by Andrea Dale
“Is that new?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Nate said.
The look of triumph, excitement, that lit Sam’s eyes plucked at Nate.
“It’s Hannah’s,” Nate said.
“I thought you two had broken up.”
Bending his head, Nate played the first few chords of the chorus. He didn’t want to hurt Sam, but there were things that had to be said.
“You’d be happy if we weren’t together, wouldn’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” His manager came further into the room, bushy grey eyebrows drawn together into a frown.
Nate turned around on the bench so he could face Sam. The music called to him, but he knew it would wait. For the first time in two years, he was confident that it would be there when he needed it again. “You pushed us together, hoping she would keep me from falling back into old addictions. But the minute our relationship became public, you went from praising her to damning her.”
Sam threw his hands up in the air. “I could care less about your relationship. It was the bad PR I had a problem with.”
“And you let her know that.” Nate didn’t mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did.
“Of course I did. It’s her job. If she can’t do the job properly when she’s with you, then she needs to be away from you.” Sam’s eyes dared him to contradict that.
“What about what I need?”
“You need to be at the top of the charts. You need to recapture—”
“I need Hannah,” Nate said, cutting off Sam’s words. He watched as his friend opened his mouth to argue, and then closed it again, changing his mind.
Sam went to the wet bar, opening the refrigerator to remove a bottle of Evian. It was a stalling tactic. When the older man turned around, he was ready to speak.
“You’re just feeling hurt because she left. Once a little time passes, you’ll realize that I’m right. She’s one of the best PR agents in the business, and that’s what she needs to stay.”
Nate stood up, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the lights of LA. When he spoke, it was soft enough that Sam had to move closer to hear. “I need to make music. I need to perform. I need to see the fans pressed against the stage and realize that I’m giving something back to them.”
He swung around, his hands shoved into the pockets of his favorite jeans. “I don’t need to see my name in Billboard’s number-one slot. I don’t need to have my picture in every magazine. I don’t need to have every starlet-of-the-moment on my arm.”
Nate watched as Sam sat down in one of the overstuffed designer chairs grouped around the glass-and-steel coffee table. The frown was still in place, but he could tell that his manager—his friend—was listening.
“I don’t need the drugs anymore, Sam. I don’t have to be high to be happy. I’ve already made it. I have fans, a lot of them. They love my music, and they love me. That’s what I need. I’ll put out new albums, and I’ll make new fans along the way. I’ll lose some, too, but that’s okay. I’ll still be making music. It’s what I am.”
Feeling the call of the music, he moved back to the piano. “But what I do need, more than anything else, is Hannah. I need her in my life, or the rest of it has no meaning. She gave me back my music. She gave me back the joy in it.” His fingers drifted across the keys, the ghost of a song answering him. “I love her.”
Sam smoothed his hands back along his hair before dropping them into his lap. “I had no idea that you felt this way. Why didn’t you tell me all this ages ago?”
“I’ve only just realized some of it myself. You’ve always wanted what’s best for me. I know that, and I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. You took a raw young musician and taught him what he needed to know to make it big. Somewhere along the line, though, we both forgot that the music is what’s important. Not the money or the fame. Sure, it’s nice to have those, I won’t say it’s not. But it’s not everything there is. We forgot that, Sam.
“I got lost in drugs, and you’ve focused so hard on dragging my ass back from the brink that neither of us noticed that I’m not there anymore.”
“You scared the hell out of me when you told me you couldn’t write anymore,” Sam admitted quietly. “All I could think about was that something inside of you was broken, that the drugs and the accident had killed your creativity. I’ve pushed so hard to get you back on top because I thought it would help you get that drive back, jump-start your music again.”
“Hannah did that,” Nate said. “She makes me happy.”
Sam nodded, slapping his hands onto his knees. “Then tell me what I can do to help you win her back.”
A slow grin curved Nate’s mouth. For the first time in a week, he felt optimistic.
Chapter Sixteen
Hannah clicked the mouse with her right hand while she balanced a large banana-berry Jamba Juice with extra wheatgrass in her left. A new day, a fresh start. Out with the junk food, in with the healthy stuff. Seeing her father, hale and hearty at sixty-five, had inspired her. That and the reminder of her hot new skinny jeans.
Sucking up a mouthful of the thick smoothie, she scrolled through her e-mail. There was a big after-show get-together tonight, and given that it was LA, execs from Nate’s record company would be there. She had to make sure they saw how far Nate had come. How well the tour did wouldn’t matter if the execs still thought he wasn’t worth investing in anymore.
Her father had taken her aside at the party at one point, put his arm around her, and told her he was proud of her.
“You’re doing a bang-up job, Peanut,” he said. “Your boy is generating a lot of buzz down the grapevine. There’s even talk that we’ll sign him again, if he’s interested in coming back with us. That’s just between you and me and the wall, of course.”
“Of course, Daddy,” she said, hugging him. “And thank you.” His words really did mean a lot.
