Monty sniffed and let out a shaky breath. “I think I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Hilliard moved his hands to Monty’s shoulders and rubbed gently up and down his upper arms. “We’ll get through this together, sweetheart.”
Monty nodded.
“Do you want some dessert?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“You sure? It’s called peach delight. I whipped it up this afternoon.”
The thought of peaches brought back the memory of Jesse Morgan dancing with him in that Atlanta speakeasy and Monty thought he might throw up. “No, thanks.”
If Hilliard was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “Why don’t I drive you home?”
“That’s okay. I can drive.”
“Montgomery, I say this with love, but I do not want you behind a steering wheel right now. Especially not behind that one.”
Monty looked up in surprise. “My roadster? But she’s a beaut!”
Hilliard stood and wiped imaginary dust off the front of his pants. “She is not a reliable sort of car.”
Monty gave a watery chuckle. “You’re such a snob.”
“You’ll thank me for it when you get home in one piece. I’m calling you a cab.”
Monty accepted defeat.
But when he got into the cab about twenty minutes later, he didn’t give directions home. He needed a drink and he needed to not be alone. So instead, he instructed the driver to take him to a small bar nearby. It wasn’t the Pink Peacock; no one in furs and diamonds would be there. The booths were deep and the lighting dim. They didn’t hire a French chef, making do with bowls of salted peanuts. Their bartender didn’t have a fancy resume, but she did have magic that helped her to make well-balanced cocktails without having to measure.
Monty figured this was about as close to lying low as he would get.
The bar was quiet, but there were enough patrons to provide the soft rumble of conversation that Monty needed to feel less alone. He ordered a Sidecar and then picked out a corner booth, sliding to the center of the seat so he could watch the rest of the bar.
The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. Monty sipped at his cocktail, proud of himself for not downing it in one go. He mulled over Hilliard’s words. Hilliard had never lied to him, so he knew his friend had spoken truthfully, but there was a deep-seated fear at the back of Monty’s mind that he’d been too afraid to voice: he hadn’t been acting any special kind of way on the tour. He’d merely been himself. Sure, he’d turned on the charm more often than not, but that always happened when he was nervous. And being on tour with Ezra Allen had made him nervous.
Hilliard had complimented his acting skills, but Monty could no longer distinguish his acting from his magic; they felt like two parts of the same whole. He smiled at the camera and he pushed his magic out to give that smile more dazzle. When he sang in a film, he threaded his magic into his words so that his audience would fall in love with his character, as they were meant to do. When he danced, his magic swirled out from his hands and feet, drawing people in. It had worked on countless audiences across America. It had worked on Jesse Morgan.
It had not worked on Ezra Allen, apparently. And now Monty couldn’t stop the panic rising inside him at the thought that who he was might cost him his job.
He hung his head in his hands to keep anyone from seeing the tears prickling at his eyes. What the hell was he going to do?
“Is that Montgomery Kincaid?”
Monty swallowed the groan he wanted to emit. Instead, he quickly wiped at his face and smiled up at whoever had greeted him, hoping it wasn’t a fan. “That’s me.”
The man standing in front of his table was tall and thin, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and carrying a sugar-rimmed coupe glass. “Jeepers,” he murmured, sliding into the booth next to him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Rough day, that’s all. Did you want an autograph or something?”
The man laughed. “We’ve met before.”
“Oh. I’m…sorry?”
He held out a hand. “Freddie Forsythe. I’m Cal Campbell’s secretary. We met at one of Edie’s parties a few months back.”
Monty shook the hand begrudgingly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell your boss that you saw me crying in a bar.”
