“Yes. Army, I think, like Matt. He shot Hector’s accomplice.” At Cady’s astonished glance, Eve added, “He did the only thing he could do. From what Matt says, that’s pretty much Conn’s reputation. Whatever it takes, he’ll do it. He’s blue, through and through.”
Loyal. That’s what Eve meant. A man like that wouldn’t play by the shifting, shallow rules of celebrity “relationships.” “I need to make a phone call. Where can I get a little privacy?”
“My office, upstairs,” Eve said immediately. “Thick walls on three sides, and no one goes up there except me and Natalie.”
She followed Eve up the stairs, and tapped Chris’s name in her most-recent-calls list. He was always on the first screen, and always picked up on the first ring.
“I was just about to call you. What’s this I see on Instagram? Pictures of my favorite pop star getting ready to do a charity show we agreed she wouldn’t do?”
“Don’t talk about me in the third person, Chris. I told you I was doing this show as a favor to Eve, and I’m doing it. Period. Also, what the hell? I just got blindsided by Hannah Rafferty with rumors about Harry!”
“Who is Hannah Rafferty and how would she know anything about Harry?”
“She’s the features reporter for the Star Trib, which has been extremely supportive of me and my career.”
“Ah, yes, Lancaster’s Star Trib, the pinnacle of journalism.”
Cady was scrolling through search engine hits on her and Harry. “Oh my God, these rumors are all over the gossip sites.”
“Cady, stop reading the gossip sites. There is a good reason why I don’t round up every single trail of bullshit on the internet and send you a daily summary, and that’s because the rumors are like the demons in those pigs in the Bible. They’re legion and will only drive you over a cliff. There are also rumors you’re half alien, rumors that you’ve joined some wacko cult in Oregon, and my favorite, that you’re having John Travolta’s love child.”
“John Travolta is something out of the Enquirer. The rumors about me and Harry are on every celebrity gossip site!” She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the club and parted the curtains. Conn was talking to Eve, who was pointing at her office. He looked up, saw her, and his expression went even more blank.
“I know. Forget about it. I’m on it. In the meantime, stay inside, and be lazy.” Chris sounded distracted. Cady could hear a keyboard in the background.
“I can’t just switch from one to the other. I’m not a machine you turn off,” she said as she watched Conn’s long strides cover the distance between the dance floor and the spiral staircase to the office. “It takes time.”
“What’s going on, Cady?” Chris asked, his voice gentle.
It was the gentleness that did her in, every single time. Most of the time he was cutthroat and mercenary and absolutely ruthless, shoving and chivvying her up the career ladder, but when she needed it, he was there for her. But the one thing that had become clear in the last day or two was that the album they’d started a year ago wasn’t the one she wanted to release now. She was different, changing from day to day.
Just the thought of the chaos she’d cause at the label if she stopped the process now made her light-headed.
“I need time to think,” she said, unexpectedly choking up. “I’m just not sure about this album.”
A double rap at the door.
“Come in,” she called, clearing her throat to cover the thickness in it.
Conn walked in, his gaze sharpening when he saw her face. He took up position against the cinderblock wall, shoulders and one foot braced, jacket open to reveal gun, badge, cuffs all on his worn brown leather belt. Neanderthal thug does insouciant combativeness. For a split second she wondered if he’d agree to a quickie before she went on stage.
“Cady.”
Chris’s voice in her ear made her jump.
“You’re saying you don’t want to drop it?”
“I’m saying I’m not sure.”
A long silence. “Honey, you’re just tired. A couple of months off, a nice Christmas turkey dinner, a happy New Year’s, and you’ll be so bored you’ll be begging me to drop the album.”
She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and fiddled with the clasp on Nana’s bracelet. “I don’t know, Chris. I really don’t know. It’s not me. It’s not my sound. It’s not the music I want to make.”
“What are you talking about? You were there for all the songwriting sessions. You recorded multiple versions of all of these songs, fine-tuning the right sound.”
“I know,” she said. “I know I was, but it’s…” She searched for the right words. “They’re fine songs. They’re fine. I worked on them, and I can sing them. But I think I want more than fine.”