A Little Night Music

by Andrea Dale

  In Vegas, when he’d been so close, needed so much, the need for her had outstripped everything else. He’d been able to lose himself in her, in the taste and smell and feel of her, in the strength of her.

  He’d lost her now, though. She wasn’t there for him to turn to.

  Had she ever been? Really? Or had it all been a grand illusion, a fantasy for her. Her number-one-fan obsession finally fulfilled. The poster come to life.

  If any of it had been real, then how could she have walked away so easily?

  Private. If he was going to do this, he didn’t want to do it in front of anybody. If he was going to fail spectacularly, go down in flames, he didn’t need an audience.

  He ducked into an alcove. It was still loud here, but the music was muffled by walls and floors between here and the stage. Just a steady thump that made the paneling vibrate.

  The pain in his chest needed to be eased. The screaming in his brain needed to be quieted. He couldn’t go on wanting without doing something about it. Wanting the drugs. Wanting Hannah. He had to have one of them.

  He reached into his pocket.

  Pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  Nate closed his eyes and hoped.

  Hannah’s husky voice filled his world, washing over him. Like an ocean wave, surrounding him and cleansing him. Safety, security.

  Passion and desire.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Hannah Montgomery. I’m sorry I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you’ll leave your name, number, and a brief message, or text me with that information, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

  A woman’s shrill laughter heralded her approach.

  Nate hastily thumbed the phone off before the recording option started. He didn’t want anyone around when he said what he wanted to say.

  The woman, clutching two companions—one male, one female, as near as Nate could tell—stumbled by him. The man (he was pretty sure) glanced at him and grinned triumphantly as if to say “Look what I’ve got.”

  Yeah, whatever.

  It had only been Hannah’s voice mail recording, and disappointment gnawed at his gut. But it had been her voice. That was something. So much of something.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out the packet. Stared at it. It didn’t seem to hold as much allure now.

  His fingers tightened around it into a fist. Holding it. Protecting it. He didn’t need it as much now, but he was loath to give it up. There was something to be said for having it around, nearby, just in case.

  Nate closed his eyes, his hand squeezing the sweaty plastic bag. Oblivion was just a decision away. Then he could forget everything.

  Even Hannah.

  With a sudden, startled laugh, Nate opened his fist, staring at the packet on his palm.

  He didn’t want this. Didn’t want any of it. Hadn’t for years now.

  All he wanted was the music and his fans’ reactions to it. The joy he got from writing and performing. That was what he needed to feel like he’d succeeded in the business.

  That, and Hannah at his side.

  It was time to make his runaway publicist aware of that.

  Without letting himself think anymore, feel anymore, he dropped the drugs in a trash can and resumed his search for Marta.

  When he found her, he claimed a migraine and said he’d send the limo back to pick her up whenever she was ready to leave. She pouted about his leaving, the mouth that had sold endless tubes of expensive lipstick curving prettily. He apologized, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

  Flashbulbs went off. The brown-bobbed reporter he’d seen earlier moved in but he turned his back. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of here.

  *

  Favorite cotton pants with the little hearts and cross bones. Check.

  Favorite tank top washed to silken softness. Check.

  Favorite flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. Check.

  Hannah curled up on the couch, ready to spend a quiet evening alone. She dug her spoon into the ice cream, scooping out a huge chunk of cookie dough. It was a little like hitting the jackpot.

  Of course, if she didn’t quit eating the ice cream, she wouldn’t be able to fit into the new jeans she’d bought. And they were killer. Worth every penny for the ass-defining fit alone.

  Not that anyone was going to be ogling her ass anytime soon.

  Feeling the ridiculous burn of tears, Hannah deliberately swallowed another spoonful of ice cream, letting the cold sweetness melt slowly against her tongue. There was no way she was going to start in with the tissues again.

  She was tired of crying over him.

  The past week had been as full as she could make it. She’d scheduled lunches or dinners with every client who was in town. She’d touched bases with promoters, reporters, music executives. She’d spent evenings scoping out the hottest clubs, looking for the newest trends, finding the places to see and be seen. Every minute had been rigorously accounted for. Every waking hour filled with work.

  It was the nights she’d come to dread.

  They stretched endlessly. There was no one to kiss good night. No one to curl against. No strong arms to cradle her. No heartbeat to lull her to sleep.

  No wild, screaming-orgasm sex to wear her out.

  Just an aching, empty loneliness filled with thoughts of Nate.

  She’d had to take down the poster. Every look brought a heart-deep pain. Every glimpse brought the memory of his final words to her.

  Had he ever been anything more than a poster on her wall?

  So many times she’d wanted to pick up the phone and call him. To tell him that she’d fallen in love with him. Nate Fox, the guy who made her laugh, whose smile could make her feel safe, happy, and wildly turned on all at once.

  She’d wanted to call to take away the raw hurt that had been in his voice. The despair that he would forever and always be an adolescent poster fantasy.

  That no one would look beyond to see the incredible man he was.

  She entertained wild, impossible fantasies that they could be together but keep their relationship totally secret from the media, the fans, everyone. Then reality would set in and she’d know it could never happen. She couldn’t live hiding in a tour bus, sneaking into hotel rooms, waiting at home so he could creep in under cover of night.

