Superfan Page 8
Neither is a one-album contract or a two-album contract. But my instinct for self-preservation forbids me to admit it. There’s no way I’d sign anything for Brett Ferris again. Not even an autograph.
“Fair enough,” he says easily. “Then my natural inclination on a two-album deal would be a deadline in eighteen to twenty-four months.”
And here’s my opening. Finally. “It’s a little hard to talk dates for album number three when you haven’t released number two yet.”
He nods slowly, as if I’ve said something deeply interesting. But we both know this is the sticking point. I’m here today to make sure he releases my finished songs, and he’s here to convince me to sign over more of them.
My new album was done months ago. And he is sitting on it. For no reason.
No good reason, anyway. It’s just a ploy to strong-arm me into signing with him again. We’re at a stalemate that neither of us will acknowledge. And since he has all the power, I’m out of ideas.
“What would be the terms of a two-album deal?” I ask. I’m never signing, but I can feign interest if it helps my cause.
“The new terms would be sweeter than your last contract,” he says.
“They could hardly be worse.” Whoops. That just slipped out, though I can’t afford to antagonize him.
“Delilah.” His tanned forehead wrinkles. “Your first contract was a reflection of your untested marketability. Of course things will be different now.”
“Of course,” I say tightly. “How different? You haven’t said.”
He slides the folder across the table toward me. “Read this.”
“Thank you, I will.” I reach for it eagerly, but it’s just an act. The folder will go right into the garbage later. “Now let’s find a release date for the album. Get your calendar out, and let’s find a good day.” Preferably tomorrow.
“Hmm. We are still not sure about the cover art,” he hedges. “We’d like to find a designer that better understands your demographic.”
The cover art? I take another steadying breath. “You know you could put a donkey wearing lipstick on this baby, and we would still do well.”
“Is that a suggestion?” He clicks the end of his ridiculous gold pen. “Should I get the art department on the horn?”
“You arrogant fucking asshole,” I whisper.
“There she is,” he says with a sly grin. “The real Delilah. I’ve missed you, baby.”
Shit. I bite my lip, because it’s either that, or say something I can’t take back.
“Look,” he says, making his hands into a little tent. “We both want the same things. We’re both invested in your success.”
“You’re invested at eighty-five percent, and me at fifteen,” I point out. “That’s not going to fly anymore.”
“Read the contract,” he says, clicking the end of his shiny gold pen.
I want to take his fancy gold pen and stab him in the throat with it. “Release my album, Brett,” I say, because it’s time to stop skirting the issue. “Why would I sign with you again if you’re going to sit on my work?” And, damn it, my voice breaks at the end of the sentence. Because I can’t play it cool about this.
The new songs are good. I’m not just drinking my own Kool-Aid, either. I made great music, straight from the gut.
And he’s burying it.
“Sign the contract, and I’ll release it,” he says. “How can I invest in this new album, if I don’t know what the future holds?”
It’s a ridiculous point, from an infuriating man. “You’re already invested. This is not how it’s supposed to work.”
“Says who?” He shrugs. “We both want to get paid. Sign the contract, and we will be. Somebody’s gonna bring out your third and fourth albums, honeybunch. Might as well be me. Better the devil you know, and all that.” He winks at me. An actual wink.
I hate him so much. The fact that I used to tell myself I loved this man is just astonishing to me. I was young and naive. Fine—I’ll call it what it is. I was really, really stupid.
But no more. “Gotta go,” I say, pushing my chair back from the table. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”
“Let me guess—a baseball game?”
My heart drops, even though I don’t truly care about the baseball game or the goalie from Twitter. But I hate that Becky was right. Brett is too invested in me. And I don’t know how to shake him off.
“I’m not going to a baseball game,” I say because it’s true. “I’m meeting Becky for dinner, and she has a reservation.”
“Then don’t let me keep you.” He glowers at me, though.
I can’t be civil anymore, so leaving is the only option. “Right. Later.” I pluck the contract folder off the desk and hold it up, indicating that I’ll read it.
“Safe travels,” he says grumpily.
“Yeah, thanks.” He wouldn’t want anything to happen to his little paycheck.
And then I’m trotting toward the lobby of the empty office suite. Mr. Muscles is waiting by the elevator for me. He presses the elevator button the moment I appear.
“Thanks,” I say.
He’s silent.
Mr. Muscles isn’t a talker. It’s not his job to entertain me, but sometimes his silence just seems to magnify all the weird things about my life. I wait impatiently for the elevator, feeling wired and unhappy.
Meeting Brett alone was a mistake. I need to hire a manager to deal with him. I haven’t done it yet, because I know Brett won’t like it, and I thought maybe I could finesse him.
Not so much.
The elevator doors open, and I practically leap inside. Mr. Muscles follows me, pressing the button for the lobby. Only when the car has begun its descent do I feel the first hints of relief. I take out my phone and tap Becky’s number.
“How’d it go?” she asks as soon as she picks up.
Of course I can’t tell her much, because Mr. Muscles is probably Brett’s spy. “How drunk can we get?”
“That bad, huh?”
“He’s willing to play this game of chicken forever. I’m out of ideas.”
