A Little Night Music (25 page)

Nothing looked dumber than a white boy in dreads.

But Bobby’s band’s latest single held the number-one slot in the charts.

“Roster?” Nate asked.

“Yeah. All the musicians on the guest list were asked to do a song at some point. Didn’t see your name.”

“I’m in the middle of a tour,” Nate said quickly. “Saving my voice.”

“Cool, man. Good to see you.” Bobby slapped him on the shoulder and wandered off.

No one had ever approached him about performing tonight. Apparently Hannah hadn’t known, either, because she would have had him on the roster.

Okay, he’d gotten on the guest list late. But still. It hadn’t been so late that he couldn’t have been squeezed in. He’d jammed spontaneously any number of times in the past. They could’ve tossed him up onstage with any of the other artists he’d seen here (except, maybe, the blinged-out rapper over there) and he would’ve done fine. Had a blast, even.

The hallway to the restrooms sealed the deal. Signed photos of rockers and rappers, all the hot bands and artists of the day, covered the walls. Nate had seen over half of them here tonight.

His photo wasn’t among them.

Not important enough.

A has-been.

In the bathroom, Nate stared at his reflection.

Maybe Hannah’s work was in vain. Maybe it was too late, he’d fallen too far. Maybe this tour was a fluke, and soon he’d just be playing San Francisco clubs or touring as a nostalgia act. Doing Japanese commercials for booze or watches or cars.

It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? He hadn’t been completely stupid with his money. He’d snorted a fair amount up his nose, but with the investments he’d make, he could never perform another note and still live comfortably. He wasn’t doing too badly. The pressure to succeed would be off. His relationship with Hannah wouldn’t matter and he could get her back.

But it would also mean that Hannah had failed.

He knew, with a wrench in his gut, how that would devastate her. It ate at him in a way that the lack of his picture on the wall never could.

Back in the main room of the club, he couldn’t see Marta anywhere. The local band was playing, currently fronted by Bobby.

Great. Ditched by his own date. The tabloids would have a field day with
that
one.

He checked the various side rooms, briefly chatting with people he knew, and being reminded of how tenuous and vapid it all was. These may have been people he’d called friends in the past, but none of them had called when he was at his lowest point, not one had offered support. They were glad to see him now, but in a fleeting sense.

Part of him just wanted to get lost in that.

He headed upstairs, weaving his way through the throngs lounging on the open steps. In one of the rooms off the balcony, he didn’t find Marta, but he found his past staring him in the face.

A past that tempted him, taunted him. Whispered to him of glory, ecstasy, escape.

Oblivion.

Money discreetly changed hands. He walked away with his addiction tucked into his pocket, his mind blank, his emotions numb.

Everything he’d learned about how to resist temptation had fled.

It was so easy. So very easy.

His hands were shaking. Nate stared at them, rather fascinated, before he remembered that if his hands shook, he couldn’t play the guitar.

But he hadn’t been asked to play or sing tonight so what did it matter?

Hannah mattered. The reminder was like the whisper of a song in his head. Hannah mattered, and the drugs in his pocket would change everything.

Or would they? Would she even care? Hannah might still believe in his career, but she didn’t believe in
them
. She’d made it clear: his career and hers came first. If his career tanked, she’d failed in hers. If his career soared, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—be with him.

In Vegas, when he’d been so close, needed so much, the need for her had outstripped everything else. He’d been able to lose himself in her, in the taste and smell and feel of her, in the strength of her.

He’d lost her now, though. She wasn’t there for him to turn to.

Had she ever been? Really? Or had it all been a grand illusion, a fantasy for her. Her number-one-fan obsession finally fulfilled. The poster come to life.

If any of it had been real, then how could she have walked away so easily?

Private. If he was going to do this, he didn’t want to do it in front of anybody. If he was going to fail spectacularly, go down in flames, he didn’t need an audience.

He ducked into an alcove. It was still loud here, but the music was muffled by walls and floors between here and the stage. Just a steady thump that made the paneling vibrate.