  The reality of being with Nate was both glorious and impossible.

  The phone calls she’d made had been to Sam instead. Nate had told her not to call him. She’d ached to ask Sam how he was doing, but she kept it to business. The cordial, professional tone in Sam’s voice didn’t allow anything else. Hannah was pretty sure that he’d been glad to see her leave the tour, after the fiasco of the tabloid article. So she’d talked to him about CD signings, radio interviews at each of the tour stops. Phone interviews with Guitar and Rolling Stone.

  No mention of the photo and article that had led her to leave. No mention of the phone calls she’d received from reporters wanting to interview her.

  Wanting to dish the dirt. Hear about any current tour excesses. Hot bedroom details.

  She’d kept all of that to herself.

  And the last call, about the opening of the Paradise Club. She’d finagled Nate an invitation to opening night, knowing that the publicity would be tremendous. She’d sent explicit instructions about how he should look, even chosen his clothes. She’d needed so desperately for him to get positive exposure. A phone call to Marta Ingersol’s agent had gotten her a phone number.

  That had been the hardest call she’d ever made. The spiteful triumph in Marta’s voice when Hannah had asked her to be Nate’s date to the club had just about done her in. Even the memory of Nate telling her that Marta threw up to stay thin didn’t cheer her.

  And tonight was the opening. Nate would have the supermodel on his arm. A gorgeous woman who would help his career, not drag him down. A woman who would put him in People and not the Weekly Word.

  A woman who wasn’t Hannah
.

  Pulling up a depth of willpower she was only just beginning to realize she had, Hannah put thoughts of Nate and other women from her mind. She picked up the latest thriller from her favorite author, determined to lose herself in the intrigue. Before she could get past the prologue, her intercom buzzed. Buzzed again. Kept buzzing.

  Only Gina would play that particular rhythm to get her attention. The drum beat from her first and favorite Nate song cut off abruptly. Hannah didn’t bother checking to see who it was, hitting the button that released the downstairs lock. She held the door open, confident that it would be her friend who exited the elevator.

  “I’ll have to start ringing your bell like normal people,” Gina said, the elevator door barely open before she scooted through.

  Hannah waved the implied apology away. “I’m totally over him,” she lied. The snort that Gina gave told her just how unconvincing she was.

  “What’s with the champagne?” Hannah asked.

  Gina’s eyes shone, and she was fairly vibrating with excitement. She pulled two flutes out of Hannah’s cabinet and leaned one hip against the counter.

  “What’s the one thing that I’ve wanted more than anything else?”

  “Sex with Brad Pitt?”

  “Okay, the other thing I’ve wanted,” Gina said with a laugh.

  Hannah thought about it, and then her eyes widened. “You got the cover?”

  “Next month. A layout in Vogue, and the cover shot. I’m flying to New York at the end of the week.”

  Hugging Gina, Hannah congratulated her. Gina had been working towards that goal nearly as long as Hannah’d had her goal of sleeping with Nate. Now they’d both accomplished their dreams. She just hoped that Gina’s ended better than hers had.

  “Stop thinking about him,” Gina warned. “And before you can deny it, I can see it all over your face.” She thrust a flute at Hannah, and then lifted her own. “To never looking back.”

  “To you,” Hannah said. “And to taking the most kick-ass pictures in the fashion world.”

  “Yeah, I totally rock,” Gina said in smug agreement. She carried the champagne bottle into the living room, throwing herself onto Hannah’s purple and gold couch.

  Picking up the ice cream container, she glanced at the contents. “I’m going to do you a favor, and not let you eat any more of this,” Gina said.

  “Great, so I’m going to drink my sorrows away,” Hannah said.

  “No, you’re going to celebrate my awesomeness, and we’re going to watch old movies on TV all night. And then tomorrow, we’re going to pamper ourselves at the spa so we look totally hot for your dad’s birthday party.”

  Hannah settled into the corner of the couch, willing to let Gina’s plan take away her need to make decisions.

  Picking up the remote control, Gina started flipping channels. She passed a seemingly endless selection of how-to shows, sports channels, syndicated dramas, and cartoons, looking for just the right movie.

  Hannah’s cell phone rang. She stared across the room at it. She’d meant to turn it off. This late, it had to be one of her client’s having a crisis. She debated answering it, and then told herself that, just this once, she deserved a night to herself. Expensive champagne, old movies, and her best friend. When it stopped ringing, she looked back at the TV and noticed that Gina had stopped at their favorite entertainment show.

  The show was one of the most informative, tracking the trendy and the “in.” It also had the benefit of being on late enough that she could catch it on a regular basis.

  “I want to watch this first, and then there’s a Vin Diesel movie on that we haven’t seen.” Gina toed off her boots, topped up their glasses, and settled back, dropping the remote on the sofa between them.

  The celebrity break-ups passed in a blur as Hannah tried to pretend she didn’t empathize with every damn one. The fashion segment made Hannah shake her head in bewilderment, although she did make a note of a designer she liked. Then the show went live.

  The perky reporter smiled at the camera. Her brown-bobbed hair gleamed in the flashing lights of the club.