“Sign with a new manager and let someone else do the negotiating.”
“I know, I know.” I should have done that immediately. Now I’ve wasted a few weeks for nothing. I’ve always been a natural musician and a disaster at the business details. “I can’t wait to go back to L.A. Where am I meeting you?”
“Well…” She giggles. “There’s been a slight change of plans. Come back to the hotel.”
“Why?”
“All will be revealed.”
Delilah
A half hour later I’m in my suite overlooking Times Square, rifling through the mini-bar offerings and wishing Becky would just show up already. I text her again. Not only do I need a drink, I’m starving. Wasting away, here. And your eyelashes are already beautiful, I add, because I know her too well. She needs to apply sixty beauty products just to walk out of her hotel room.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Finally!” I shriek. “So good of you to mosey upstairs before I starve to death!”
I jerk open the door.
But it isn’t Becky who’s standing outside. It’s a guy. The first thing I see is a muscular chest clad in a purple T-shirt with a hockey player on it. “Brooklyn Bruisers,” it says. Then I lift my chin and find a smooth, muscular jaw. And then...
Holy God. Those eyes. They’re beautiful, and also kind.
They’re also very familiar. “What the ever-loving fuck?” I breathe. “Ralph. How did you…” I don’t finish the sentence, because I can’t decide which question to ask first.
Why is Ralph from California here in New York?
And why now?
And what’s with the T-shirt that matches the team from my canceled Twitter date?
And how did he get onto the secure floor of this hotel?
Apparently, Mr. Muscles is curious about that last thing, too. His form looms behind my visitor’s. “If y
ou’re visiting Delilah, I need to see some ID. Or will he be leaving, miss?”
“No,” I snap. I’m confused and more than a little bit hurt, because it’s also occurring to me that Becky is responsible for these latest hijinks.
Ralph pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open to the ID window, showing it to Mr. Muscles. My bodyguard/jailer takes out his phone and snaps a photo of it. Then he hands it back.
Or he tries to. I grab it first. Silas Kelly, the license reads. 220 Water Street, Brooklyn.
Ralph from California is my Twitter date? That makes no sense. I hand it back to him. “Get in here,” I snap, holding the door open a little wider.
He steps past me, putting his body close to mine for a half second. I get a whiff of his aftershave, and I swear he smells like the ocean and fresh air. I used to love sitting in the bar across from this man as he worked—those muscular hands in action as he made drinks and cut up limes. I liked his quiet company and hearing his thoughts during those rare moments when we were alone.
He was the only person in California who I found completely trustworthy. And then he abandoned me.
Whoa. Easy, girl. I don’t know what I did to bring about this weird little blast from my past. But it’s obviously unsettling, and emotional overload is not a good look on me.
Still, I slam the door on Mr. Muscles, trapping myself in the room with Ralph or Silas or whatever his name is. I march to the center of the plush oriental rug. "Now talk," I order. "Did Becky send you up here?"
“Yeah.” He holds up a hotel keycard. “She gave me this so I could reach your floor.” As if he owns the place, he walks over to the bar and sets down the keycard along with a grocery bag he’s carrying. And a shopping bag hits the floor.
“You stood me up,” I blurt. This is what happens when you greet old crushes on an empty stomach. I’d rather not let him know how disappointed I was three years ago. How I’d arrived on that beach, wearing a bathing suit, feeling freer and happier than I’d felt in weeks. And how awful I’d felt as the minutes ticked by. I waited almost two hours, alone, knowing he wasn’t going to show.
The next day I walked past Roadie Joe’s and looked into the window, hoping to chew him a new one, but there was a different man behind the bar. And it was the same the next day, too.
That’s when I gave up. And anyway, the summer was over. I went back to L.A. and tried not to think about it.
And failed.
“About our surfing date,” he says with a rueful smile. “I didn’t stand you up on purpose. I wouldn’t ever do that.” He puts both elbows on the bar and rests his chin on the backs of his hands. “Can I tell you what happened?”
You’d better.
No way.
I am at war with myself.
“It was a Friday, and I was calling around, looking for a training board for you. They’re coated with a soft material that’s easier to stand on for your first time surfing.”
My poor little heart says, and then what? Because I want him to convince me. But I just cross my arms and wait.
“I was waiting for a phone call back from a couple of people. And it was already after noon. My phone rang, and I ran out the back door to answer it. It was my agent. She said, ‘I need you on a plane to Ontario.’ The team that had released me, suddenly needed me back. In the minors, anyway. And you may recall that I was never given your phone number.”
“Minor league hockey,” I say slowly.
“Yeah.” He pats the logo on his T-shirt. “This was always my Plan A. And it came through right after I officially gave up.”
It came through. I don’t mean to get goosebumps for him. It just happens. “You never mentioned hockey that summer. Not once.”
“I know.” He regards me with quiet eyes. “It was a sore point. My real name is Silas Kelly, as you saw.”
“The guy from Twitter.”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that—or Becky? Hey, by the way, I’m Ralph from Roadie Joe’s. In fact—why call yourself Ralph, anyway? That’s just weird.”
