My mouth falls open. Fuck. Of course. If Spencer and I started talking because of Everett in the first place, Everett probably saw us leave together.
He probably knows more about my night than I do. I’m not sure how to answer his question because I’m pretty sure he and my husband are practically rivals, and Everett certainly doesn’t know that Spencer is gay.
“Uh, Gabriel?” Everett asks.
“Sorry.” I squint behind my sunglasses. “Hungover.”
Fox gestures again, and I join them in the spacious back of the luxury car. The seats are soft leather, and I sink down as I grab a chilled soda water, waiting in the door.
Fox looks right at me. “You earn that hangover with a good night out?”
I push my sunglasses up, not needing them with the tinted windows. “Uh, yeah. Totally. How about you guys?”
Everett chuckles. “After I lost my ass at the poker table? Pretty chill. I thought since he wasn’t playing poker that Spencer didn’t like to gamble. But I guess you two got the tip on some good blackjack?”
I let out a relieved chuckle. Somehow, I know blackjack was just a cover story, although my tired brain can only recall Spencer and me laughing as we made our way through the casino.
But it’s a cover story I can work with.
“Yeah, you know. It’s a way to pass the time,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind me playing cards with your tennis rival, by the way.”
I say it more to prompt Everett than out of actual concern. He’s a potential goldmine of information.
He smiles. “No. Honestly, I barely know the guy outside of competing. The intensity of battling someone on the courts is a whole thing, but otherwise, he keeps to his own business. I do have a hell of a lot of respect for him. The man lives and breathes tennis. He could be one of the greats, honestly.” He hesitates, then cocks up half a grin. “But not as great as me, of course.”
Fox laughs. “Too bad for your wallet last night that all your skills are on the tennis court.”
“It’s because my husband isn’t in Vegas with me,” Everett says. “I swear to god, man. Reggie is a rabbit’s foot.” He tilts his eyes to me. “Speaking of the best. I hear you’re releasing a solo album, man. Congratulations.”
“Oh, yeah.” I nod to Fox. “Thanks to this guy.”
Damn it. I was hoping to get some more info about the man I married before we moved on.
Not that I really care. There’s no reason I should care. I’ll probably never even see him again.
“That reminds me,” Fox says, “we should start booking some time for you in the recording studio soon.”
“Right,” I say, hesitating just a little. I’ve written plenty of new material, which he knows, but he doesn’t know that the songs all happen to be shit. “I’m still messing around.”
He shrugs. “Just so you can play with the equipment. Get to know the space. Tell us if you need anything changed. You don’t have to lay anything down.”
His recording studio is a dream come true. The equipment he’s gathered, both vintage and high-tech, is cradled in brilliantly designed architecture, affording a luscious, unforgettable sound. And his producers are technical geniuses. People would bleed for that space, and he’s offering it to me like it’s nothing.
I take a deep breath. “Can’t wait,” I manage. “Thanks, Fox.”
He nods slightly. “Whatever you need. Just let me know.”
What I need is for him to stop having faith in me.
His total confidence makes sense. I’ve fronted two bands and written three albums that are new classics. He respects my talent, just like I respect the label he’s building.
The problem is my three albums came after three heartbreaks. I never put that in the lyrics explicitly. I never told the truth about why I was feeling the things I was feeling.
Amos cheating on me, Aurora leaving without even a note to explain, and Zel dumping me at the Grammys were all painful enough heartbreaks to fuel a raw creative burst.
Maybe that’s why I married Spencer. Drunk Me thought I needed a heartbreak to burst through this creative block, and a closeted, good-boy tennis star seemed just the ticket for a guaranteed disaster.
A lot of good that did me. If you offer a shit-ton of money and total creative freedom to a musician, you definitely don’t want him causing your label a major PR headache by getting in a messy, drunken wedding with a squeaky-clean athlete. And whining about how hard it is to write a song won’t be a good excuse.
