Up-and-comingcountry singerRiff Hurley.
He frowns. “Yeah …”
For a long moment, I’m speechless. Like, I literally cannot make myself speak. Everything he said, everything we just did …
“I … thought you knew,” he says, and maybe it’s just the moonlight but he’s gone pale.
“You said your name was Griffin,” I finally reply in a strained voice.
“It is. No one in my personal life calls me Riff. That’s just my stage name—or what my team calls me if they’re addressing me in public. You seriously didn’t know who I am? Who did you think I was?”
I stammer several incoherent vowels. “You don’t have an accent.”
“Technically everyone has as accent.”
“You know what I mean.”
“That’salsopart of my stage presence. I told you, I’m from Ventura County. I also don’t drive a pickup truck or wranglecows on a farm. The closest thing to agriculture I’ve ever done is work a few summers at my grandparents’ citrus groves—to pay for UCLA, where I studiedjournalism.”
Journalism?
“I’m kind of a lit nerd.”
My head is spinning wildly. “Why aren’t you dressed like ‘Riff’ tonight then? Everyone else here is more or less on brand.” I conjure the memory of Daisy Malloy in her leather mask and baby pink dress and cowgirl boots.
Griffin holds up his own mask. “‘Grind My Gears.’ It’s the name of my last hit single. Although, with the way this conversation’s going, I’m guessing you’ve never heard of it.”
My eyes widen.
Actually, I’ve heard of it. In fact, I’veheardit.
The melody comes in fits and spurts. The music video, too. Glambam headquarters has a big screen in the lobby that plays its artists’ hits on loop. I caught a few frames of a country song once a couple months ago, but I never gave it a second thought, only rolled my eyes as I walked past on my way to meet with A&R.
The video features a rugged blond man riding a tractor, beer in hand, while some busty lady in Daisy Dukes shouts at him from off the field. In lieu of shouting back, he sings:
Why you gotta grind my gears, grind my gears?
You know this only ends in tears, ends in tears.
But then again, if you start a fight,
We can make up tonight …
I can picture all too clearly now the part where the man—Griffin—Riff—breaks the fourth wall and winks right at the camera, an image that cuts to him working on the same tractor’s engine ina run-down shed, torquing a wrench on the exposed gears. All I could think at the time was, “Wow, he seems like a douche.”
I scream internally. It’s a decent play on words, but the rage burning in my veins won’t allow me to admit it out loud.
Griffin shakes his head. “I don’t get it. I told you I’m with the label. You even made the ‘overbearing manager’ joke back at me—like you understood that I have a manager.”
“I was being sarcastic!”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“I thought you justworkedat Glambam, not that you were an artist. You’d still know the industry. How could I possibly think you were …who you are… when you completely misrepresented yourself?”
“Thisiswho I am.” He gestures at his whole self. “If anything, it’s onstage where I misrepresent myself.”
“So your whole career is just, what, a game to you?” I clutch my cape tight in one hand, wanting to wrap it around his neck and strangle him with it. I’ve been with actors before; I know how quickly the lines between fact and fiction can blur, how hard it can be to know when the man you’re with is sincere or whether he’s simply good at pretending. Griffin may technically be a musician, but it’s clear he’s been acting his ass off.
