“Tell him to go ahead,” she says, kicking her feet up on the lounge chair. “I’m overdue for a visit to the station. Chief Petty probably misses me.”
“So this is how it is? You blow up your career, fuck over your best friends, and your next move is to throw a party to hide your misery?”
Hannah drops her cigarette and grinds it with her heel, then says something low over her shoulder that I don’t catch.
Good lord. The beer is probably laced with hallucinogens, if it’s got her talking to herself. Fucking California.
She holds out her bottle. “Want some?”
Sometimes when musicians realize they can’t get you to stop giving them a hard time, they’ll switch gears and try to get you to join in. I call it the Corruption Solution. I need a new tactic. “I don’t know if you realize, but you’re probably getting those two bartenders fired.”
“What?” The smirk wipes off her face.
I point at them. “Those two guys breaking the rules for you? Yeah, Harry’s not happy with them. They’ll probably lose their jobs.”
“Tell him I forced them.”
I snort.
“I’m serious. Tell him it’s my fault. They protested, but I lied and said Harry was cool with it. Or held a gun to their heads. Whatever works.”
She rises and stalks in the direction of the bar. Surprised, I take off after her. “Where are you going?”
“To tell them to leave. Unless you want a drink first. I’m sure they can make something strong enough to remove that stick up your ass.”
“Stick up my—” I huff a laugh. “So what, you quit and leave your crew members out of work, butnowyou have proletariat sympathies?”
“They’re not out of work. Bowie has plenty of gigs for them. Stop being dramatic.”
“You’re the one on the verge of getting kicked out of a hotel in your own hometown. Hey—” Saying it out loud has made me realize. “Whyareyou staying at a hotel? Don’t your parents live here? Old friends?”
She doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “Fine. Maybe I should just let you quit and ruin your life. Because—I don’t know if you’re aware—but your commitment to self-destruction has earned you a bit of a reputation at Manifest. As an asshole. I should probably say good riddance.”
Hannah’s blue eyes flash, but she doesn’t slow down. “So do it already and stop bothering me.”
She weaves around a crowd of people dancing by the pool.
“Your contract with Manifest says you owe us one more album.” I hop over a wide drainage ditch, then turn to hold out my hands.
She stops short and studies them like they’re lethal. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you over.”
She ignores me and jumps over the ditch herself—though when she lands, she wobbles. We reach for each other at the same time. There’s a flash of surprise in her eyes as I tug her straight, then she drops my arms and keeps walking.
I grit my teeth. “If you violate your contract by not delivering an album, not only will the label sue you for your advance, but you have a noncompete clause. You can’t make music unless it’s for us. No indie albums. No new bands. No more writing for anyone to hear.”
This stops her. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. We’re close to the tiki bar, and the sounds of the buzzing blenders mix with the airy song playing through the speakers. The light from the bar turns Hannah’s skin gold, and when she opens her eyes and looks up at me, I realize how close I’ve drawn to her. That damn musician magnetism doesn’t turn off.
“First,” she says, “Roger should feel free to sue me.” The words are razor-tipped, but there’s a thickness to her voice that sounds like misery, not anger. “And as far as making music goes, I’m only doing it for myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Roger. The fans heckling. Everyone’s made it clear they don’t want to hear what I’m writing these days.”
“Jesus. If it’s about the kind of music you want to write, just keep making songs like ‘Six Feet Under.’ I’ll convince Roger.”
