Nightingale (35 page)

I rubbed my aching head. This was not the end of the world. I wasn’t going to let it be. I looked at Hilary. “What about you? You sing backup. Can’t you cover for her?”

Hilary shook her head. “Backup, not lead vocals. Besides, I think I’m coming down with what Melody has. My throat is sore, and my voice is really raspy, just like hers.”

I ignored the pounding in my head. “All right, this is what we’re going to do. You guys will get on stage and play through the opening round of drinks and dinner. Don’t sing; just play instrumental versions of whatever you want. Just make it upbeat and snappy.”

“What are you doing to do?” Stanley asked.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Chloe’s number. “I’m going to find you a lead singer.”

Chloe picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”
 

“I just parked my car. I should be there in about five minutes.”

“Get here faster,” I said. “We have a major problem.”

#

I let Chloe oversee the food and drinks while I tried to conjure up a lead singer for the remaining members of Miked. People started arriving around seven. Everyone dashed down to the bar, grabbing drinks and oohing and aahing over the ice sculptures.

Piper was one of the first people through the door, Rascal trotting by her side. Despite my crisis, I laughed when I saw the puppy.
 

“A doggie tux!” I bent down to pet him. “Where did you get a doggie tux?”

Piper smiled. “Fiona’s decided to branch out into petwear. She says there’s no excuse for people to dress their dogs in those horrible sweaters now that she’s on the job.”

Rascal barked and turned around, showing off his designer suit. I scratched his ears, and he leaned into me, his fur tickling my bare legs.

“I’d love to stay with you guys, but I have work to do.” I told Piper about my musical crisis.

She nodded. “We’ll catch up later then. Come on, Rascal. Let’s go get some champagne.”

The puppy barked again and followed her.

Wesley Weston made his grand entrance at seven-fifteen. Tonight, he wore a navy blue tuxedo and a crisp white shirt. Diamond cufflinks glittered on the ends of his sleeves, while his chestnut hair gleamed underneath the disco balls. He looked every inch the billionaire he was.

Wesley grabbed some champagne and scanned the crowd, as though he was looking for someone. For a moment, I wondered if it could be me. Then I forced myself to be rational. Wesley wasn’t looking for me. He was probably doing a mental inventory, seeing who had showed up and who hadn’t. Even if he was searching for me, I didn’t have time to say hello. I was too busy trying to avert another crisis. Still, I watched him work the crowd, shaking hands, smiling, and making small talk. His brunette from the library was nowhere to be found. It seemed Wesley was flying solo tonight. That gave me a little bit of hope, even though just about every single woman at the party made it a point to go over and say hello to him.
 

While Bigtime’s elite munched on music-note-shaped canapés, I systematically went through the contacts in my cell phone. I called every single singer, musician, and drummer in the city. Nobody was free. I strong-armed Eddie into bringing me a phone book from the lobby and started going through the yellow pages.
 

Nothing. I came up with nothing. Every single singer in the greater Bigtime area was already booked for tonight. By seven-thirty, I was desperate. By eight, frantic. The lights went down, and Wesley stood up to give his speech about how Gelled was the ultimate lip-care company. I huddled backstage for a conference with Hilary and Stanley. Piper and Rascal were there too.

I checked my watch again. Thirteen minutes, twenty-five seconds left until the band was supposed to start rocking the stage, and I was short one singer. “I couldn’t find anybody. Nobody. I’m sorry. You guys will just have to do your best.”

Stanley and Hilary stared at each other, then Stanley turned to me.

“Why don’t you do it?” he suggested. “We’ve both heard you down at The Blues. You’re good enough to front for Melody this one time, and you know all the songs. All you have to do is one set, just enough to get the crowd rocking. We can take it from there.”

The thought made nervous tingles shoot through my body. It was one thing to sing in The Blues
in front of drunken frat boys and giggling co-eds. It was quite another to rock out in front of the Bigtime society crowd—my clients. I peeked through the curtains lining the stage. Wesley was well into his speech now. I checked my watch again.

Twelve minutes, twenty-nine seconds, and no rock ’n’ roll divas in sight.

“I don’t think you really have a choice,” Stanley said. “Not if you want a singer tonight.”

I looked at him, then Hilary, then Piper. A sigh of acceptance escaped my lips. I pressed a button on my cell phone. “Chloe, can you handle things for the next thirty minutes?”

“Sure,” Chloe’s voice echoed back to me. “Do you need a break?”

“Not exactly.” I closed my eyes. “I’m going to be on stage.”

#

Chloe agreed to take care of any other problems that might pop up. Stanley put a microphone in my trembling hand, while Hilary gave me a quick rundown of the play list, even though I’d already memorized it. Then, the two of them moved off to see to a few other things before we took to the stage. I unzipped my Party Vest.

“Hold this, and don’t let it out of your sight,” I said, shoving the vest at Piper.
 

“You got the mystery flash drive in here?” she whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah. And get the relaxidon ready. I’m going to need it—a lot of it—if this doesn’t go well.”

“Take a breath, Abby,” Piper said. “You’re going to do great.”

Rascal licked my toes in agreement.

Seven minutes and thirteen seconds later, I found myself standing in the middle of the stage. Stanley flanked me on the left, his guitar heavy in his hands. Hilary sat off to my right surrounded by her drum set.
 

Everything came into supersharp focus. The smell of the chicken that had been served for dinner. Stanley’s sandalwood cologne. Hilary’s cherry-scented lip gloss. The faint swirl of air against my cheeks. The knit dress rubbing against my skin. My own frantic heartbeat.
 

“And now, it’s time to get … Miked!” the announcer screamed.

