“Bourbon theme,” Mollie supplies, grinning.
“What is this charity?” I ask her, accepting the glass.
“They raise money for senior care, with a focus on women. I helped them out last year too. Had lunch with the chairwoman, and she was telling me how most nursing homes have more women than men. Since men, on average, die earlier. A lot of these women, the married ones especially, suddenly end up alone in these places, suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever other illnesses.”
“That’s really sad.”
“I know. My abuela is in a similar situation,” Mollie May tells me. “So it’s sort of a personal cause for me.”
We chat about the charity for a bit longer, but soon my mind drifts, because I’m still not sure why she asked me to come tonight.
“You seem bored.”
I glance at her amused face. “Sorry. I was just…wondering why I’m here,” I admit.
“Got it. You’re a right-to-business kind of guy.” She sips her bourbon, drawing my gaze to her red lips. “I bribed Tobey to send me some tracks from your album.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did he?”
“Oh yeah, that man will do anything for me.” She winks. “Most men do. But I’ve been listening to them nonstop and—”
“Mollie May,” someone interrupts. “I need to steal you away for a moment. Veronica is dying to meet you!”
I swallow my frustration as she dashes off. I’m forced to spend the next fifteen minutes waiting for her to return. I’m almost done mybourbon when she gets back.
“Why doesn’t anyone ever call you just Mollie?” I ask curiously.
“Because my name is Mollie May. Technically, it’s one word. My birth certificate has a hyphen. Mollie-May Rivera.” She grins. “Courtesy of an Irish mother and Puerto Rican dad. If anyone calls me by a nickname, it’s usually Mol. Anyway, back to business. I wanted to—”
But then we hear, “Mollie May, you’re on.”
She stops again. “Shit. Hold that thoughtagain. Time to shine.”
My head is spinning as I watch her saunter toward the stage. I chat with an assistant to one of the record label execs as we wait for her set to start. He whispers that it’s ten thousand dollars a head to get into this event. Jesus Christ.
A hush goes through the ballroom. The ambiance is intimate and seductive with the candlelit tables and velvet ropes. There’s no band onstage, only a piano, a guitarist on a stool, a cellist, and a lot of candles. That startles me. Mollie’s shows are usually such productions that it feels wrong to watch her grace such a simple stage with just her sleek yellow gown. No Auto-Tune, no backup dancers, no pyro. Just her and the mic.
And holy fuck, she’s good. She covers a Patsy Cline song, soulful and sultry, then launches into one of her own tracks, only it’s been stripped down to acoustic guitar.
For a moment, I have to grit my teeth, because I hate being wrong. Plus, I feel like an asshole. This woman is talented. I’ve spent years judging her as bubble gum, and it turns out she might have more talent than I can ever dream of having.
When her set ends, she glides off the stage and spends the next thirty minutes chatting with attendees, accepting their heaps of praise, and flitting from group to group like a pro. I can see why they paidher the big bucks to attend. She’s probably raking in the cash for this charity.
Finally, she sidles up to me near the silent auction table. “Well?” she says, tipping her head.
I tip my head back. “Well, what?”
“Did you like my set?”
“It was incredible.”
She nods, then casually says, “You want to open for me on tour?”
“I’m sorry,what?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before. My opening act got a DUI last week.”
“Stylo Lewis?” I say in surprise.
