by Holley Trent
She wanted a hole to open up in the floor so she could fall straight into the Sapphire Grand Hotel’s laundry room. If she were lucky, she’d have a gentle landing atop some soiled linens. She’d fight her way to the top of the pile of towels, get rid of her bunion-inducing stilettos, and haul her ass to the wilderness.
After all, Lisa had joined the bandwagon with Everley’s therapist and had been intensifying her encouragement to just leave. In down moments, Everley had found herself pondering. She had a little money. She’d be okay. The problem would be what would happen when the money ran out. That would take a few years, assuming she was frugal. There’d be no safety net for her if she hadn’t established a steady cash flow by then. Her parents weren’t going to offer funds or sympathy. They’d tell her she’d done it to herself, and what were they supposed to do?
“No one’s looking at you yet,” Lisa whispered. “They’re all leaning forward trying to figure out who the sea of bodies approaching the stage is.”
Everley picked up her head.
Sure enough, her father had invited a group of ten or so people onto the stage. Mostly men. And then there were more, quickly carrying out microphone stands and stools and a full drum kit.
Things started making sense when she looked at the slick graphics on the bass drum’s head. “Outward Reaction,” she read in awe.
“Wow. They’re kind of a big deal,” Lisa said.
“Well, they were.” Everley leaned up and scanned the cluster of men for Bruce Engle. He had to be there. There was no Outward Reaction without him.
She found him in the back of the cluster, hair slicked back into a ponytail, beautiful mouth curved into a dour frown.
The frown went away, though, when her father draped his arm around his shoulders and laughed into the mic. “This guy right here is something of a legend at Athena.”
Bruce leaned in and said into the mic, “You’re too kind. You mean something of a joke, but I’m cool with that.”
The crowd laughed.
“Well, he certainly got my attention after a while,” her father said with a greasy chuckle.
She rolled her eyes.
“It hasn’t been announced yet, but Athena has acquired all rights to Outward Reaction’s final tour book.”
The room breathed a collective gasp, even Everley. She hated to admit it, but that grab was a big deal. There was a documentary attached to that tour that was due to premiere at a major film festival, and all of Everley’s contacts in the industry had said that the footage was explosive and captivating. People were going to want to learn everything they could about the band, and especially about why they’d broken up.
No one knew that. That secret was held tighter than Everley’s generous ass in a new pair of shaping briefs.
“You’ll see it in all the trade periodicals soon,” her father said. “Just before we were going to battle it out at auction, my assistant reminded me that we had an in.” He gave Bruce’s shoulder a playful punch. “It’s all about who you know.”
Bruce looked like he was about to say something, but Outward Reaction’s drummer, a bald brawler named Aaron Westhouse, took the mic. It dawned on her that he always did that. Every single interview she’d ever seen the band in, he talked over Bruce, if he and the others let Bruce talk at all.
That was strange. Common knowledge was that the pretty front man did the talking.
Maybe that’s why they broke up?
“We’re excited to be partnering with Athena,” Aaron growled into the mic. “We’re going to do a live acoustic set for you here tonight. Just so you know, it’s being recorded. Hence those cameras you might not have noticed.” He gestured to the camera operators and then swiveled a drumstick between his fingers. “And in case you were going to shout out the question, the answer is no. We’re not getting back together.”
He’d glared at Bruce for that last bit, which seemed a bit mean spirited, but Bruce had shown up. That said something, even if Bruce’s expression didn’t.
As the band finished setting up and staff made their way to their seats, Everley actually abandoned hers. Her view of the band was pretty good, but there was a column between her and the stool Bruce had carried his guitar to. The others were okay, she supposed, as far as looks went, but they weren’t compelling. They hadn’t written ninety-three twisty-turny alarming chapters in first person present tense, all of which had a stylistic lack of capitalization and no congealed plot.
His wordplay was interesting and often remarkably cutting.
He simply wasn’t a good storyteller in that medium, and the entire point of a novel was the story.
She leaned against the wall near the door, hands across her chest, trying to affect a casual stance in spite of the fact that a quarter of the room had eyes on her. She did her best to ignore them. That was made somewhat easier by Lisa’s approach. She carried with her two glasses of wine and immediately thrust one at Everley.
“At least try to look like you know how to work a room,” Lisa murmured.
“I am trying. That just makes it worse.”
Lisa brought her glass to her mouth and said behind the rim, “Saw Raleigh squeezing through the crowd after you. I thought he was following, but he went out the other door. Had a stank-ass look on his face.”
“Because he was looking at me?”
Lisa snorted. “Stop that. But no. I don’t think it had anything to do with you.”
“Hm.”
Fortunately, Everley didn’t have time to fixate on the possible snub. Outward Reaction started their set, and no one could keep Bruce quiet during those. He was the voice. There was no band without him.
Their handlers tried to whisk them all out of the room immediately following the fourth song but, in a rush of rare courage, Everley handed her wine back to Lisa and took off for the stage.
“Ev?”
“Give me a sec.”
