Her choice of words made me grimace. “Ew.”
“He’s mostly harmless.” She snickered. “Except with his pen.”
“Pity. He’s kind of cute.”
“To be fair, I hold a slight grudge against him on Micah’s behalf.” Her forehead wrinkled. “You should have seen the steaming pile of dog doo he flung at Micah’s band last month.”
Actually, I had.
“But you wouldn’t believe the vitriol his fans came back with.”
No, I would.
“I’m sure you don’t care about all this foolishness.”
Oh, yes, I did.
I’d read the particularly brutal review he’d written about Micah’s last album. “You’d think he’d be a little nicer considering you work there. Did you claw his eyes out?”
“I leave that to his fans.” She covered her mouth as if to hold in a cackle. “They get under his skin.”
Interesting. “He gets upset when fans retaliate?”
“He gets insulted. Like his opinion is final.”
How obnoxious. “Doesn’t he just write worse reviews?”
She leaned in. “Gabe’s an ass, but he thinks he’s objective.”
Her glee over the fan support made me instantly regret having squelched the revolt. Maybe they were right and I was wrong. A little fan pressure might make Gabriel Sanchez think twice about writing a shitty review.
I mulled this over while deciding between a navy blue short-sleeved V-neck sweater and a white silk button-up blouse, neither appropriate for a cookout. But neither had the name of a band plastered across them.
“Do you want to borrow something?”
I held up my wardrobe choices. “I have jeans, but my shirts are either too dressy or too . . .” I didn’t want to confess they were too fan girl. If I were hanging out with anyone else, I’d throw one on, no problem.
She pointed across the hall. “My dresser is on the far wall. There should be a T-shirt you can borrow in the bottom drawer. Or if you want something a little nicer, check the closet.”
I thanked her again for her hospitality and proceeded to invade her privacy even more. Her openness constantly impressed me, given her own history and that of anyone around her. The press could print the ugliest stories about her. Yet, she trusted me. It meant a lot.
She’d been on the road with so many bands by this point, it didn’t surprise me to find a varied collection of her own concert T-shirts in the drawer. I picked one up and smelled it, immediately feeling weird about that. Fans always joked about that, asking “What does Adam smell like?” when someone got lucky enough to meet him. Sadly, I knew the answer to that. For some reason, he supposedly smelled like jasmine.
Micah supposedly smelled like citrus. I was in Jo’s drawers, and all I could smell was laundry detergent.
“Did you find anything?” she hollered.
I glanced at the shirt in my hands. In giant gold letters, it readNot throwing away my shot!I laughed because it brought up visions of my mom singing along with theHamiltonsoundtrack in her car.
“Yes!” I hollered, pulling it on. I clicked a photo and texted my mom.
“Good. Because we need to be going.” She walked into the bedroom. “Ah. You found my favorite shirt.”
“My mom would love this.”
“Yeah? I’m a huge theater geek myself.” She pulled the bedroom door closed so she could look in the hanging mirror. “Shit. I need to fix my hair and makeup. Do you need a minute in the bathroom?”
I still didn’t know where we were going, but a cookout sounded casual, and casual sounded familiar, and familiar made me think it involved her friends, and her friends included Shane.
