“Yep. Not a good look. So we’re hunting down a replacement.” She shrugs. “I’m thinking you.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. You in?”
I’m still battling shock. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Mollie May, the biggest pop star in the world, to invite me on tour with her.
“But…” My head spins. “Our styles are…”
“Day and night?” she fills in.
“I mean, yeah.”
“That’s why I want you.” She winks and I get the feeling it meansin more ways than one. “I always go with singer-songwriter openers. It helps ease the audience in before I drop them into chaos.”
I have to grin, because I’ve seen clips of her tours. Fire, pyro, backup dancers in latex.
“I loved what Tobey sent me. Those tracks. Especially ‘Lightkeeper.’” She shivers. “Slow in the right places, moody where it needs to be, and then you belt out that last chorus and holy Jesus.That balance is hard to pull off, but you do it so well. And it doesn’t hurt that you have that”—she waves vaguely at me—“face.”
“My face?” I echo with a grin.
“You’re hot,” she says frankly. “And we need to make these straight girlies and gay boys happy. Give them some eye candy.”
“You’re really selling me on this tour.”
She laughs. “I don’t need to sell it. You’re already saying yes.”
I smirk. “Am I?”
“Well, you’d be a fool to say no.”
She’s called away again then, leaving me reeling from the invitation.
Mollie May wants me to open for her. Am I fucking dreaming? And am I really going to say yes? I’ve spent years mocking her songs like a pretentious jackass, insisting it’s not real music. I’d look like a goddamn hypocrite if I joined her on tour.
But I also just watched her perform without any effects, flash, or gimmicks, and I’m big enough to admit I’m wrong. Sheisa musician.
And like she said…
I’d be a fool to say no.
Three hours later, the ballroom has mostly emptied out. I expect Mollie May to be whisked off by her bodyguards at any second. I’m already edging toward the door, wondering if the car that deposited me here is also going to deposit me home.
Mollie May notices me trying to leave and shakes her head no. Then she waves her handlers over and says something to them. Within minutes, the staff and hangers-on are ushered out, doors closing behind them.
“Wow,” I tell her when she joins me. “You know how to clear a room.”
“Practice.” She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the grand piano on the stage. “Come on. Music’s calling,” she teases. I watch as she sinks onto the bench, the silk of her gown pooling around her knees and ankles. “Let’s play something.”
Shrugging, I join her, and we spend the next several minutes messing around with melodies and harmonizing until we find a groove. We sing the duet that my mom wrote for Mollie May and Stylo Lewis, and I’m a bit floored, because we sound like a real duo. Our voices go well together, hers rich with surprising tenderness. Once again, I feel like a piece of shit for thinking she lacked talent.
The last strains of the song echo in the ballroom. Mollie May turns to me, her brown eyes soft.
Then she kisses me.
It’s bold and unexpected. Her mouth moves against mine like she knows exactly what she wants, and I hesitate only for a moment before kissing her back, giving in to the teasing strokes of her tongue.
“Fuck, you’re a good kisser,” she mumbles.