Everyone at Athena accused her of abusing her clout and relationships simply for being there. For a change, she was going to salve her wounded soul and take advantage of the supposed perks of being a talentless daddy’s girl.
Bruce handed her a guitar pick as she approached.
Confused, she stared at the gray plastic chip on her palm.
He did the same for the others who’d drifted up and explained, “I don’t have a pen. Can’t sign them. Sorry.”
Someone produced a permanent marker.
A lingering member of the band grumbled under his breath.
Everley cut the bassist a scathing look. She didn’t give a damn who he was or care about his feelings at the moment. As far as she could tell, Bruce hadn’t done anything except be mobbed.
She was part of that mob.
Realizing that, she took a few steps back and just watched.
He graciously took pictures with various editors and VIP authors. Signed some programs.
But she noticed that every time he was asked a question, no matter how benign, one of those handlers answered for him.
By the fourth time, Bruce’s lips had flattened into a thin line and his stare had gone vacant.
Shit.
Everley knew that look. It was the don’t-want-to-be-here look. It was the same expression she’d had in her staff photo, but she’d had more of a smile in hers. That was mask enough for most people. Only Lisa could tell how bogus the picture was.
She eased through the gaggle and handed Bruce back his pick. “Hey. Thanks, but I don’t collect those.”
That seemed to fluster him. He stared at the little triangle of plastic in his palm and then at her, and she wondered if he was sensitive and if she’d made a huge gaffe.
“They told me to escort you to the, uh...” Everley racked her brain for a convincing-enough name for a high-end suite. She’d never been good at lying on the spot. “The... Silver Deluxe Lounge?”
Cringing, she hoped he didn’t notice the question mark in her tone.
“They?”
“Mm-hmm.” She put on her best fake-it-until-you-make-it smile and gestured toward the closed double doors behind him. “It’s that way. If you’re ready to go, just grab whatever you need.”
“I didn’t bring any of it. That’s not even my guitar.”
“It’s not?”
“Doesn’t play right. Plucky sounding. Cheap wood.”
“You sounded good to me, but I admit I was paying more attention to your voice than to what your fingers were doing.”
“Usually goes the other way around.”
“What?” Everley asked, wondering what she’d just missed.
He didn’t clarify. He grimaced. “You said there’s a room?”
She gestured toward the doors again, deciding not to chase an answer from him. It didn’t matter, and they needed to hurry before Bruce’s entourage caught up to him.
Technically there was a room. She’d booked a couple of singles for the night so she and Lisa wouldn’t have to fight traffic while tired, and possibly inebriated, to get home.
He abandoned the stage and made ground-eating strides to the door. He held it open for her.
She found Lisa’s face in the crowd and held up her phone as an instruction. Lisa nodded.
Everley got her bearings. The hotel was massive and difficult to navigate, but she was pretty sure there was an elevator bank around the corner at her right.
“I’m Everley, by the way,” she said, getting around him. “Everley Shannon. My father is Tom. Try not to hold it against me.”
“Ah. Right. Yes. Tom.” He snorted. “Well, you can’t help who we’re related to. Trust me. My grandfather owned a diamond mine. He was repugnant. Treated people like shit. Only cared about my father because he came out good looking. Something for him to brag about. I smiled when I’d heard he died. Do you know what a blood diamond is?”
Overcome by his stream of candor, Everley tripped over a bit of misplaced air on the carpet but quickly caught herself. She swiped her keycard in front of the elevator reader and called up the car. “Um. Yes. I’m aware of what those are.”
Bruce rubbed his chin and shifted his weight staring at the intricately painted ceiling. “It’s a sour feeling having money that came from bad shit. I try to get rid of it but it keeps coming back. I suppose I should try to make some bad investments. That’s not the only thing, the diamonds.”
“I guess it never is,” she said weakly.
Blessedly, the elevator was empty when it opened.
Noting that they were being followed by band entourage and publishing figureheads, Everley rushed Bruce into the car, stabbed the door closing button several times, and held her breath until the door had closed.
He leaned against the corner and stared at the door seam. “My grandfather left all of us money. I was a teenager. Wasn’t in a position to refuse it.”
She didn’t know what to say in response to that. She didn’t think there was a good thing to say, but she tried, anyway. “I don’t think the money in my family is as old as yours, but I’m sure some of it was ill gotten. Unfortunately, living in New York, I occasionally have to spend it. I don’t invest any, except for what I’ve put into my friend’s business, but I do try to offload cash to causes I care about.”
“Like what?”
“Various women’s issues. Literacy causes. Voting rights. Environmental things. Depends on what’s depressing me the most when I’m balancing my checkbook.”
“I’m not so organized as that. I just give money to the places my nan told me to, but she made that list years ago and it doesn’t seem like enough now.”
The elevator stopped on the thirtieth floor.
If Bruce had realized how far from ground level they’d gone, he didn’t comment on it. He boldly stepped out and looked around.
