I have to brace an arm against the faux-wood wall. “Saturday Night Live?” I whisper it so the band doesn’t hear, in case Roger’s pranking me.
“It won’t be for a couple months, but yeah, you’re coming back to New York. You excited?”
“Of course I am.” I press my free hand to my mouth. “This is huge.”
“Don’t tell the band until the details are firm. But keep steering them in the right direction and more stuff like this will happen. You’re doing good, kid.”
“Thank you, Roger.” It’s possibly the most weight I’ve ever packed into those words. His approval is what I’ve spent my career chasing.
“Oh, hey, when you’re in LA,” he adds. “You can tip off the paps if you catch Hannah acting like she did in Vegas.” He laughs. “It turns out we had nothing to be worried about. Peoplelikewhen she’s off her rocker. That stunt she pulled at Caesars Palace helped us sell concert tickets.”
“What do you mean, tip off the paps? You can do that?”
“What, you think paparazzi have Navy SEAL–level tracking skills? Or they’re bugging celebrities’ cars? Everyone does it. I’ll send you a few guys’ numbers to keep in your back pocket. If it looks like she’s going to have a wild night, maybe text them her location. We gotta promote her new brand—no more surfer girl, it’s all dark and tortured from here on out, got it?”
It feels like whiplash, how quickly I shift from excited to alarmed. “Roger, I’m not calling paparazzi to come gawk at her.” “I’ll text you their numbers,” he says quickly. “Think about it. Gotta run, but hey, you know I’m happy with you, right?”
“Right,” I echo. “Thanks.”
“Tell the band to kill it onJimmy Kimmeland tell Kimmel his good friend Roger says he still owes him a beer. Peace.”
He hangs up, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. When my phone doesn’t ping with paparazzi numbers, I shove it into my pocket and make my way back to my seat, hoping Roger was just joking.
Hannah tugs off her headphones and watches me as I sit. “What was that about?”
I wave a hand. “Just Roger, checking in.”
“Kind of a micromanager, that Roger.”
“Yes, well. I’m aware of your disdain for management, trust me.”
She grins.
“Back to the song,” I say, crossing my legs. “I think there’s something there. Let’s work on it.”
She draws her legs up and hugs them. “Right now?”
I stand up, cross the aisle, and drop into the seat next to her. “Why not? Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. Lyrics, ideas. It can be messy. I’ll be your sounding board.”
She eyes me for a moment, then glances over at the dining table, where Ripper and Kenny are wrapped in blankets, zonked out next to empty champagne glasses and a cheese board that somehow never made its way to us. She bites her lip. “Okay.”
Hannah starts to hum, then looks at me self-consciously. I wave her on and she takes a breath. “The bartender asks if I’m okay,” she sings softly. “I say sure, man, I’m doing great. Empty heart, low stakes.”
A small spark catches in my chest as I pick up the rhythm. “At least empty girls aren’t prone to ache.” My voice is terrible—really awful—but I’m amazed at myself for rhyming and having the guts to sing it out loud.
She smiles, humming more bars. “I’m telling you, it’s a hell of a plan.”
“Of a plan,” I echo. I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I can feel the quiet longing of the song deep in my chest. Helping bands with the creative process is my favorite part of the job.
“To live as the ghost of a woman.”
“A wo-man.”
She hums the start of a chorus, then breaks off and starts laughing.
“What?” I’m acutely aware of how bad my voice is, so I brace myself.
She shakes her head. “You’re not the worst manager, you know?”
