Not to be outdone, Hannah breaks away from the bar and heads to one of the tall Roman columns lining the pool. She finds her grip and starts shimmying up.
“She likes climbing things when she’s drunk,” Kenny explains. “You should’ve seen her and Ginny back in college. We had to pull them out of so many trees.”
The video is cut off by Roger calling again; apparently he couldn’t wait for me to call him back. “I’ll fix it,” I say, in lieu of a greeting.
“She’s out of control. No venue in Vegas is going to want to work with us if they think our talent’s going to burn the place down. Do you know how much money we could lose?”
“I know, Roger. I’ll take care of it,” I say, and hang up.
“Caesars is down the Strip.” Kenny leaps to his feet. “You’re better off walking.” “Stay here,” I order, and, for once, Kenny listens. I practically run through the MGM casino to the Strip, which is packed with tourists I have to navigate like a video game. What if I get there too late, and Hannah falls and gets hurt and everyone’s too drunk to notice? Even if she’s okay, what kind of bill are we going to get for what they did to thebar? Is it even legal? Six years managing bands, and this is the closest I’ve come to exposing Manifest to liability.
I have to pay fifty dollars for a day pass into Caesars’s pool, which is designed to look like an elaborate Roman temple. The place is crowded, but it’s easy to spot Hannah at the top of her column. From my vantage point, I can see a pair of hotel security guards hustling toward her. The hotel has finally caught on to the mayhem. Shit.
I dodge loungers and elbow through the crowd around the bar, ignoring grumbles.
“Hannah.” I’m out of breath by the time I reach the base of the column. “What the hell are you doing? Get down.” She twists around, spots me, and her smile drops. Her blue eyes and freckles are more pronounced from the sun. “What do you mean?” She sounds just as indignant. “What the hell areyoudoing?”
“Security!” someone yells.
“Come on.” I lift my hands toward her. “I’ll catch you.”
She yanks her dangling foot away from me. “Lighten up, Reaper. We’re having fun.”
I hug the column. “Who’s having fun? Roger Braverman’s not having fun. Caesars Palace’s security guards aren’t having fun. And you won’t if you slip and crack your skull on this concrete. Are you aware that you and Booker are currently being live streamed on Instagram to thousands of people?”
Her expression blanks, which tells me she wasn’t.
“Come on,” I repeat, and extend my arms as high as they’ll go. I must look ridiculous—a man in jeans in the middle of a pool party, on his tiptoes to snatch a woman off a fake Roman column. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Hannah meets my eyes, and I do not like the look in hers. Instead of sliding into my waiting embrace, she lifts her hands off the column and simply falls backward. I leap forward, heart in my throat, but she misses the concrete and lands witha splash in the pool. The crowd at the bar, who I didn’t realize was watching us, starts cheering.
By the time Hannah’s head pops out of the water and she swims to the edge of the pool, waving at her admirers, I’ve recovered from my near heart attack. The instant she hauls herself out, I seize her dripping elbow and drag her behind a row of palm trees.
She yanks her arm out of my grasp. “Don’t manhandle me.”
“Fine.” I point to the security guards. They’re pushing through the crowd at the tiki bar, gunning for Booker. “In exchange for keeping you out of jail, how about you stop trashing bars and climbing shit in public?”
“It’s the public part that bothers you, isn’t it? You’re worried I’ll embarrass Manifest.”
“It’s the you putting yourself in danger part, actually.” An unexpected well of anger sharpens my words.
She runs her hands through her wet hair, combing it back from her face, where droplets of water shimmer. “For the last time, Reaper. You’re not my handler.”
She starts to walk away. People passing by us stare, and a woman surreptitiously lifts her phone to record, but suddenly I don’t care. “Except Iam,” I yell to her back. “It’s kind of my job.”
Hannah stops and turns. “I’m pretty sure your job is to cut us from the label as soon as we give you your precious album. So why don’t you go back to New York and we’ll mail you a copy when we’re done. We don’t want you here.”
That’s what does me in. I’ve spent three weeks touring with the Saints, putting my all into them, practically ignoring Bryan, putting my life in New York on hold—and I honestly thought we were getting somewhere. I thought they were beginning to want me.
“Look at you.” My voice is quiet, but suffused with enough anger to raise her eyebrows. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and you’re drunk with a bunch of people who only care about you because you’re willing to be a spectacle for them. You say you’re a future saint, on your best behavior tomorrow? Well, snap the fuck out of it. Be better today.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice is high and tight, her indignation so intense she practically vibrates with it. “You storm in here and humiliate me by acting like some overprotective asshole, grabbing me out of the pool, and then lecture me about good behavior? Do you see Booker’s manager here, treating him like a child? Is it because I’m a woman?”
“It’s because Booker’s manager doesn’t give a shit. Unfortunately, I care about what happens to you.”
“If you did, you’d let me run my own life. If I want to empty out my brain for a little while—if I want to, god forbid—” Her voice catches. “Numb these fucking feelings, then that’s my choice.”
“I see you, you know.” This isn’t how I wanted to say it, and that damn woman is still filming us on her phone, but Hannah’s flipped a switch inside me. “The wild child? Willing to do anything so you don’t have to look in the mirror and accept what your life looks like now? That’s some sick stuff, Hannah. Not to mention a bit of a cliché. You should probably get some help.”