The pain in his chest needed to be eased. The screaming in his brain needed to be quieted. He couldn’t go on wanting without doing something about it. Wanting the drugs. Wanting Hannah. He had to have one of them.

He reached into his pocket.

Pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

Nate closed his eyes and hoped.

Hannah’s husky voice filled his world, washing over him. Like an ocean wave, surrounding him and cleansing him. Safety, security.

Passion and desire.

“Hi, you’ve reached Hannah Montgomery. I’m sorry I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you’ll leave your name, number, and a brief message, or text me with that information, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a great day.”

A woman’s shrill laughter heralded her approach.

Nate hastily thumbed the phone off before the recording option started. He didn’t want anyone around when he said what he wanted to say.

The woman, clutching two companions—one male, one female, as near as Nate could tell—stumbled by him. The man (he was pretty sure) glanced at him and grinned triumphantly as if to say “Look what I’ve got.”

Yeah, whatever.

It had only been Hannah’s voice mail recording, and disappointment gnawed at his gut. But it had been her voice. That was something. So much of something.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out the packet. Stared at it. It didn’t seem to hold as much allure now.

His fingers tightened around it into a fist. Holding it. Protecting it. He didn’t need it as much now, but he was loath to give it up. There was something to be said for having it around, nearby, just in case.

Nate closed his eyes, his hand squeezing the sweaty plastic bag. Oblivion was just a decision away. Then he could forget everything.

Even Hannah.

With a sudden, startled laugh, Nate opened his fist, staring at the packet on his palm.

He didn’t want this. Didn’t want any of it. Hadn’t for years now.

All he wanted was the music and his fans’ reactions to it. The joy he got from writing and performing. That was what he needed to feel like he’d succeeded in the business.

That, and Hannah at his side.

It was time to make his runaway publicist aware of that.

Without letting himself think anymore, feel anymore, he dropped the drugs in a trash can and resumed his search for Marta.

When he found her, he claimed a migraine and said he’d send the limo back to pick her up whenever she was ready to leave. She pouted about his leaving, the mouth that had sold endless tubes of expensive lipstick curving prettily. He apologized, brushing a kiss against her cheek.

Flashbulbs went off. The brown-bobbed reporter he’d seen earlier moved in but he turned his back. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of here.

*

Favorite cotton pants with the little hearts and cross bones. Check.

Favorite tank top washed to silken softness. Check.

Favorite flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. Check.

Hannah curled up on the couch, ready to spend a quiet evening alone. She dug her spoon into the ice cream, scooping out a huge chunk of cookie dough. It was a little like hitting the jackpot.

Of course, if she didn’t quit eating the ice cream, she wouldn’t be able to fit into the new jeans she’d bought. And they were killer. Worth every penny for the ass-defining fit alone.

Not that anyone was going to be ogling her ass anytime soon.

Feeling the ridiculous burn of tears, Hannah deliberately swallowed another spoonful of ice cream, letting the cold sweetness melt slowly against her tongue. There was no way she was going to start in with the tissues again.

She was tired of crying over him.

The past week had been as full as she could make it. She’d scheduled lunches or dinners with every client who was in town. She’d touched bases with promoters, reporters, music executives. She’d spent evenings scoping out the hottest clubs, looking for the newest trends, finding the places to see and be seen. Every minute had been rigorously accounted for. Every waking hour filled with work.

It was the nights she’d come to dread.

They stretched endlessly. There was no one to kiss good night. No one to curl against. No strong arms to cradle her. No heartbeat to lull her to sleep.

No wild, screaming-orgasm sex to wear her out.

Just an aching, empty loneliness filled with thoughts of Nate.

She’d had to take down the poster. Every look brought a heart-deep pain. Every glimpse brought the memory of his final words to her.

Had he ever been anything more than a poster on her wall?

So many times she’d wanted to pick up the phone and call him. To tell him that she’d fallen in love with him. Nate Fox, the guy who made her laugh, whose smile could make her feel safe, happy, and wildly turned on all at once.

