This isn’t our first photo shoot, but so far it has the highest production value.Variety’s rented out a warehouse in Santa Monica and created elaborate sets inside it, each according to Sindri’s moods. So far, we’ve stood with our arms crossed in front of tall, red velvet curtains, rebels confronting the history of showbiz; lounged suggestively in armchairs, crooners luring in fans; and crouched on wooden boxes with our chins in our hands, thoughtful as Rodin’sThinker. None of it has been right for Sindri, who is as mercurial as any artist I’ve ever met. Naturally, Ginny’s laughed at us throughout the whole thing.
“This is the Hitmakers issue, my friends, not the Musicians with Issues issue.” Sindri turns. “Manager, can you assist?”
Theo, who’s stood in the corner of the room since we got here, jerks up from his phone, seeming to remember that we’re in the middle of a photo shoot. “I’m the manager,” he says, looking around. “What’s wrong?”
Sindri waves a hand at us. “They’re like opposite magnets. One comes close, the other repels.”
I try to squint past the lights to see Theo’s expression. I haven’t known how to read him since the Billboard party, and especially not after he and Roger got into that fight at the studio.
He walks past the ring of monolights and studies us, folding his arms over his chest. “Okay, guys, I know we’re not exactly feeling each other at the moment, but can we put on a show for the camera?” His tone is all business. This estrangement from him is making me more anxious than I would’ve expected.
Theo tilts his head, considering. “Hannah, why don’t you stand—”
He steps forward to take my arm and I react on nervous instinct, stepping back.
“Oh Christ, he’s a magnet too,” Sindri cries.
“Sorry.” I reverse course, stepping awkwardly close to him. “I didn’t mean—”
Theo’s phone rings, a loud, frightening burst of “I Need Some Help,” the first song I ever wrote about him in Vegas. The angry song that brought down the house and had me chasing him backstage to apologize.
Of all songs, why would he choose that one as his ringtone? “It’s Roger,” he explains to Sindri, as if she cares. “But I’m turning it off.”
He glances at it and freezes. Then—ignoring Sindri’s loud throat-clearing—Theo clicks his phone open and scans the screen.
“What is it?” I ask. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.
Kenny tries to peer over Theo’s shoulder, but Theo wrests the screen away. “Nothing. Forget it.” But he’s frowning.
“Suit, you have zero poker face.” Ripper pulls his own phone out of his back pocket.
“What is this, a phone parade?” Sindri shouts.
Ripper types. “If I’m referenced in a story, it’ll pop up in my Google Alerts.”
“Ripper, don’t,” Theo pleads. “We’ll talk about it after the shoot.”
Apprehension wraps cool hands around my neck.
Ripper scans. “There’s a new link from theNew York Times.”
“TheTimes?” Kenny frowns. “That’s good, right?”
I know it’s not by the look on Theo’s face.
“People, are we doing this shoot or not?” calls Sindri.
“It’s a review.” Forgetting he’s mad at me, Ripper gives me an awed look. “We got reviewed by theNew York Times.”
“Read it,” I say quietly.
“Okay, we got some dude named Jerry Hughes, and the title of the review is— Oh.” Ripper frowns. This time when he looks up at Theo, there’s a question in his expression.
Theo gives a small shake of his head.
“Give it to me.” I grab the phone from Ripper. “The title is ‘Buzzy New Album from California Rockers the Future Saints’ . . . ” My voice falters. “‘Disappoints.’”
“Hannah.” Theo’s voice is imploring. But there’s no way I’m not reading this. My self-critical instinct flares to life. It used to be helpful. But it’s morphed into something different since Ginny’s death. From self-criticism to self-destruction.