“I fibbed,” she said, pausing in front of the closing doors. “You looked stressed and I had a room, so...”
Shockingly, he pulled her into his arms, laid his cheek atop her head, and hugged her tight. “Thank you,” he sighed.
He held her like that for what seemed like an age, and she held her breath—not because she was appalled by his audaciousness but because she was afraid he’d notice what he was doing and pull away. “My hero,” he whispered.
No one ever hugged Everley. She wasn’t sure why. She was perfectly built for hugs, in her opinion, and she loved them.
“I...like being the hero for a change,” she said pitifully.
“You’re not supposed to wear white after Labor Day.”
Everley frowned against Bruce’s chest. “What?”
“You’re in white.”
“Because I look good in white?” It set off the hue of her rapidly fading tan. Soon enough, she’d transition to her winter ensemble of all gray, all the time.
“Tradition of the last century,” he murmured. “Started by the wealthy, of course. They could afford to wear white and have it laundered, and also to limit their wearing of the garments to the warmer months. Most people couldn’t be so picky.”
“Huh. Didn’t know that.”
“You do look stunning in white.” He was still holding her.
She had no desire to complain. The embrace somehow managed to be thoroughly chaste, and yet still soothed a ferocious, deep-seated hunger in her. There was a genuineness in it, or perhaps a kind of acknowledgment she’d been craving. He was good at it. She wondered if he knew.
“Neckline’s a bit low, though.”
“Yeah, so my tits’ll distract people from my mean mug.”
“Solid plan.”
“I come up with a good one every now and then.”
Bruce smelled of leather, musk, and perspiration, but it wasn’t an unpleasant scent. She’d encountered far worse being crammed between businessmen in standing-room-only subway cars. She’d become a champion breath holder—a skill she hoped would up her value if draft time ever came for the apocalypse survival teams.
The elevators behind them opened. People stepped out. Bruce didn’t let go.
“So...” she started.
“You’re soft.”
She cringed. “Been skipping workouts lately. My trainer stresses me out and I’m afraid I’ll screw up my ankle again.”
“Finer women in the nineteenth century were discouraged from partaking in strenuous exercise. They were thought to be too delicate and so much activity was thought to be harmful to pregnancy.”
“You’re just full of trivia, aren’t you?”
“Can’t get rid of it.”
“Can’t get rid of what?”
“Random facts. They stick to me like lint on wool.”
“Interesting. Tell me a fact about...” Everley searched her brain for any random subject that might be able to stump him. She was enjoying the game. “Tell me a fact about this hotel.”
“Placard out front said that the original structure built here had an unspecified infestation the owners couldn’t be rid of. They set it afire and moved on.”
“Jesus.”
“Not his actual name. The Hebrew name Yeshua was more likely.”
“Why do you know that?”
“I’m observant and curious because learning gives me something to do when I can’t figure out how to be charming. Also, my nan had books.”
She laughed. She couldn’t tell if he was being funny on purpose, but his smile in response hinted that he didn’t mind if she thought he was.
He was easy.
She needed easy.
“So did mine, but they were mostly there for decoration. She didn’t want to crack the spines. So fancy, my grandmother. She used to wear shorts with pantyhose.”
He didn’t say anything for a long while and didn’
t move when his phone—wherever it was on his person—began to ring incessantly.
He rubbed her back, sighed into her hair. Still so chaste, when he could have easily taken advantage. She didn’t know what it said about her that she’d come to expect that.
“You have somewhere to be,” she said with reluctance. He was nice, and he was charming, despite what he thought. She didn’t feel any urgent need to perform for him. For a change, she could just be herself, even if she couldn’t quite remember who that was. “Where do you want me to take you?”
“Haven’t eaten. They rushed me straight here from the airport. Don’t even know where my bags are or if I have any.”
“Why’d you let them do that?”
“It was so fast. I just...said yes and here I am.”
That was exactly how Everley had ended up at Athena for seven years. She’d said yes, and there she still was.
“All right. So. You want food. I’ll find you something that isn’t an hors d’oeurve.”
“Can I sit?”
“Of course you can sit.” She guided him to her room, quickly hid away her preshower clothes in her overnight bag, and handed him the spare keycard.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said when he’d settled on the loveseat beneath the window. “I’ll sort this out. Who’s going to be looking for you?”
“No one I want to find me.”
She pressed her lips together to keep laughter from seeping out.
“I mean it,” he said. “They all hate me. I return the favor.”
“Why do they hate you?”
“Because they put up with me for so long, and I decided that I was tired of being put up with. It fucks with their money, us not being an act anymore. I probably shouldn’t have told you that, but when I’m tired I stop caring.”
Her mouth opened, but whatever light, frothy thing about to fall out of her mouth got choked at the back of her throat.
What he’d said deserved heavy words—significant words—in return, but she didn’t have any.
And because he was easy, he’d already moved on from the subject. He’d picked up the eyeshadow palette she’d left on the table and squinted at the backside of it. She would have bet her last dime he knew a little trivia about eyeshadow.
