I duck between two racks of oversize animal costumes and clutch the phone close to my chest. “Everyone at the label is excited by this feud with Sasha. Roger’s over the moon we’re getting hounded by paparazzi. It’s starting to feel like theywant to keep Hannah . . . I don’t know. Off-balance. But that would be unethical, right? Am I crazy?”
“Man, fuck Roger,” Bryan says, with the brashness of a man currently standing a thousand miles away from his boss.
“Bryan—”
“No, I mean it. You know how I feel about him. Remember that time he took credit for your work with that weird metal band, what were they called?”
“Sister Nightmare.”
“Right. I know you have this unrequited love for him, but he’s a user. I wouldn’t put it past Roger to be the onesendingthe paparazzi—”
Roger’s head pops into the empty doorframe. “Do I hear my name?”
“Roger!” I’m ashamed of how high my voice squeaks.
“What? Really?” Bryan calls. I hastily punch the screen until the FaceTime ends.
Roger steps into the open doorway, throwing out his arms. “Surprise!” He’s wearing an all-white suit, aviators, and shiny caramel loafers with toes so pointed the ends look like spears. “Your favorite boss is here.”
I throw an arm around him, exchanging brief backslaps. “I thought you were supposed to be in LA this week.” White-hot guilt hits me, but I swallow it down and try to keep a neutral face.
Roger stuffs his hands in his pockets and surveys the room. “Wrapped my trip early.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Couldn’t miss your first time in Studio 8H. Where’s our girl?”
I jerk a thumb behind me. “Right here.”
It’s hard to discern what Hannah’s thinking when I usher Roger past the racks of costumes and say—as loudly and brightly as possible—“Guess who showed up to support you?” Her face goes from curious to a blank mask.
For his part, Roger exudes enthusiasm. “Hannah Cortland,” he coos, thrusting out a hand. His wrist is weighed down by a massive watch. “Roger Braverman. It’s wild we haven’t met before now.”
Hannah coolly inspects Roger’s hand. He always glows with good health, but in today’s all-white ensemble—one I’m sure cost more than a month of my rent—he’s perhaps a shade too tan.
To my relief, she finally gives Roger’s hand a pump. “I’m guessing we haven’t met because the Saints were never worth your time before,” she says, and my relief is dashed.
But Roger only smiles. “You’re probably right.”
She returns the smile without teeth. “Did you get my flowers?”
“What flowers?” I ask.
Roger laughs too loud. “This one sent flowers to my office after the Vegas show. Wanted me to thank her for the stunt she pulled at Caesars Palace. Credit where credit’s due, it sold a lot of tickets.” He nods. “Girl’s a firecracker. Which is why we love her, right?”
“Right—” I start.
“Dear god,” he says, his attention switching whiplash-fast. “Is this what you’re wearing?” He turns over his shoulder and yells at the two costume designers. “Excuse me! I need someone.”
Hannah looks down at her top, a sequined corset that glitters in the fluorescent lights. Onstage, she’ll be a pillar of light.
Our eyes meet. “I like it,” I say softly.
“No, no,” Roger insists as the costume designers scurry over. “What is this shit—is she going to a club? Think suicide-chic.” He snaps a finger at one of the designers. “Show me your hoodies. The baggier the better. Her brand is sad girl, okay? You’re going to paint that shit around her eyes. The dark, moody stuff.”
Hannah looks at me. I read the question in her expression. The implicit trust.
“It’s Roger,” I say, trying to will my confidence into her. “He always knows what he’s doing.”
“Damn straight.” Roger claps me on the back. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to make a great department head.”
I can’t help my reaction—those are the words I’ve been waiting for. My face splits into a grin: too wide, nearly beaming. I clear my throat and rub a quick hand over my mouth, trying to wipe it away before I embarrass myself. “Uh, thank you. So much.”
