“Haley Grace Cooke?” comes a loud, nasal voice from the doorway. We both turn to see the mic’d up runner. He points a thumb back over his shoulder. It’s time.
I look back toward Haley, who smiles anxiously as her band gets up and walks after the runner. She takes a few steps to follow them, before suddenly stopping. I panic for a second before she turns, but when she does, it’s only to throw her lips against mine. A deep, desperate, stolen kiss, before she spins back and hurries after the rest of her band. I can still taste her glossy lips as she walks away, like an expensive drink, only a little more intoxicating.
“Break a leg,” I shout after her.
Minutes later and I’m standing where I said I would be, right by the exit, waiting for her to come out on stage. I stand up tall, but the crowd’s thick and moving constantly. They push and jostle for a good view of the stage as soon as they know Haley’s on next.
When she does walk out, it’s obvious something is wrong. She walks with her head down, hair covering her face. She fumbles for way too long to strap on her guitar, and walks with painfully slow steps up to the mic. I can see the band members exchanging glances, wondering how they’ll cope without Haley’s cues.
I raise my arm higher in the hope that Haley will notice it. She’s gazing out at the audience, which has gone embarrassingly quiet now, between the strands of hair that hang lazily over her face. I wait for the look of recognition, for any movement.
She can’t see me, and now she’s locked up. The only movement she’s making is the visible rise and fall of her chest as she pants tensely.
I push forward, shoving aside people I know I should really be more polite to. But right now none of them matter. I move indiscriminately through the crowd, toward the center, a spot where there’s nothing between us, impossible to miss. I raise my hand and stand tall, praying that Haley sees me.
There in the center of the audience I hear the judgmental comments, the random giggles at the bizarre turn of events. A couple of women in front of me even turn away and start making their way toward the bar.
But then Haley smiles. And it lights up the stage more than the thousand dollar equipment could ever hope to. With a hair flick sexier than a shampoo billboard on Hollywood and Vine, she moves the curls away from her face and stands up to the mic, her eyes settling on mine. She glances away only to cue up her band, before turning back toward me.
Paula smacks her sticks together four times and then it’s on. I forget the audience around me, the lights, the noise. It’s just me and Haley.
I can’t keep my attention away from her as the showcase finishes and morphs into a loose and loud after party – and apparently neither can anyone else.
“That was sensational!” another schmoozing executive says, handing us another card to add to the stack already filling my pocket. “Ben Livingstone, Jupiter Records. I want to have first dibs on you, young lady.”
Haley giggles breathlessly, finding it hard to keep up.
“First is taken,” I say, with a smile, “so is second. I can give you fifth. Maybe.”
Ben laughs, but there’s a note of disappointment in it.
“Well if I can’t have dibs,” he says, raising his glass, “I can sure offer the best deal.”
“Now that’s more like it,” I say.
Ben laughs again before leaning in to whisper something in my ear.
“You really lucked out here, Brando. I don’t know how, but you really did.”
Ben leaves and I turn my attention to Haley.
“Another drink?”
“No,” she says, the smile that’s been plastered onto her face since she came off the stage to rapturous applause still there, “I think I’m drinking too much.”
“If ever there was a night to drink too much, it’s this one. Most of these schmucks usually leave halfway through. They’re only here to get an audience with the future star.”
“You were the only audience I needed,” Haley says, squeezing my bicep before turning away to gaze at the crowd, which has now morphed into a rush of celebrity musicians. “I can’t believe how many famous people are here. I thought it was only record execs.”
“Musicians tend to like talking business over a loud song and some alcohol. Executives, on the other hand, tend to start living like musicians when they spend so much time around them.”
“Is that…Annabelle Church?” Haley says, gawking at the girl in a see-through dress that seems to glide through the entrance.
“Yeah. Probably here in the hope that dress will get her some funds for her next record.”
Haley turns to me suddenly, eyes filled with surprise.
“But…she’s huge.”