I hear her padding across the floor; maybe she’s opening curtains. “You didn’t ask that girl to pull out her phone.” “Anyway,” She blows out a breath. “Thanks for calling. I hate finding out from push notifications.”
“Figured you would. You okay?”
“I think so. Slightly nauseous, but that might be the sudden fame—or lack of coffee.”
“I’ll have one delivered—caffeine bribe.”
A small laugh, shaky but real. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
Another pause, softer this time. “Thanks.”
Melody climbs into my lap and kneads my thigh. I scratch her folded ear, phone still pressed to my ear. “She’s purring like she knows she just broke the internet.”
“Well, at least someone’s enjoying the fame.” Nora’s smile comes through in her voice now.
“And Nora—thanks for rolling with this. I know it’s not what you signed up for.”
Her voice softens. “We did sign up for chaos, remember? At least Melody’s cute.”
“She really is.” I glance inside; the kitten’s still curled on the pillow, ear folded like origami. “Talk soon?”
“Talk soon, Max.”
***
I push through the steel door of Studio Blue with a guitar case in one hand and Melody’s carrier in the other. The room smells like yesterday’s amp heat and the cinnamon doughnuts Lucas swears fight stage fright. Bass lines rumble from the far end where DeShawn is already noodling warm-ups.
Lucas spots me first and bursts out laughing. “Please tell me that meowing amp is part of the new rig.”
I set the carrier on an equipment crate. “She basically bullied me into bringing her—gave me the full crooked-ear guilt trip until I caved.”
Annie leans over her drum kit, taps a stick against her temple. “Tour mascot achieved. Does she do roadie work or just moral support?”
“Moral support,” I say, unlatching the carrier door. Melody pads out, tail kinked, ear flopped, and immediately heads for Lucas’s shoelaces. He bends to scratch her chin and she rewards him with a motorboat purr. Traitor.
“I see she’s adjusting well,” Vivienne observes from the corner, notepad in hand. Her eyebrow arches, but the ghost of a smile tells me she’s amused.
I roll my eyes for show. “Can’t shake her. Clings like a stage-five groupie.”
Lucas snorts. “Yeah, you look devastated.”
I flip him off good-naturedly, then sling my guitar over my shoulder. As we run the first song—an up-tempo number that still doesn’t have final lyrics—Melody curls on my spare amp and watches with half-lidded approval. The chords feel tight today, but my head keeps drifting: Nora’s laugh when the flour cloud settled, the way she lifted her chin so I could swipe the sauce from her neck, that tiny hitch in her voice when she got flustered—she’s not as immune to me as she pretends. I know what it looks like when women are attracted to me and Norashows all signs of it. But I think she only wants me for my body. As far as I know she thinks I’m a rich, superficial asshole, who only looks out for himself. Part of me itches to prove her wrong—show her there’s more—but no. Boundaries.
“Earth to Donovan.” Lucas’s bass thump cuts through my wandering thoughts. I blink; the last chorus has ended and I’m still strumming like the song’s alive.
“Sorry—brain lag.” I adjust the strap and signal for another take. We dive back in. My fingers land on the riff automatically, but images from yesterday elbow into every measure. Our next “date” is tomorrow and I’m half terrified and half impatient. Stage lights used to be the only thing that made my pulse jump; lately, one librarian’s text bubbles do the trick.
We wrap the set an hour later. Melody stretches, hops down, and weaves between cymbal stands like she owns the joint. Lucas scoops her up, cradling her like a football. “Admit it, dude. You’re keeping her.”
I take her back, rubbing the folded ear. “Temporary foster,” I insist, but Melody’s purr drowns me out—and the grin tugging at my mouth probably ruins my credibility.
I sling the carrier over my shoulder, and head for the door. Practice was solid, but the real encore is twenty-four hours away. Melody mews as if agreeing; I tap the carrier lightly.
“Come on, trouble. Let’s go.”
Crash of the final chord still hangs in the rafters when Vivienne calls out to me, stiletto heels snapping like an angry metronome. She’s holding her phone out in front of her the way you’d carry a live grenade.