  “This is Fiona McAllister, reporting live from the Paradise Club. It’s a wild night here. Everywhere I look there’s a famous face.”

  The rest of the woman’s report went unheard.

  In the background was Nate, walking into the frame. He looked totally hot, his hair spiked a little in front, tousled. Like they’d had wild sex and Hannah’d run her fingers through it. He’d worn the leather pants and boots she’d sent. The shirt was faded and torn, and it wasn’t the one she’d chosen. A moment’s irritation stole through her, and then she realized just how hot he looked. She wanted to reach through the screen and rip the T-shirt off of him.

  To stroke the sleek warm skin and muscle beneath.

  And then his hand curved around Marta’s slender waist. He leaned in, nuzzling her cheek. The model’s face said it all. Pouting allure. Desire.

  Numb fingers pressed frantically at the remote. Finally, the TV responded by clicking off.

  “Are you okay?” Gina asked. Then, “I’m sorry, that was a dumbass question.”

  “I set them up on the date,” Hannah said. Her voice was hollow. “It’s my fault.”

  He’d forgotten about her so quickly, obviously more than ready to take things up again with Marta as if Hannah had been nothing more than a mindless dalliance.

  “Let’s tack a picture of him on the wall and throw nasty things at it,” Gina suggested.

  Hannah tried to laugh, and couldn’t.

  Her phone started ringing again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The fluorescent lights were too bright. Everything about the diner was too bright at this time of night. She glanced up at the door again, but it still hadn’t opened. At the counter, the waitress held up the coffee pot, and Hannah shook her head. She’d already had two cups and was beginning to feel a little jittery. The coffee had the consistency of wallpaper paste.

  She was waiting for Andre. He’d called an hour and a half ago. And then kept calling until finally Gina had answered for her.

  She’d left Gina at the apartment, preferring to respond to Andre’s urgent demand for a meeting alone. She was afraid to find out what he’d do to her if she refused. The champagne in her system had long since evaporated.

  And now here she was, waiting in this late-night diner for him.

  “Honey, I am so sorry I’m late!”

  Andre’s voice dragged her out of her reverie. Hannah stood up, and found herself enveloped in a steely-armed hug. The light fragrance of his cologne tickled her nose.

  “Big kiss! Mwah mwah!” he said, air kissing each of her cheeks.

  Hannah laughed in spite of herself, and gave him a real kiss on his cheek. His skin was shaved baby smooth.

  “Talk to me,” Andre instructed, sliding into the booth. “You look like my worst nightmare.”

  Self-consciously, Hannah put her hand up to her hair. She’d tried to sleek the curls, but hadn’t really had the heart to work very hard at it. Instead, she’d drawn them back in a ponytail. She was pretty sure that something akin to a poodle tail was popping out of the back of her head.

  “You’re so good for a girl’s ego,” Hannah told him.

  “Girlfriends don’t lie,” he said.

  The dichotomy of his flamboyant personality off duty and his enforcer bodyguard persona when he was working still caught her off guard.

  “Seriously, honey, I’m not sure who looks worse, you or Nate.”

  “He looked pretty good on TV.”

  Andre waved one hand dismissively. “Window dressing. He’s a wreck.”

  The waitress came by and poured coffee into Andre’s cup. She refilled Hannah’s automatically. Andre ordered pastries for them both.

  “I’m really not hungry,” Hannah said.

  “Don’t worry, the calories don’t count if you eat them with a friend,” Andre confided.

  The comment brought a start
led laugh from her.

  “Better,” he said. “You left the tour so quickly, you didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah said.

  Andre squeezed her fingers gently.

  Hannah stared at the man sitting opposite her. When they’d first met, she never would have thought that she and Andre would become such good friends. She could talk trash, fashion, and men with him without batting an eyelash. It was a lot like having Gina around, except that she could walk down a dark street in a bad neighborhood with him and not have to worry about being mugged. (Then again, Gina could kick some serious ass.)

  “So why did you call?” she asked.

  Andre took her hands in his. “You need to help Nate.”

  She tried to pull her hands away, automatically shaking her head.

  Andre’s big hands clamped down, not enough to hurt her, but enough to keep her from getting free. “He’s self-destructing.”

  “He’s using again?” Hannah asked, shocked. She’d truly believed he was over the drugs.

  “No,” Andre assured her. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if it eventually led to that. Let me tell you what’s been going on with your man this week.”

  “He’s not my man,” Hannah protested.

  Andre ignored her. “He’s become a tyrant. When he’s not moping around, he’s snarling at people and picking fights. He and Alan just about came to blows two days ago. And while I’m all for watching hunky men wrestle around, it’s not good for the tour. The concerts are suffering. You have to talk to him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? I don’t understand what happened between the two of you.”

  “The article—”

  Andre snorted. It sounded a little like a bull getting ready to gore an unsuspecting victim. “You’re a publicist; you know how the game works. Not everyone is going to love you. Not every photo is going to be flattering. You have to develop a thick skin.”

  She knew that. Lord knew she told her clients that often enough. But this wasn’t the same thing at all—she wasn’t supposed to be the one in front of the camera—and she told him so.