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“Yeah, I don’t give a big fuck. Eat it anyway.”
She laughs, head falling back. “Would you like it if I just sent you the meal plan, for your approval?”
Her tone is joking, but I nod. “Yeah, I would.”
She sobers. “I’m really fine, Jamie. I can tell you’re worried about something.”
My throat tightens as a vision of another client, not too unlike Madi, flashes through my head. Wrecked by PTSD, sleeping on my couch with Marion dropping by every day, forcing her to eat. Being on the road, touring hard, and doing it with people who lose everything if their client can’t get up on stage is a different level of pressure. It makes the strongest person buckle and end up wrapped up on a couch, eyes dead and locked on nothing through a window.
That was a long winter. I’d rather not do that again.
“You need me to step in on anything, you call me,” I say firmly. “I mean that, anyplace, anytime.”
With her, I do mean it. Some of my other clients can wait, but Madi has the highest need right now. So she gets priority.
“I appreciate that,” she says, giving me a smile.
“Where’s the boyfriend?” I ask, glancing around.
Her face falls. “Uh…we broke up.”
“Why?” I frown.
She picks at the sleeves of her sweater. “I’m gone all the time. He didn’t like it…so we broke up.”
“Damn,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, giving me a brave smile that feels a bit like a kick to the gut. “It’s fine. Anyway, Dad is gonna be here any minute.”
Speak of the devil—outside, a door slams. I look through the glass panes on the door to the broad figure striding up the drive, phone in hand. He’s a tall, belligerent man who always talks like a drill sergeant and only makes eye contact with people who can make him money. It’s disheartening, considering when I met him, at the start of Madi’s career, he was softer and quieter. Money does strange things to good people, I’ve learned that the hard way.
He walks in, pocketing his phone. “Hey, Jamie.”
“Hey.” I stand up and shake his hand.
“Are the producers coming in today?” He goes to the fridge and pops open a bottle of water.
“No, tomorrow.”
He drains the bottle in one go and crushes it in his hand. “So why are you here today?”
I gesture at Madi, sitting silently with her arms crossed. There’s a faint crease between her brows. “Came to check on my client.”
“She’s fine,” he says, gesturing.
“I can make that judgment for myself,” I retort.
He pauses, eyes narrowing. Tension ripples, then he shrugs. “Suit yourself, I’m gonna head out to the gym. Be here and be square in the morning; we’re planning the tour.”
He tosses the bottle over Madi’s head and into the trash, claps her once on the shoulder, and disappears up the stairs. His footsteps echo until they die out. Madi meets my eyes and gives me a rueful smile.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Let’s go eat lunch,” I say, getting up and reaching for my keys. “Fuck eggs white, I’m starving.”
We head out to the mall and park outside a fast-food joint. Once she has a chicken sandwich in her, she’s a lot more animated. I ask all the right questions, and pretty soon, she’s opening up about the brand deals and the tour. It turns out, she’s more inclined to do a Canadian tour this time, wrap up with some dates in New York, and go home for at least a season. I think that’s a good idea. Clearly, Noah has other plans, but I can deal with that tomorrow.
