Maybe hitching myself to her won’t get me where I want to be. But staying where I am sure as hell won’t. The longer I think about it, the better the idea feels. She’s pretty, intelligent, talented. Not drinking or doing drugs. I haven’t heard any rumors of her being a crazy bitch. This seems like a reasonably safe bet. And pretending to be her boyfriend won’t be a hardship by any stretch.
But she’s hesitant. It’s clear from the way her shoulders are still hitched up, the way she won’t meet my eyes. The melting ice sloshes around in her glass as she stirs it with her straw.
I ease closer, close enough to smell her lotion or hair products or both, vanilla and coconut, but not the cloying smell of suntan lotion. Light and pleasing.
Her breath catches, the soft swell of her breasts pressing against the deep V of her dress drawing my attention. No, being her boyfriend won’t be difficult at all.
She lifts her eyes to mine, her lips parted. “It’ll have to be serious.” She says it like it’s a warning, meant to scare me off.
But we’re on the exact same page. I nod. “Of course. It wouldn’t work otherwise. If we don’t look serious, that’ll hurt you. And it won’t make any sense why you’d insist on working with me for anything or would have any interest in my career at all.”
Her brows crinkle, just for a second before relaxing again. She’s got a good game face, I’ll give her that. Another point in her column for this crazy scheme I’ve conjured up.
“Besides,” I continue, my brain wheeling with the prospect of her agreeing, the possibilities of what that could mean for me, the logistics of how to make it all work. “I need to know you’re serious too.”
That flicker of concern crosses her face again, and her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. “You mean … like … a contract?”
“Something like that, yes. I’m not sure it would be legally enforceable or anything, but I want to know you’ll live up to your end of the bargain.”
She frowns. Not just a flicker of a frown, either. The wrinkle between her eyebrows doesn’t smooth out quickly this time, and her lips have a distinct downturn at the corners. “It’s not like I can give you a guarantee. For one thing, I have no clout at this point. I’m out here trying to look the part and begging for scraps.”
“That’s where I come in,” I interrupt. “I help you look the part. I can help with bookings and buzz, even if you don’t have a contract. We can get you out there again. You made a splash online and built a following that way once already. You can do it again as a solo act. You have fans that will make the leap from you as part of Golden Enigma to you on your own, I promise.” Hell, if it worked for Jonathan after years off, it can work for Alexis. She’s prettier, and she still has frequent mentions in the press—granted, they’re not all positive, but all press is good press to some degree.
She keeps talking like I didn’t say anything. “And even if this grand plan of yours works, even if you can help me get enough of a following on my own to catch the attention of a label, there’s no guarantee that I’d be able to use that to help you.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Haven’t you heard of cross promotion? Collaboration? You don’t have to convince a label to take me on—I know you won’t have that kind of power anytime in the near future—but you can help put me out there, grow my following as you grow your own.”
Her frown clears, but reappears again. “If it’s that easy, then why aren’t you already doing that? Why not grow your own following and attract your own attention?”
My throat constricts, and I almost choke at her question. Why indeed? The bitter truth is that I’ve tried and had little success. With a deliberately casual shrug, I turn toward the bar and pick up my drink. Now it’s my turn to avoid her eyes. “I’m too busy working for my brother right now. I don’t have the time to dedicate to recording and uploading content regularly, not to mention the impossibility of performing while I’m on tour with him.”
She bumps me with her shoulder to get me to look at her. “And how will you be able to be my serious relationship and escort me around town and to any and all events if you’re off working for your brother?” She shakes her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I just don’t see how it’ll work.”
“I’d quit,” I blurt out.
She gapes at me, then looks all around the room spluttering, trying to muster a response. And who can blame her? I’ve offered to quit my job for her. And we just met fifteen minutes ago. I open my mouth to apologize and take it back, but the words don’t come out. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of quitting my job with my brother.
I have some money saved up, plus my share of the trust from Brash. And I could get a boring job to help pay the bills if my savings get low while I actually take the time to do what I’m pitching to Alexis on my own. No, I won’t have her contacts. Or Jonathan’s. But it’s not like Jonathan’s contacts have done me any good anyway. What do I have to lose?
“You would do that?” Her voice is soft, tentative, like she’s not sure she should even ask the question.
I glance at her, at the furrow still between her brows, and I’m seized with the urge to smooth it away. But I don’t touch her. Instead I nod again and finish my drink. “Yeah. I think I’m going to turn in my notice anyway. I’ll finish out the next few concerts and help him transition to someone new, but I’m tired of being my big brother’s peon. It’s not what I wanted to do in the first place, but I didn’t have any better options, and I thought it might help me out. That he might help me out. But apparently that’s asking too much.” God, I sound like a whiny little bitch right now, and I hate myself for it, just a little bit.
But shockingly, it seems to be working on Alexis. Her face clears, and she gives me a firm nod. “Fine. Okay. If you’re going to quit anyway, then yes. Let’s do it. Let’s do what you said.”
Straightening, I turn to face her, an almost disbelieving smile pulling at my lips. “Yeah? You’re serious?” She shot me down a second ago. I can’t believe my pity party changed her mind. But hell, I’ll take it, even if it is because she feels as sorry for me as she does for herself.
Despite her bravado, another flash of hesitation crosses her face. But she says, “Yeah. I’m sure. You’ve been around all this”—she waves a hand around, indicating the room at large—“longer than I have. If you say that having a serious boyfriend will make me look more stable and you’ll help me rebuild my following to the point that any label will be salivating after me, then yes. Let’s do it. And I’ll do my best to help you too, whether it’s better song choices or just helping pimp you out more, I’ll do it.”
She holds out her hand like we’re shaking on a business deal. I slide my palm against hers, the slight callouses that come from playing guitar brushing over my skin. This chick is the real deal, there’s no doubt about it. I give her hand a firm squeeze, then use my hold on her to pull her closer. She stumbles, catching herself on my chest, looking up at me with parted lips like she’s waiting for a kiss.