“I know.” He reaches into the shopping bag and removes several limes. And some kind of green herb? Oh my God, it’s mint. Lastly, he removes a bottle of liquor. “But I wanted to apologize in person.”
“You brought mojitos?” Fuck me, but I’m already salivating. Minty, limey yumminess. The last one I drank was three years ago.
With him.
“Of course,” he says calmly. “Now why don’t you tell me what I can order you for dinner?”
“Ralph,” I say tartly. Because refusing to call him Silas seems like a good reminder that I’m mad at him. “Who says we’re having dinner?”
He puts his muscular hands on the surface of the bar and regards me with those solemn eyes. “When you came to the door, you were yelling about how hungry you are. And I’d like to help the lady make her favorite cocktail, but not on an empty stomach. So let me fix that by finding you something to eat.”
Well, hell. I’d forgotten how decent he is. And the way he’s looking at me right now is doing things to my insides. Nobody ever looks at me like that—like they understand what I need. Except for Becky, and she’s on the payroll.
It’s going to be hard to keep myself in bitch mode if he’s this nice. “I could order some room service. But I’m so sick of room service. The burger, the pasta, or the chicken Caesar salad.”
He tilts his handsome face toward mine, and I’m still getting used to the lack of a beard on him. It makes him look younger. “I hope you’re not knocking the chicken Caesar salad. Some of my best friends are chicken Caesar salads.” He gives me a slow smile. “So how about some takeout food? We could order some Carribean food to go with our mojitos.” He rubs his stomach absently. That tight stomach, just over that strong chest, where the T-shirt clings for dear life.
Dear lord. He’s only gotten hotter in three years.
What were we discussing? Oh, right. “The takeout guys aren’t allowed to come up here to the secure floor. It’s a ploy by the hotel to get more business from me.”
“I’ll run out and get it,” he offers. “Or send your giant bouncer friend.” He tilts his head toward the door.
“He won’t leave me alone,” I grumble. “It’s policy. And my entourage is in flux right now. I fired my manager and…” This is getting way off topic. “Never mind. We’ll have the chicken Caesar.”
He holds up his phone, showing me a picture of a plate of churrasco. “This place is on Forty-sixth Street. Not so far away. I’ll use a delivery app and run downstairs for it. What do you want?”
I come closer, taking the phone and scrolling, meanwhile trying not to give him sideways glances. I inhale, and there’s that scent again. That wonderful, infuriating scent. My thumb pauses on one of the photos. “I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad, Ralph.”
“Delilah,” he whispers from way too close. “I get that you’re a little weirded out by me showing up at your hotel. But let me get you some good food and make you a drink. You’ll like it. I promise.”
There’s no doubt he’s right. And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
Silas
“You again,” says the thick-necked guy outside Delilah’s hotel suite as I return from the lobby with our dinner.
“I just went down to get the food.”
“The boss doesn’t like her taking food from randoms,” he says, crossing his meaty arms. I’d bet cash money that this guy competes on the bodybuilding circuit. Nobody has shoulders like that without staring at them in the gym’s mirror every day.
“I’m not a random,” I insist, trying to keep the growl out of my voice. “You want to inspect our takeout meal?” I offer the bag to him, daring him to poke around in there.
His unruly eyebrows knit together as he squints at me. “Naw. Go on.”
I tap on the door, and Delilah opens it quickly. “Omigod that smells amazing. It’s almost enough to make me forgive you.”
“Nothing. Jesus. I’m joking.” As soon as I’m inside, she slams the door on him.
“You two have a great working relationship.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Seriously?” I put the delivery bag on the bar, and I notice that Delilah already has mint leaves muddling with sugar and lime juice in two crystal glasses. “Seems like you should hire a guard you trust.”
“Gosh, why didn’t I think of that?” There’s an edge to her voice that’s unfamiliar to me. Everything she says seems to push me away.
But her body language tells another story. Even now, she’s coming closer, standing right beside me at the bar, where I unpack the food. We bump hips. She’s like a puppy that barks to put you on notice that it’s ferocious, and then immediately wags its tail, begging to be friends.
I wrap an arm around her. It should have been a simple, friendly gesture, but we both go still. Touching isn’t something we used to do. But I’ve been waiting for such a long time. The moment she opened the door on me an hour ago, the sight of her almost stopped my heart. I still want her so badly.
And even worse—my gut is still convinced she’s mine. I turn my head to the side and drop a kiss on her temple. The sweet scent of her shampoo almost moves me to tears. But I force myself to take a sidestep away from her. “I’m going to find some real plates,” I tell her, my voice thick. “This suite is crazy.”
“No need for china,” she says. “I’m not the snob that this hotel room makes me out to be.”
“Let’s not eat this glorious food with plastic forks, though. And you can finish making those drinks.”
She gives me a quick glance and then peels the seal off the rum. She’s still a little unnerved by me. Not afraid, but stunned. I guess that makes sense. I’ve been seeing her face everywhere, but she hasn’t seen Ralph the bartender in years.
“I don’t know how much rum to add.”
“Put the ice in first, and then add about this much rum.” I pinch the air to show her about an inch and a half.