She’d wanted to call to take away the raw hurt that had been in his voice. The despair that he would forever and always be an adolescent poster fantasy.

That no one would look beyond to see the incredible man he was.

She entertained wild, impossible fantasies that they could be together but keep their relationship totally secret from the media, the fans, everyone. Then reality would set in and she’d know it could never happen. She couldn’t live hiding in a tour bus, sneaking into hotel rooms, waiting at home so he could creep in under cover of night.

The reality of being with Nate was both glorious and impossible.

The phone calls she’d made had been to Sam instead. Nate had told her not to call him. She’d ached to ask Sam how he was doing, but she kept it to business. The cordial, professional tone in Sam’s voice didn’t allow anything else. Hannah was pretty sure that he’d been glad to see her leave the tour, after the fiasco of the tabloid article. So she’d talked to him about CD signings, radio interviews at each of the tour stops. Phone interviews with
Guitar
and
Rolling Stone
.

No mention of the photo and article that had led her to leave. No mention of the phone calls she’d received from reporters wanting to interview her.

Wanting to dish the dirt. Hear about any current tour excesses. Hot bedroom details.

She’d kept all of that to herself.

And the last call, about the opening of the Paradise Club. She’d finagled Nate an invitation to opening night, knowing that the publicity would be tremendous. She’d sent explicit instructions about how he should look, even chosen his clothes. She’d needed so desperately for him to get positive exposure. A phone call to Marta Ingersol’s agent had gotten her a phone number.

That had been the hardest call she’d ever made. The spiteful triumph in Marta’s voice when Hannah had asked her to be Nate’s date to the club had just about done her in. Even the memory of Nate telling her that Marta threw up to stay thin didn’t cheer her.

And tonight was the opening. Nate would have the supermodel on his arm. A gorgeous woman who would help his career, not drag him down. A woman who would put him in
People
and not the
Weekly Word
.

A woman who wasn’t Hannah.

Pulling up a depth of willpower she was only just beginning to realize she had, Hannah put thoughts of Nate and other women from her mind. She picked up the latest thriller from her favorite author, determined to lose herself in the intrigue. Before she could get past the prologue, her intercom buzzed. Buzzed again. Kept buzzing.

Only Gina would play that particular rhythm to get her attention. The drum beat from her first and favorite Nate song cut off abruptly. Hannah didn’t bother checking to see who it was, hitting the button that released the downstairs lock. She held the door open, confident that it would be her friend who exited the elevator.

“I’ll have to start ringing your bell like normal people,” Gina said, the elevator door barely open before she scooted through.

Hannah waved the implied apology away. “I’m totally over him,” she lied. The snort that Gina gave told her just how unconvincing she was.

“What’s with the champagne?” Hannah asked.

Gina’s eyes shone, and she was fairly vibrating with excitement. She pulled two flutes out of Hannah’s cabinet and leaned one hip against the counter.

“What’s the one thing that I’ve wanted more than anything else?”

“Sex with Brad Pitt?”

“Okay, the other thing I’ve wanted,” Gina said with a laugh.

Hannah thought about it, and then her eyes widened. “You got the cover?”

“Next month. A layout in
Vogue
, and the cover shot. I’m flying to New York at the end of the week.”

Hugging Gina, Hannah congratulated her. Gina had been working towards that goal nearly as long as Hannah’d had her goal of sleeping with Nate. Now they’d both accomplished their dreams. She just hoped that Gina’s ended better than hers had.

“Stop thinking about him,” Gina warned. “And before you can deny it, I can see it all over your face.” She thrust a flute at Hannah, and then lifted her own. “To never looking back.”

“To you,” Hannah said. “And to taking the most kick-ass pictures in the fashion world.”

“Yeah, I totally rock,” Gina said in smug agreement. She carried the champagne bottle into the living room, throwing herself onto Hannah’s purple and gold couch.

Picking up the ice cream container, she glanced at the contents. “I’m going to do you a favor, and not let you eat any more of this,” Gina said.