t know the answers. We think that if you make this happen, you’ll do it right. You’ll make something out of it.
I can’t even get my own record label to release something the way I want it. What makes you think I can do this well enough to save your asses?
Jesus, Cabrera, is this how badly they’ve run you down? You know why you won, don’t you? Because when you’re next to a hack, you look like a fucking diamond.
I don’t work well with others.
We’re merely asking you to be a diamond next to a hack all over again.
(He reluctantly agreed at this point, to the whole thing, because the ass-kissing had worked on him. He also believed it, mostly.)
Haley’s eyes widened, and it had sympathy, which was probably close to pity, and that didn't feel good at all. “No. I didn't. That must suck.”
That it did. But did they have to spend the rest of this flight going over that? Not if he could help it. “So yeah. Tutoring high school kids. What's that like?”
Chapter 3
Oh my God.
So Haley was mortified, mortified, to not know that Oliver had been dropped by his label, and to have been told by Oliver himself. Was it announced somewhere? She would have noticed it if it had been, right? Back in the day she knew all of this, every little thing about him, more than she knew her little brother's daily activities.
It was probably her fault, kind of, why he was dropped at all. She grew up and stopped being as fangirly. She didn't even buy his last album. When did that come out even? Couldn’t have been more than a year ago. She kept meaning to, out of nostalgia, but the weeks and then months went by and she… moved on.
This was all her fault. “I'm sorry,” she said before she could stop herself.
“What?”
“I'm sorry about the record deal thing,” Haley said with more conviction. “I won't ask the flight attendants to throw you back to your row.”
It wasn't a line; it was a sincere apology because she felt like she had let him down.
Oliver acted like it was a line and offered his hand. “Thank you and I forgive you. I want to talk about the teaching now, so we can drop this topic. That all right with you?”
Fair enough. And yet it was weird to be sitting so close to him and not be able to ask him the many questions that were popping into her mind right now. “It's not teaching, really. I graduated in June.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I was lucky enough to get a job over spring break. This rich lady in Tampa wanted some after-school tutoring for her kids and was willing to fly me over to stay there three weeks. I helped Ellen—that’s the eldest daughter—out, but now she’s off to college. They seemed to like me so I was asked to continue after I graduated, but I’d be helping out Sophie—the younger one—this time. She’s going to be a high school senior in the fall.” But really, in her head: What was it like, being the youngest member of the Parkland Orchestra Tour?
“This spring? That’s interesting.”
“Hmmm?”
“I was in Florida then. Orlando. Had a show there.”
Haley knew that because she was there. She coughed and shrugged, because she was cool like that.
Oliver did not pick up on it. “What do you teach?”
Haley did not want to say music. Or anything Oliver might relate to. Did she call herself an “accomplished musician” a while ago, in her head? Because no, she wasn’t. She was an amateur, and this job made her feel like a fraud already. This guy was an accomplished musician. “Um, everything. I helped with homework…and other things their parents wanted them to learn after school.”
“Other things they have to learn after school?”
“Yes.” Haley nodded. “Ellen and Sophie's parents are very achievement-oriented.” Did you really play Bach for Tori Gordon on her birthday, and did she really say “That's from our elevator!”
“Oh, I get that. Mine are too.”
“Well, mine aren't. I mean, they're okay that I've got a job and all, but they were hoping I'd be doing something they understood. Like dentistry.” How is your mother? She recovered okay from the ski trip fall five years ago?
“What's hard to understand about tutoring?”
They were really getting into this. If Oliver didn’t want to be asked about his flop of a career, Haley, in fact, didn't want to talk about her impending flop of a career either. She was helping Sophie prepare for a big recital, right before Thanksgiving, and she honestly didn’t think she’d be out of a job that soon. She had barely unpacked! She was hoping they’d keep her around at least until next spring, and she’d have some months to start sending out feelers and looking for other work.
Not that they’d said anything definite, she realized. There was no contract with an end date. There was merely a good faith agreement that they’d pay her and let her live in their big house, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of job that came with dental. But the way she had talked about it to her parents, and to Logan…
Logan, her ex-boyfriend. Had been her ex-boyfriend since they finally addressed the problems they’d been having earlier this year. It wasn’t that long ago though, and he seemed to be coping by pretending nothing had happened and was being extra supportive of her move, of her interest in pursuing music teaching, but in his regular weekly calls made it a point to remind her that she always had a home, with him, in Houston.
