“That’s me. Famous for face-planting.”
Booker slings an arm around me. “And you stole our gig at the Dolby.”
Alarm and surprise flood me. “We did? Book, I had no idea—”
He waves me away. “Don’t worry. We’re playing Brooklyn Bowl now, and it’s going to be even better, all intimate and shit. Look at you.” He squeezes my shoulders. “The wildest woman in rock, finally having her day. Let’s go climb someshit and get ourselves arrested. Remember that time in Jersey? Come on, the rest of the band’s at Caesars.”
“You guys are playing Saturday?” Kenny asks. Booker’s already walking and pulling me with him, so Kenny and Ripper fall into step.
“If I’m still alive after tonight.” Booker stops, looks at me, and blanches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . And sorry for not calling after Ginny . . . uh. I was really sorry to hear.”
“That’s okay.” I make a face I hope approximates smiling. “Let’s just go to Caesars and get drunk.”
“Hey, man.” Theo intercepts us, sticking out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Even though his words are directed at Booker, he’s scanning my face. Searching for a hint of my feelings after Booker’s mention of my sister, no doubt.
I gesture between them. “Theo, this is Booker from Dead to—”
“Rights,” Theo finishes. “I know who he is.”
“Booker, this is our manager, Theo Ford. From Manifest.”
“We call him Suit,” Kenny says.
“Got it. The boss man.” Booker slaps Theo’s hand instead of shak-ing it—then his eyes widen. “Hey, wait a sec. I’ve heard of you. You kicked some buddies of mine off their contract when they hit a slump. You have a nickname and everything. The Closer? The Killer?”
Theo presses his lips together.
Booker snaps. “The Grim Reaper! Hey, hands off the Saints, okay? These guys are too talented for you to axe.”
Then Booker chuckles and continues ambling across the lobby, but the four of us—me, Kenny, Ripper, and Theo—remain stock-still, rooted to the marble floor.
Kenny’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp. “They call you the GrimReaper?”
“Guys.” Theo holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Manifest sent you to axe us?” Ripper crosses his arms. “But you made such a big deal about being here to help. Helpwho?”
I snort, because the answer’s obvious, even if we were all beginning to lose sight of it. Theo’s on Manifest’s team, not ours.
“It’s n-not what i-it—” Theo stutters, his cheeks flushing. “Look, it might’ve started out as one thing, but—”
“No big deal,” I say, cutting him off. I’ve drained any hint of hurt from my voice because Theo doesn’t deserve to know that this news cuts. I’ll deal with the sting later, over a bottle of tequila. “Turns out we were right about him from the start. Go us. Now get out of our way, Suit. We’ve got actual friends to hang out with tonight.”
“I’ll give you this,” says Ripper, brushing past him. “You really know how to put on a good show.”
“You let us dick you on the tour bus,” Kenny says, shaking his head. Nearby a family beelines in the opposite direction, the mother shooting Kenny an aghast look. “Unforgivable.”
The last thing I see before we punch out of the doors of the MGM is Theo watching us from the lobby, looking crestfallen. Ripper is right. He is good.
Chapter 17
Theo
Friday, May 3, 2024
No matter how much begging I do, Kenny refuses to speak to me until I commit the mortal sin of opening my laptop in the MGM’s meditation room.
“Did you seriously bring your computer into a sacred space?” Kenny’s sitting cross-legged on the bamboo mat across from me, hands on his knees, one eye cracked open in a withering glare. “I’m trying to access my inner peace, Reaper. You’re jamming the vibes.”