The curtains drew back from the stage, and the crowd went wild. Stanley thumbed out some loud chords. Hilary added a steady beat on her drums. I drew in a deep breath, put the microphone up to my lips, and started to sing.

I sang everything from rock classics to power ballads to a few Miked originals. During the songs, I squinted against the spotlights and looked through the throngs of people, searching for Wesley, but I didn’t see him anywhere. So I focused on my singing, letting the music carry me away. Trying to match my voice, my tone, my rhythm to the chords and harmonies filling my ear.
 

And I found myself getting into it. Throwing my arms out wide. Strutting up and down the stage. Blowing kisses to the crowd. The music turned on something inside me, something that liked the spotlight, that craved the attention.
 

The first set wound down after about twenty minutes. Stanley took the microphone from me and announced that the band was taking a break. The spotlight went off, and the curtains closed. The heady rush of adrenaline wore off, and tremors shook my body. I doubled over and put my hands on my knees, trying not to throw up.
 

“That was great, Abby!” Hilary said, coming out from behind her drums. “Melody couldn’t have done better herself.”

“You did good,” Stanley said. “Real good. You wanna do another set?”

I shook my head. “No. I think that was enough for one night. Can you guys handle it from here?”

The musicians nodded.
 

“Good, because I’m going to get some air.”

I stumbled down the steps and out into the auditorium. My eyes fixed on the door that led to the hidden corridor. I walked toward it, not even acknowledging Piper, Rascal, or the people like Carmen Cole who said hello to me.
 

I went into the corridor and walked about fifty feet down the hallway. I’d just slumped against the cool concrete wall, when steps quickened on the carpet behind me.
 

I looked up, and there he was—Wesley.

Coming right at me.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Wesley stopped about twenty feet away. His eyes traced my face, my shellacked hair, my blue dress, my ridiculous shoes. Then, he said the one word that made my world start to crumble.

“Nightingale?” he whispered.

Terror roared through my body. No. Oh
no
. He couldn’t find out now, not like this. Not when I looked like a sweaty reject from a hair band.

“Nightingale?” he asked again.

I should have protested, should have shook my head as though the name meant nothing to me, but I couldn’t. Not after everything that had happened between us.
 

“Nightingale,” Wesley said, his voice harder and more certain.

I bit my lip, whirled around, and walked away from him.

“Hey! Wait!”

By that time, I’d broken into a full-fledged run. I scampered down the corridor, trying to find someplace to hide, someplace where he wouldn’t find me. I spotted a broom closet out of the corner of my eye. Hands shaking, I twisted the knob, yanked the door open, and closed it, hoping he hadn’t seen me come in here—but he had.

A second later, the door jerked open, and Wesley stepped inside. He scrutinized my makeup and hair. His gaze trailed down my body and over the blue dress. Recognition dawned on his face. “Abby? Abby Appleby?”

“That’s my name,” I said, laughing and trying to make a joke of things.
 

Wesley stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “You’re Nightingale?
My
Nightingale?”

I tried to move past him, but he put his hand on the wall, blocking me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nightingale is your mystery woman. Not me.”

I tried to go around him, but he put his other hand on the wall, trapping me between his arms.
 

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Abby. All this time I’ve been looking for you, searching for you, and you’ve been right under my nose. What was this to you? Some kind of sick game?”

My mouth dropped open. Anger surged through me, and I forgot about denying everything. “A game? No, it was
never
a game to me. I’m the one whose life was turned upside down. I’m the one who found you in that alley and put myself in Bandit’s line of fire. Rest assured, Wesley, Talon, whatever the hell you call yourself, this was definitely
not
a game to me.”

“Then, why did you drug me and leave me here in the center? Why didn’t you come forward?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me who you really were? Especially after you found out I was Talon?”

I mumbled my response.

“What?”

“Because you wouldn’t have cared about me the way you did about Wren, about Nightingale,” I said. “She was this great fantasy you created. This wonderful, gorgeous woman who saved you. Look at me. I’m a mess. I’m always a mess. I just couldn’t live up to that. To your image, your perfect ideal of her. I never can.”

Wesley’s face softened a bit. “But you didn’t even give me a chance.”

I shook my head. “I couldn’t take the risk. If I’d told Talon who I was that first night, would he, would you, have told me your secret identity?”

Wesley didn’t answer me.

“I didn’t think so.”

We stood there, not quite looking at each other. In the silence, my supersenses flared to life. The heat radiating off Wesley’s body warmed me from head to toe. His breath slid along my face. I could even hear the roar of his heart. Its frantic beat matched my own.

“So, now you know,” I said in a tired voice.

“And what about the flash drive? Do you have it?”

I nodded. “I looked at it, trying to figure out what was on it, but I couldn’t get past the encryption. I was going to give it to you tonight.”

“So where is it now?”

“In my vest pocket. Piper has it. I’ll go get it from her.”

“We’re not quite done yet,” Wesley said in a low voice.

The dark, dangerous light in his golden eyes frightened—and excited—me. He leaned forward, his arms still on either side of my body. I stood straight against the wall, trying to keep as much distance as possible between us. I closed my eyes, trying not to relish his wonderful, minty smell.

“I’ve been looking for you for days now, wondering if Bandit had gotten to you first, if he’d killed you. Do you know what that did to me? Do you?”

“You’re a superhero. Your job is to protect innocents.
Chicks
, as you so eloquently call them. You were worried, and you wanted your flash drive back. I get it,” I muttered.

“No, you don’t get it at all.” Fury punctuated every syllable. “Yeah, I’m a superhero. Yeah, I protect innocents. But Nighting—but you were different. We talked. We laughed. We connected. I pretty much bared my soul to you, talking about fairy tales and lightning. Then, there’s the fact that we slept together.”