Because where else would she go?
Don’t forget, dinner with me on Saturday.
But we might end l
ate.
Then we have a late dinner on Saturday.
Haley did not want to talk about all of that. “I don't go to a big building every day and teach a roomful of kids. I live in a pool house beside a mansion. I think my parents suspect that I'm Mr. Lee's mistress. They keep asking me to come home.”
Oliver laughed, and Haley noticed that it didn’t sound like anything she ever heard him do on TV or anywhere else. “Are you? I won't judge.” Because he rarely did that; laugh on TV.
She crossed her arms and feigned indignation. “I'm not.”
So many other questions. What really happened with Tori? Who really trashed the hotel room in New York? Who really started the fistfight with Guy Chase?
“Are your parents dentists?” he asked, looking at his outstretched legs. “Is that why they don't want you to be anything else?”
“They work in hospitals,” Haley said, taking the opportunity to look at his legs too, imagining the bulk and strength of them underneath the denim. “My dad works with physical therapists, my mom with hospital customer service.”
He dropped his head and faked a snore, and in the process caught her checking him out. Probably. Oliver didn't say anything, but he did stretch his legs again. “Now those are real jobs.”
Haley nodded. “Oh yeah. Doing things people actually need.”
“Setting a kid on the right path is an awesome job, too.”
“Their parents are super achievers. Ellen and Sophie would have been on a path to success whether I was there or not.”
The path in question was not really teaching, but music, if she had been up front about what she actually did for a living. You set me on this path yourself, Haley almost said.
She was quiet for a beat longer than usual, and he probably took it as a dismissal. “So I'm going to settle in over here now,” Oliver said. “I'm sorry I've been bothering you.”
Yeah, Haley absolutely had to go back to the magazine she could barely remember right now. “It's no problem.”
She turned back to her reading and got halfway through an insightful piece on Syria when she felt a tentative tap on her shoulder.
“My music port doesn't work,” Oliver said.
“On your seat?”
“Yeah. Sucks. This one doesn't work either.” He pointed to the seat between them. “Can I try yours?”
“You don't have music of your own?”
“I like airplane playlists. You don't?”
Haley shook her head. “Not at all. Sure, have mine.”
He smiled and scooted over to the seat next to her. That surprised her, but then again, of course he was going to do that—the headphones wouldn't have comfortably stretched that far—but it was still unexpected, the shuffling, and his shoe gently knocking her leg, his sleeve brushing her upper arm. He muttered an apology every time, but she didn't mind. Then there were the fingers accidentally tapping on her skirt as he fiddled for where to plug the headphones, and then the smile that lit up his face when music actually poured into his ears.
“Awesome,” he said. “Asian Pop, show me what you got.”
“This is what flying coach is like,” Haley said.
“Not bad at all.” He did that stretching thing again and closed his eyes.
Haley thought about the three playlists she’d put together for this flight, one for each likely mood she’d have, and wanted to share it with him. But that would mean admitting being into music, and she had been so good at playing the teacher. So she didn’t mention it. Oh well.
There was no way that Haley could document this without him noticing, so she made a mental note to her thirteen-year-old self.
Yes, nine years from now, you are going to be squeezed into a very small space with Oliver Cabrera. Be good, moisturize, and take a shower that morning. It's going to happen!
Chapter 4
Oliver slept well.
He also slept in the middle of the Adult Slow Jam playlist, his finger still on the buttons that changed the in-flight radio stations, which meant his entire hand was trespassing on her side. There might have been touching. Slight touching.
Oliver straightened up, apologized, and cursed, maybe not in that order. But she was asleep, her head tilted slightly toward him, her breathing even.
Lionel Richie sang in his ear. Oliver risked returning his hand to her seat to switch somewhere else again. They were less than an hour away from landing, and he had to admit that this was one of his better flights.
It might have been that his phone was turned off, for once, so he actually got a few hours of peace. The past few weeks it had been one damn thing after another. He wasn't surprised if as soon as he switched it on again, there would be news of something he had screwed up.
He remembered why he was on this trip again and his throat filled with bitter loathing, and then he remembered Chris.
