“Didn’t know you were a dog walker,” he says, nodding at my mismatched pack.
“Student life.” I shrug. “Any job to make ends meet, right?”
He slides something into my hand. “Meant to give you this last week, when I saw you performing. You’ve got real talent.”
I glance down. A hundred-dollar bill. “Mr. Harrison, this is too much?—”
“Nonsense. You deserve every penny. And anything I can do to see your name in lights.” He smiles.
The dogs pull me away before I can protest further. But his words echo strangely, reminding me of Sam’s penthouse. Of possibilities I shouldn’t think about.
My phone buzzes just as I’m positioning the dogs for their daily photo op by Bethesda Terrace.
“You naughty girl!” Zaza doesn’t bother with hello. “Spill everything about this birthday man!”
“Not now, Zaza.” I adjust my grip on the leashes as Winston spots a squirrel.
“Fine, be mysterious. But I’ve got news. Big news.” Her voice shifts to serious. “Jimmy called.”
“The VIP who gave us our table at the club?”
“Yes. He wanted me to give you a message.”
“But I don’t even know him...”
“Right. Last night, Maxwell Sterling was there. He heard you sing. Jimmy said he wants your phone number.”
I nearly drop the phone. “Sterling Records? That Maxwell Sterling?”
The dogs sense my tension, circling closer.
A million possibilities cross my mind. The first is that he wants to sign me to a million-dollar contract. And Sterling Records isn’t just any label—they represent Slayer.
My pulse quickens at the memory of his performance last night, before everything else happened.
Once that fantasy dissipates, the second possibility occurs to me. Maybe this Sterling guy makes a habit of selecting a girl of the night.
“Why does he want my number?”
“Jimmy didn’t say,” Zaza replies. “But this could be your shot at fame.”
I hope so. But the last thing I want is some horny music mogul thinking he has me on speed dial. I temper my enthusiasm and force myself to be realistic. “Just like that? How do I know it’s legit?”
She scoffs. “You don’t. Not until you meet him.”
“Thanks, Zaza, but I think I’ll call him.”
“Okay. The ball’s in your court. But don’t overthink this one.”
When we hang up, I Google the number for Sterling Records on my phone.
The dogs stare up at me, tails wagging, noses twitching, ears perked—as if they’re eager for me to make the call.
“Okay, guys.” I hit call.
A receptionist answers, her tone clipped but polite. “Sterling Records. How may I direct your call?”
“Yes, hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “Could you put me through to Mr. Sterling, please? Ms. Bismark returning his call.”
