Cole’s tour launches in six weeks at Madison Square Garden, which means I’ll be in the front row cheering my buddy on. He’s visiting his mother the night before the show, and apparently, he talks about me so much to her that she’s requested my presence too.
I grin. “I need to place my dinner order more than a month in advance?”
“That’s how Ma rolls. I’ll just tell her you’re good with any red meat, yeah?”
“Perfect.” I glance at the coffee stand, but my order’s still not ready. “You nervous at all for this tour?”
“Nah. More like excited. I’m about to have all flavor of female throwing herself at me. American girls. European girls. Australian girls. Those Aussies are hardcore, G. They surf and wrestle crocodiles.”
“I’m pretty sure most of them don’t, but cool. When is the Australian stop?”
“Not till winter. Their summer, I guess. I’ve got six weeks here in the States before I’m scampering across the pond,” he says in a bad British accent. “London first. Ireland. Then Europe and then Australia. That leg’s brutal.”
“You ready?”
Cole chuckles. “Always. You know me. If I stop moving, I lose my mind.”
I nod. I get that. Movement keeps the ghosts at bay.
The barista calls out my order, so I say a quick goodbye and go grab it. I’m shoving the cups into a cardboard tray when a commotion breaks out at the curb. A cluster of people gather around, and I realize they’re paparazzi, all eagerly focused on the road. A black town car with completely tinted windows pulls up, followed by a second one, and then a third.
Two burly men emerge from each vehicle. The way they carry themselves screams bodyguard. Mom didn’t mention anyone famous showing up today, but there’s no way this isn’t a celebrity arrival. It’s presidential-level treatment.
I hang back, watching as one of the big men opens the back door of the second town car. I catch a glimpse of a hooded figure. Gray hoodie with long, chestnut-brown curls spilling out of it. Big hoopearrings that look familiar for some reason.
Although it’s not raining, the bodyguard opens an umbrella, and the figure ducks underneath it before scurrying toward the front entrance of the building, flanked by two other guards. The paparazzi start screaming.
“Mollie May!”
“Mollie May!”
“Over here!”
Holy shit, that was Mollie May?
I know she recorded here for the duet Mom wrote, but I heard she usually works out of her private studio in LA. I wonder why she’s here today.
I go inside, enduring another security check, then deliver Mom’s and Wilmer’s coffees before taking her up on that empty piano room offer.
You never put a drink on a musical instrument, so I set my coffee on the ledge behind me and position my fingers over the keys. I play the song that Tobey Dodson went feral over—which, ironically, is not “Lightkeeper.” His favorite track is “Stop the World,” but he’s recommending we strip it bare. Piano only, maybe some strings. I like the idea of going simple so it doesn’t feel so produced, but sometimes I worry my voice isn’t strong enough to carry a track without a band behind me.
I run through the song, fingers dancing over the piano keys, voice reverberating clearly in the room’s perfect acoustics. I’m just reaching the bridge when I catch a flicker of movement up in the control room. Through the glass, I see her.
A moment later, a throaty voice sounds over the speaker.
“Who the fuck are you, and why are you this good?”
I grin despite myself. And though I’m not even a fan, I find myselfa little starstruck as I slide off the piano bench. My legs are actually wobbly.
The pop princess opens the door of the control booth and saunters into the room, strutting toward me while her bangle bracelets clank around her wrists. Nobody can deny that this woman is a stunner, with her brown curls and big liquid-brown eyes, the sexy mole over her top lip. A pocket rocket, AJ once called her, because Mollie May is tiny. Can’t be taller than five feet, but her presence is larger-than-life.
She’s wearing a short skirt and a crop top that shows off both her impressive rack and impressive abs. I glance at the outfit and ask, “What happened to the hoodie and umbrella?”
“Huh?”
“I saw you come into the building,” I explain. “Drowning in a gray hoodie.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me.” Mollie May waves a hand, laughing. “It’s my decoy. Antonio and I came in through the back, like, thirty minutes before that. Tony is my bodyguard.” She nods toward the booth, where an enormous hawk-eyed man stands guard.