It did concern her that Nate wasn’t writing new music. In the past, his strength had been the combination of his creativity and his performances. So far, however, the fans had been willing to follow him on this covers album and tour. There were a hell of a lot of amazing songwriters out there, and if Nate found someone whose music he clicked with, it would be fine.
And if Nate signed a great new recording deal, she’d really know she’d succeeded in what she’d been hired to do: put him back on top.
And then, maybe…
Maybe she could quit.
After her father’s party had wrapped up, Hannah had taken a long drive, wandering down Mulholland, cruising the canyons, ending up on PCH somewhere north of Malibu. By the time she parked at a deserted beach and rolled down the windows to hear the surf, she’d had a fair amount of time to think.
To push back the emotions and focus on the rational, the logical.
To come up with a plan.
Seeing Nate at the party had shaken her equilibrium. She’d thought it would be one night when she wouldn’t have to think about him, and then there he was, gorgeous and sexy and reminding her of the passion and the emotional connection they’d had and lost.
After their conversation by the stairs, he’d left her alone, but it hadn’t mattered. She’d spent the evening not looking at him, trying to focus on her parents and their guests and the celebration, but she had been constantly, painfully aware of his presence the entire time.
She’d come to the realization that it would be like that for a long, long time. If she worked for him, she could avoid him for only so long. Sure, she could do the bulk of her work at home, but there would be times, like tonight at the after-show function, when they’d have to meet.
And every one of those times would be like picking a scab off the wound.
She was bound by a contract, and she was too professional to break it. But it occurred to her that maybe she could find a way out of it. If she got him back on top, the work would be easier. Maybe she could turn the job over to a junior publicist, someone up-and-coming in the busi
ness who could take the reins from her.
By the time she got home, she had several names in mind. She would talk to Sam about it tonight if they had a free moment during the after-show party, provided the record execs seemed happy.
She didn’t harbor any hope that no longer working for Nate would mean she had a chance with him. He’d made it clear that it was over.
It would simply be the easiest and best way to cut him completely out of her life, except as a successful highlight on her CV.
Hannah took another drink of Jamba Juice. There’d be good press coverage tonight, and she followed up with several contacts about that. Gina would be there to take more photos, which several quality magazines had already expressed an interest in.
She ticked that off her To Do list, then opened up the FoxFanatics website. Tani had e-mailed to let her know the boards were humming with positive feedback about Nate’s recent shows, and Hannah liked to keep up with what the fans were saying.
A banner scrolled across the home page, urging visitors to check out the latest poll. The webmaster ran them on occasion, questions like “What’s Your Favorite Fox Album?” and, when Nate had announced the covers album, “What Song Should Nate Cover?” Much to the fans’ delight, Nate had, in fact, included the number one choice, Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My Baby,” on the CD.
The current question, oddly enough, was “Who Was Born To Be Nate’s Baby?”
What the hell did that mean? Hannah investigated.
“Who,” the subtitle read, “should Nate date? Voting ends at midnight tonight, so cast your final votes! Click here to see if your favorite choice is winning.”
Hannah snorted. Unlikely that Nate would take the fans’ recommendation on that one. Still, she had to wonder who his fans thought he’d make the best beautiful babies with. (She voted for Angelina Jolie. Nate could totally take out Brad Pitt, and besides, that would leave Brad free for Gina.)
She clicked.
She set the Jamba Juice down on the desk, carefully, before she dropped the Styrofoam cup and the remains of the smoothie exploded all over her office.
The fan response was not what she expected.
Four percent chose Marta Ingersol.
Eighteen percent voted “Me, of course.”
The clear winner, by a landslide seventy-eight percent, was Hannah Montgomery.
Staring at the screen, she fumbled for her phone, looking away only when she needed to find Tani’s number.
Breathless as always, the fan-club president answered. “Isn’t that fantastic!” she said when Hannah managed to choke out the words “poll” and “what the hell.” “I knew you’d get a lot of votes, and I told Helen we should get you a plaque or something, but she said we should focus on getting the application in to the Hollywood Walk of Fame for Nate’s star, but we can talk about that tonight—oh, that reminds me, I have to call Fran and Sheri—hold on, I’m about to go through a tunn—”
The line went dead.
*
At the backstage entrance, Hannah flashed her All Access laminate at the guard. The LA night air brought a muffled bass beat on its mellow breezes. She couldn’t actually identify the song from the sound before the door shut behind her, but she was pretty sure it was “Dragons of Winter.”
She’d deliberately timed her arrival with the end of the concert. Her presence wasn’t required for it, and she hadn’t wanted to hear it, much less see it. She knew that someday she’d be able to listen to Nate’s music again with enjoyment rather than sorrow or grumpiness. But that was going to be a long time from now.
Tonight, she just needed to be in the private Cyclorama Club by the time the press and the suits started streaming in. They’d show up after the concert ended, while Nate was backstage showering.
Oh. Hell. That was the last mental image she needed.
“Darling!” Andre’s voice rang out.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Gina said, right on his heels.