Chris Minot and Oliver Cabrera grew up together, celebrated birthdays a week apart, and he only claimed to be mildly jealous of all the action Oliver got on the road. They lost touch once Oliver started his music career, but Chris was the guy he called when the incident happened and he had to “stop working with” his manager. Though his buddy went to business school and he was not exactly on the level of Rob, at the time, trust meant more to Oliver than industry savvy.
He wanted someone who had never slept with any of his girlfriends and didn’t intend to.
Chris had responsibilities, and loans, but he had rearranged his life on the promise of it being worth it. So far it had not been, not yet, and time was running out.
Haley stirred beside him.
“Getting ready to land,” he said.
“Mild salsa, mild,” Haley mumbled. She was frowning, slightly, and was probably more asleep than awake. He resisted the urge to touch the skin between her brows and smooth it over, in case it would help with the bad dream.
He had done more with people he had known less.
Once upon a time, friend and band mate Kenny told him that his “way with women” was “unsavory.” “You should slow down, get to know someone. Be friends and shit.”
Kenny obviously didn't know what he was talking about. Oliver had been homeschooled since he was twelve and on the road for most of his teens. Every woman he was ever interested in had been a new acquaintance. What friends? Who had time for those?
Kenny, by the way, was no longer in his band, because he quit and moved back to Portland after his wedding. He also had financial security and was not about to get thrown out of his home any day now. Oliver wondered if he should listen to the guy for once.
So he didn't touch her. In fact, Oliver sort of scooted further away from her in his seat and waited for the plane to land.
***
The guy was holding up a card with two names on it:
OLIVER CABRERA
HALEY REESE
“Are we headed to the same place?” Oliver asked her.
She looked a little confused by the card herself. “Are you going to Breathe Music?”
He fished for the invitation in his backpack and confirmed it. Yes, he was heading to the Breathe Music Festival for Young Musicians, starting the next day.
“You are, too?”
She nodded. “I go every year. My best friend Victoria organizes it. She didn't mention that she invited you, too.”
“Probably because she invites me every year and I never go.” Oliver stuffed the invite into his pocket. “So, Haley Reese, huh? Thank you for helping me back there.”
They were now walking toward their ride, but he still kept looking at her name on that board, wondering what about it seemed familiar. And then he snapped his fingers.
“Hot Piano Girl!” he exclaimed. “I know who you are! You're Hot Piano Girl!”
The pink on her cheekbones spread to the rest of her face, which she quickly covered with her hands. “Oh my God.”
Of all the people.
The past three years were not going into the highlight reel of his life, he knew that f
or sure. But in the same period, there appeared Hot Piano Girl.
In the middle of writing his last album, feeling like he had a gun to his head (“We think the world has moved on from your sound”), he went online to supposedly check out the “new sound” that he should start becoming but had sunk time on covers of his own songs instead. This went on for a day or two, and having to endure singers blaring out pitch problem after pitch problem, he was ready to admit that he was overrated. His punishment was an inane talent show inflicted on the world, and he wanted to call the whole thing off. (Because why would a good song sound like that unless it actually sucked balls?)
But then, the next day, he found ReesePeace8, doing a cover of his song Your Life.
First of all, interesting choice. It had not been released as a single. He barely even performed it on the road, because it was “depressing,” “not hooky,” and “impossible to sing along to.”
The video started with Haley at the piano, explaining how she sat, her distance from the keys, her preferred shoulder angle. He then realized that it was a lesson, possibly directed to an audience of young people, and it wasn't so much about the song as how to play it.
She let her fingers slide gently over the keys before starting, and he was surprised by the first few notes of her arrangement. And when she started singing, he felt the smile in her voice, and it was like his song took on a different face. It seemed brighter, and yet sadder, because the words were the same, and it was still about letting go, but she seemed like she was stronger at it than he ever was.
He watched all her videos that night.
They were all lessons. They didn't conform to his own training, when he studied music theory and piano, so she must have developed them herself. They were practical, accessible. Of the eleven videos, two featured his songs. And her style was optimistic, sweet but not annoyingly so, almost uplifting.
“I wrote that,” he said aloud to the laptop. “That beautiful thing coming out of her mouth.”
Playing Autumn (Breathe Rockstar Romance Book 1) Page 2
