“I’ll be honest, Bex, I’m not sure why you’re here. I was a shit when Mira brought it up to me and brushed her off.”
“That’s okay. I’d rather tell you about my idea in person, anyway.”
“All right. Let’s have it.”
Bex opens her messenger bag and pulls out a storyboard.The first thing I notice is, The Love Line with Liam. My heart does this weird thing where it sinks, fills with dread, but also spikes with excitement.
“I grew up listening to 4225 West,” she starts. “My mom is a huge fan and made sure my brother and I knew about her favorite band. I thought about going into the music business, in some capacity, but I can’t sing or play an instrument. In college, I discovered I had a knack for marketing and as part of my senior project I created Bare Wire Audio. At Bare Wire, we focus on syndicated podcasts of every nature. Our most popular is, of course, true crime, but I’d like to expand and that is where you come in.”
Bex holds up her storyboard. “The Love Line with Liamis an evening call-in show where listeners can call-in, talk totheLiam Page, and ask you about life, love, and everything in between.”
I laugh. Not politely. I actually laugh. “I’m a rock star, not Dr. Phil.”
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t smile. “You’ve been singing about love for thirty years. You’ve lived it. The mistakes, the loss, the ten years you walked away from your family before you came back.” She holds my eye again. “People want to hear from someone real. Not a therapist. Not a celebrity doing a bit for six weeks until the novelty wears off. Someone who’s been through it and come out the other side. Whether you believe it or not, your songs have guided millions through heartache, through divorce, and loss. You’ve sung songs that have built relationships and have given people an idea of what they want from their partner.”
My jaw tightens. Bex has done her homework. She’s read the interviews, the press, maybe the tell-all book that I try not to think about.
“I’ve built multiple syndicated shows from nothing,” she says. “I know radio. I know audiences. The fans who have loved you from day one will tune in. They’ll call-in, just to talk to you. I’m asking you to talk about love for people who need to hear it.”
I wish I had asked Mira more questions so I could do my own research on Bex. I would’ve been able to tell her no, before she wasted her time traveling to Beaumont, and preparing this pitch.
“No,” I say. “I appreciate you coming here, though, and do apologize for wasting your time. I don’t feel like this is the right direction for me, right now.”
“I appreciate you listening,” she says as she slides her business card toward me. “This wasn’t a waste of my time, Mr. Page. Like I said, I grew up listening to your music and appreciate the time you’ve given me. If you change your mind . . .” She nods toward the card.
“I won’t.”
I walk,heavy-footed, to Whimsicality. Every table is full, and there’s a line at the counter. I don’t know the young man taking orders. In fact, other than Trudy, I’m not sure I know any of the crew currently employed at either the café or florist. This is Josie’s passion and I support it fully by supporting her as her husband. I don’t get involved with the day-to-day side of things.
Trudy smiles when she sees me and tells me Josie is in her office. I head toward the back, dodging the team making sandwiches, salads, and wraps for the customers. I knock once on Josie’s door and open it. She’s hiding behind her laptop, with her glasses pushed back in her hair. She looks up and the frown she had turns into a grin.
“Hey, Rockstar.”
Her greeting goes right to my crotch. I groan, mostly out of frustration because who doesn’t love a good desk fuck. Except, it’s the middle of her workday and there’s a café full of people.
“Not now, Josephine.” Years ago, when she had something important to say to me, and I was so lost in my head, I ended things between us, and the way only I knew how to tell her I was serious was to call her by her full name. She’s always been Josie or Jojo to me. Now, I’ll use Josephine when I need her to take me seriously.
She pushes her chair back. “What’s wrong?”
What is wrong, really? I sit down in the chair across from her desk, and sigh.
“Why so dramatic, Page?”
Oh yes, she’s keeping up the rock star vibe. Is this to stroke my ego? If so, it’s working. “How’s your day?” I ask, deflecting.
She leans back in her chair. It creaks, needs a lube job. I shake my head, clearing my thoughts away from her, bent over her desk . . .
“Well, since you’re asking. The cooler latch is still loose. I spent an hour arguing with our supplier about a shorted order.” She drops the pen on the counter. “How was yours?”
“I had that meeting with the producer who reached out to Mira.”
“The collaboration?”
“Turns out it’s not a collaboration. She wants me to host a radio show. A call-in show. People phone in with their relationship problems, and I sit behind a microphone and talk to them about it.”
Josie takes her glasses off and sets them on her desk. “And?”
“And what?” I ask, shrugging. “It’s a radio thing. It’s not for me.”
