Page 138 of Lyric & the Heartbeats

“Beach.”

“Sour or sweet?”

Her mind turned to Emerson and Adra. “Both.”

“Would you rather tour without a nest, or without a wardrobe?”

Lyric’s smile threatened to slip, but she pinned it in place with the same practice she’d gotten all those years of dealing with her mother.

Are those the things he thought she considered most important in her life? A pretty nest and clothes?

Lyric was done with this interview.

Her response was sour on her tongue and it came out in the form of a saccharine sweet smile. The words that followed were so sharp she was surprised they didn’t leave slices on her tongue and lips as they left her throat.

“What an original question. One I’m not going to answer. I listened to the interview before this one, with the artist who was an alpha. I didn’t hear you pose such a shallow ultimatum.”

The host’s smile froze, the fake curl of his lips slipping from his face as she continued.

“In fact, the questions posed to me during this interview could all be seen as shallow. Sure, dealing with the blown tire was stressful. So was choosing between over a hundred applicants to tour with me, but my poor little omega brain managed. Why don’t you ask me about how my very first performance was enough to catch the attention of a label, leading to a contract. Or how my first tour is sold out even though I’m considered a new artist?”

Henry’s presence loomed closer, and she held up a hand to ward him off.

The host sputtered, and she shook her head. “I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished this far, and I’m not going to let you lessen that with a comparison between a nest and a damned wardrobe.”

Lyric stood, unclipped the mic from her shirt, the battery pack from her waistband, and dropped them on the couch. “Interview’s over. If you ever decide you’d like to take me seriously as a musician and not just a pretty face, then you can contact my agent and see if she’ll give you the time of day.”

Her back was stick straight, and her shoulders were high as she walked away. Henry angled to the side to let her pass him, an amused smile on his lips, pride gleaming in his pretty hazel eyes. He opened his mouth once, glanced to the host, and shook his head. “I was going to add something, but I think she covered it all. Have a good night.”

Heat was blasting her cheeks, and her neck felt hot and her hands were shaking slightly, but she tucked them into her pockets and continued forward. Nohen and Emerson and Adra and Desi fell in line, following after her.

It wasn’t until they were on the bus, in the safety of privacy, that Lyric released a breath and let her shoulders slump.

“That was badass,” Henry commented. “I rolled my eyes when he asked that question, but you really handed him his ass on a platter.”

Lyric wanted to smile, but caught the curl of her lips between her teeth. “Am I going to get in trouble?”

Henry shrugged. “What are they gonna do? Fire you? Pfft.”

The heat, blood, and color left her cheeks as his words registered, and Henry held out a hand.

“No, no, I was just kidding! You’re the one who listed your own stats back there, do you think the label would let someone as talented as you go?”

In that moment, she wasn’t exactly sure what she expected the label to do. So much had gone wrong already. The bus, missing that show, hiring a caterer—which she was sure wasn’t cheap, and most certainly was a luxury, not a necessity—and now she was telling off interviewers.

“Ugh!” Lyric groaned and covered her face with her hands, dragging them down and wishing her problems would rub off as easily as her eyeliner. “Who knows what he’s going to write in that interview.”

“He’s not going to write anything,” Emerson argued, brows furrowed with frustration on her behalf. “You were mic’d up. He recorded you.”

Lyric shook her head, trying to knock loose the hundred terrible scenarios swirling through her brain. “Exactly. They could manipulate the audio and make it sound like I’m saying anything they want.”

Even if they disputed it, it wouldn’t be the first time the media had done their best to make an artist look bad—and succeeded—to an extent. The truth always came out, but usually not quick enough to catch the attention of the same people who would rather see the drama than the truth.

Two warm palms landed on her shoulders, gave her a small shake, and startled her eyes open. She stared up at Nohen, his pretty honey eyes dripping with intensity.

“Everything will be fine. They’re not going to publish anything to make you look bad.”

“Exactly,” Henry agreed. “Plus, your label is a major brand. To bully you on your very first tour after such a hard week would be a bad look for the magazine, and they’re likely aware. The future content they’d lose wouldn’t be worth the ten minutes of fame a viral story could bring by twisting the interview around.”