“Hey, guys,” Hannah said distractedly, reaching into her purse for her phone.
“You need to come with us,” Andre said. She realized he was standing at her side, one meaty hand gently cupping her elbow.
On her other side, Gina linked arms with her.
“What’s going on?” Hannah tensed. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope,” Gina said.
She tried to resist, but even the light pressure on Andre’s side drove her forward. “I have work to do—I need to get over to—”
“You need to hear this,” Gina said in a voice that brooked no argument.
They pushed her through the door to the wing of the stage. Sam, who was standing by one of the monitors with his usual “something is bound to go wrong, I’m sure of it” frowns on his face, glanced up and nodded at her. In the dim light, she thought she saw him smile.
The final bars of “Dragons of Winter” were pounding through the arena. Hannah refused to look at the stage, refused to see Nate poised at the edge crunching out the guitar licks.
Refused to think about the concert where he’d played her body so well, and the triumphant look on his face right before she’d shattered into orgasm.
She turned to flee, but Andre was blocking the exit, his feet planted firmly apart, trunklike arms folded across his chest. She gave him her best puppy-dog eyes, but he just shook his head at her, expressionless. Her flamboyant friend Andre was gone; he had gone entirely into threatening, scary-Andre mode.
The song was over; the crowd’s screams and cheers were dying down. But Nate wasn’t leaving the stage.
Instead he stood in front of the center mic, just him and the guitar, as the rest of the band slipped away. A roadie tossed him a towel, which he used to wipe his face. He tossed the towel into the audience, and there was a brief scuffle before someone shrieked in victory and waved the towel over her head.
A single spotlight narrowed down to frame Nate. The metal rings on his wrist cuffs glinted as he ran his hand up and down the neck of the guitar. The leather pants he wore showed off his perfect ass. His black hair curled over the collar of a sleeveless vest, and the fox tattoo on his bicep wore a sheen of sweat.
“We’re going to do something a little different tonight,” he said. “I’ve got one more song for you, and then I’m going to say good night. I’m sorry there won’t be an encore, but this is actually going to be something special.”
Random screams from the audience.
Hannah frowned. “No encore? What’s he doing?” She turned to Gina. “What’s going on?”
“Just shut up and listen,” Gina said.
“I went through hell a couple of years ago, and thankfully came out the other side,” Nate said. “It was a long road, but I’m back, thanks in part to all of you.”
More cheering. Nate raised a hand, waving them down.
“This tour, I’ve focused on my past, songs that inspired me to become a musician and songs of mine that you’ve made into hits over the years. But now, it’s time to start looking to my future. When the tour is over, if all goes well, I’ll be recording a CD of new music.” He paused, then shouted, “Do you all want to hear some new music?”
The audience shrieked with delight.
Nate was writing again? Hannah’s stomach lurched. She whipped around to look at Sam.
Sam was definitely smiling. He nodded at her to pay attention, but he didn’t have to. She was already turning back to stare at Nate.
The audience had no idea how momentous this was.
“I’ve just written a new song,” Nate said, “and I want to play it for you tonight. It may not be as polished as it ought to be, so bear with me. This is a song about what’s really important in life. Believe me, it ain’t the grand illusion you see up here on stage.”
He caressed the guitar, then picked out a complex melody in a minor key.
Hannah held her breath. She’d been wrong. Nate signing a new record deal wasn’t the greatest measure of success.
This was.<
br />
You were there when I first found my wings
Watched from afar when I ascended
Top of the heap
Everyone’s star
Music the wind to make me fly
But like Lucifer I grew too cocky
And like Lucifer I fell from grace
The depths of hell
No one to believe
No music to mend my broken wings
The music swirled around her, surged through her. It was beautiful. Nate Fox was back.
That was the only thought Hannah could manage. All she could do was listen as he continued.
You were the one who didn’t turn away
You brought the music back to me
Repaired my wings
Healed my soul
Now fly with me
Come fly with me
Just you and me
You’re all I need
Fly with me…
The crowd erupted in screams and applause as the final chords died away. Nate slipped the guitar strap from over his neck, raising one hand to the audience, and quietly left the stage.
Somehow, he was standing in front of her, his eyes searching hers. His hair was spiked with sweat, his vest hanging open over his hard chest. A droplet of moisture ran down his breastbone.
“That was beautiful,” Hannah managed. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he might be able to use it as the bass line on the song.
“It’s yours,” he said softly, looking at her with an intensity that stole her breath. “You gave me back my music.”
He put his hand on her waist to guide her to one side. A roadie hustled by, coiling cords. Nate’s hand lingered, burning through the fabric of her shirt.
Hannah tried to remain professional. But somehow the song’s lyrics had slipped past her guard. That, and the words he’d just spoken. He credited her with helping him find his way past his writing block.
Still, she had come here to do her job. She had to remember that.
“Say something,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re writing again,” she tried, and immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, she could tell by the disappointment that shadowed his eyes. She couldn’t bear it. “Did you mean it?” she asked. “What you said in the song?”
