She could practically hear the wheels spinning in Chris’s head, all of the logistics around dropping the album, the appearances already planned, the timing. The money involved in recording the album, the musicians paid. If they junked the album, they lost all of that. She wasn’t a big enough star to pull that kind of stunt and hope to have any kind of career afterward.
“You wanted this,” Chris said. His voice was wary as he backpedaled in search of his footing. Cady knew how he felt. “Two years ago when you asked me to represent you, we sat down and planned out what we wanted. I got you exactly what you wanted.”
And when did this become about him? “I know,” she said. “But … I don’t know anymore. That was a long time ago.”
“Cady, sweetie, talk to me after Christmas, okay? Just take the next few weeks and rest up. If you still feel the same way after the holidays, we’ll talk.”
“Okay,” she said, knowing it was a concession she didn’t want to make. “But it’s not going to get any easier to pull the album.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Spend some time with your sister. Get some rest,” he said again.
“Rest might not fix this,” she warned.
“And it might fix this,” he shot back. “Look, you hired me to give you advice. I’m giving you advice. You think you’re the first singer to get cold feet about a sophomore album? Please. It happens all the time.”
Maybe it did. Maybe she was wrong, maybe all she needed was to mainline gingerbread lattes and shortbread, do some Christmas decorating, watch a Netflix marathon. “Okay,” she said again. “I’ll give you until Christmas.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, expansive and obviously relieved. “Enjoy the show. Don’t sing too long. It’s inside, right?”
“Goodbye, Chris,” she said, and disconnected the call.
“The building’s already at capacity and the line to get in is around the block,” Conn said. “I called for backup.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“There’s a crowd forming on the Mobile Media property, which is trespassing, and also dangerous given that there’s a big open pit over there. Big companies don’t like bad publicity any more than you do.”
“Got it. Do you want me to talk to them?”
“No. I want you to stay inside. I warned the bouncers about your drunken admirer from the last concert. He won’t get in. When you’re ready to go onstage, I get you there. Clear?”
“Clear.” Chris was pissed enough at her. If she got injured at a benefit concert to which she’d donated her services, he’d probably fly back to Lancaster just to kill her himself. She shook out her arms and legs, rolled her head on her neck, blew a few lip trills. Business never, ever entered her performing headspace. The day she couldn’t give a great show to a live audience, she’d hang up her guitar. “I’m ready.”
He didn’t move. “You don’t look ready.”
“This is my ready face,” she said, and smiled at him, the smile that was all teeth and no eyes, the one she’d practiced. His expression didn’t change. “Seriously,” she said. “This is it. I’m ready.”
He pushed away from the wall, shifting planes of muscle and God, the shoulders on him. She expected him to open the door for her. Instead, he walked right up to her, cupped her jaw in both hands, and kissed her.
It wasn’t soft and sweet, or reassuring in the slightest. His hands were rough with weight-lifting calluses and the male attitude that skin-care regimes were pointless wastes of time. What sent heat zinging through her was the rough texture of his lips, chapped from days in the cold and wind. For a split second she imagined Conn behind the wheel of a dragster, winter air pouring into the car’s interior as he warmed up the tires. Rough, intense.
Then his tongue touched hers, his breath heating her mouth as he tilted his head and parted her lips with his own. Her hands gripped first his jacket, then slid inside and around to his shoulder blades, where his body heat seared through his T-shirt. She went up on tiptoes and kissed him back, answered his demand with a call of her own. More.
Then he stepped back, breathing hard, hands on his hips.
“What the hell was that?” she said.
“Don’t know,” he replied. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then stared at the color smeared there. “But now you look ready.”
She felt it, the jumpy dance of her stomach, electric ripples along her nerves. She was excited, not nervous, anticipating something good, the chance to connect with the audience, connect them with each other, connect everyone in the building with the basic rhythms of life. Breath and voice and song all coming together to make meaning. To show people what it meant to be alive.
The gray-blue glint of his eyes flashed in Eve’s brightly lit office. She laughed, feeling witchy, bewitched, slipping into her stage persona. He didn’t back away as she took one step forward, closing the distance between them.