He reached toward her and I caught the glimmer of money in his hands as he discreetly tucked it between her fingers on top of the menus she held. She glanced down at it and then gave him a wide grin. “Right this way.”
I slid into the booth first, putting my guitar on the floor at my feet and pushing the backpack toward the end of the booth. In hindsight, I should’ve slid in after my backpack, using it as a barrier between me and the stranger, a thought that occurred to me too late as he moved in beside me.
As it did among the small crowds that stopped to listen to me sing, his presence seemed to swell over the table, and I felt more than a niggle of annoyance as he sat close enough for me to feel his body heat.
I tried to shift inconspicuously away from him as he looked at the menu but was caught when he shot me a quizzical look out of his periphery.
Not wanting him to think he unnerved me, I turned to my own menu and immediately felt almost faint with hunger. I wanted to order everything. EVERYTHING.
Silence descended over us as I was lost in the heaven of choice.
“Don’t order too much,” the stranger suddenly said. “You’re too thin and I imagine not used to eating large portions. You might make yourself ill.”
Disappointment filled me because he was annoyingly right, so when the waiter came to take our order, I only asked for sautéed sea bass and not the wings, loaded skins, nachos, and ribs I wanted as well. Saliva was building up in my mouth.
“Why don’t you go dry off while we wait?” the stranger said once the waiter left.
I immediately glanced down at my expensive guitar.
He grunted. “I’m not a thief.”
“Then what are you? What do you want?”
“Get dry first.”
I nodded, but when I got out of the booth, I swung on my backpack and grabbed hold of my guitar case. I trusted no one. He got the point, seeming almost amused by it. Now hungrier than ever, more irritated than ever, I almost snarled at him as I passed by the booth to make my way to the restrooms.
Now that the panic of going hungry wasn’t messing with my mind, I remembered I had dry clothes in my backpack from the laundromat this morning. It was amazing what fear could do to you because in that moment, I’d completely forgotten about them. Relief flooded me, and I grabbed a bunch of paper towels before I ducked into a stall to change. Once I’d stripped down, I dried off with the paper towels. I luxuriated in the feel of dry underwear and clothes as I pulled on fresh pants, jeans, socks, T-shirt, and hoodie. I folded up my wet clothes and raincoat, refusing to put them back in the backpack because they’d only get the rest of my socks, underwear, and books wet. Feeling naked without it, I tucked my fedora into my backpack.
When I returned to the main restaurant, I put the folded-up wet clothes beside me on the bench, my underwear tucked out of sight.
I couldn’t meet the stranger’s eyes as I reached for the Diet Coke I’d asked for, savoring the taste. On tour, I’d needed lots of energy so I’d eaten well and drank plenty of water. Soda was a treat at the best of times. But I hadn’t had a Diet Coke in months, and it tasted great.
“Excuse me,” my companion’s voice jolted my gaze upward and I saw him wave down a passing waitress. “Do you have a bag?”
“A bag?”
“Carrier bag, paper bag. A bag.”
“Um . . . let me check.”
It was my turn to stare at him quizzically, but he didn’t acknowledge the look. He sipped his water and stared around the restaurant as if this weren’t awkward and weird. His nose had a slight bump in it, his cheekbones high, and his jaw chiseled and angular. Overall, he had a very hawklike profile, masculine, rugged, and intimidating. And at that moment I felt like prey, stupidly allowing myself to be caught.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he genuinely didn’t want anything sexual from me.
I stared at him unabashedly, wanting answers.
He remained steadfast, ignoring me, until the waitress he’d called out to returned with a plastic carrier bag. “Will this do?”
“Aye.” He took it from her. “Thanks.”
He held it out, staring at me with those eyes that would’ve been much more suited to a Lothario, to someone who knew how to be charming. “For your clothes.”
Oh.
It was a kind gesture, also at odds with his demeanor, and my suspicion increased. I took the bag, however, sliding my wet clothes into it and out of sight. Exasperated, I said, “What the hell do you want?”
“Food first.”
“So I’ll be well fed, satisfied, and more amenable to whatever the hell it is you want from me?”
He looked at me now, really looked at me, and the corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Exactly.”
“A good villain doesn’t admit to his plan, you know.”
“I’m not a villain.”
“What are you?”
“Fo—”
“Food first. Yeah, yeah.”
And so we sat in silence until the food arrived, and the smell of my sea bass made my stomach grumble loudly. Years ago, it would’ve embarrassed me. Now I couldn’t give a shit. All I cared about was that fish.
I dug in, closing my eyes in joy as I ate.
When I opened them to scoop up buttery mashed potatoes, I felt his gaze on me.
The furrowed brow, the glimmer of concern in his eyes, made me stiffen. But just like that, his expression cleared, blank, and he went back to eating his burger as if I didn’t exist.
I savored every morsel of that meal, including the Chocolate Fudge Fixation I ordered for dessert.
My belly felt full and satisfied, and exhaustion began to force my eyelids to droop.
And I knew it was time to pay the piper. “So . . .” I pushed away my empty dessert plate and slumped back against the booth, my expression baleful. “What the hell do you want from me?”
His answer was to reach into his wallet, pull out a business card, and hand it over.
I stared down at it, disbelief flooding me.
* * *
Killian O’Dea
A&R Executive
Skyscraper Records
100 Stobcross Road
Glasgow
07878568562
MY FINGERS BIT INTO THE fancy embossed business card in my hand and I looked up at Mr. Killian O’Dea frowning. He was an artist and repertoire executive. Someone who found new artists and built the repertoire of a record label. “A record company?”
He stared blandly back at me. “If you don’t believe me, I can give you my phone so you can google us.” Before I could respond, he rhymed off who they’d signed; I recognized a few of them as successful British artists. “We’re the only record company in Scotland worth discussion and on our way to eclipsing the top labels in England. Between our eye for recognizing relevant talent and a marketing team that knows better than any how to sell talent to a digital generation, we’ve had a succession of number one albums in the last five years and a handful of our artists have gone global.”
There was a spark in his eyes as he spoke that hadn’t been there before. A light. Of passion or cold ambition, I wasn’t quite sure. Moreover, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure why I was getting his pitch.
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
O’Dea turned slightly toward me, his intense focus unnerving. “We don’t merely grow commercially successful singers, we nurture real artists. You have a gift. Do you think I stop by every bloody busker out there listening to them do Adele covers? No. You made me stop the first time I heard you singing an original song. You have my interest. I’d like a chance to hear more of your stuff, and if it’s as good as I think it is, then I’ll want you to write an album for me.”
“I don’t have a manager.” It was a lie.
“I can help you with that.”
There was a small part of me that would always be pleased to hear someone appreciate what I could do, but there was an even bigger part scared shitless that this guy had approached me. My heart pounded in my chest at the thought of what he was proposing. Putting me out there again. It would only take seconds and all my secrets would be uncovered. Sweat slickened my palms and I felt cold and shivery. I reached for my stuff. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“That’s it?” he bit out, and I glanced up to see him glaring at me.