Say it Louder (22 page)

I zip up my bag, drag it downstairs, and check how much time is left before I’ll need to call for a ride—two hours, enough for a quick nap—and Kristina stirs again.

“I loved you, you know.” With sleep-creased eyes and reddened cheeks, she looks innocent for a moment. “Everything I did, even collecting the secrets. It was all for us. To help you manage the band.”

I snort. “Nothing that you’ve done was for me. Don’t lie to yourself or to me about that. You’re only out to protect
you
. And now you’ve crawled in here because … why? Because something didn’t go right at your party tonight?” I snatch her keys from the counter to ensure I get back her key to my house.

“I came to say I’m sorry!” She’s crying and this time I’m pretty sure it’s real tears, not just the shit she pulls when she wants something. “I saw you with that street trash and I—”

I barely contain my instinct to smack that epithet from her lips. Instead, I channel all of my hate into my words. “Don’t you
dare
. You are so low, you have no right to speak about a woman who is good and strong and nothing like you. I
love
her, and I’ll be damned if you talk shit about her in my house.”

Kristina looks almost as shocked by my outburst as I feel.
I love her.
The truth of that came so fast it bypassed my brain entirely. Words from my heart just gurgling right out of my stupid mouth.

And I hate that the first person to hear I love Willa
isn’t Willa.

“You don’t love her.” Kristina hiccups again and her voice is very small. “You can’t.”

“I can and I do. And I hate you.” I shove her shit into her purse while she squeals in protest. “Get the fuck out. I never want to see you again.”

I yank open my front door and toss her purse down the stairs where it falls open, scattering the contents on the sidewalk and into the gutter.

She shrieks and runs after it—exactly the reaction I’d hoped for—and I slam and lock my door behind her.

Silence. For a few minutes there is calm.

And then she’s back, pounding on my door for a damn long time, screeching obscenities like a banshee. I pat my pocket and I’m thankful that I still have her keys so she can’t get back inside.

“You can’t do this! Give me my keys!”

“Fuck you! Call the super. Or go crawl back in a sewer,” I shout, but that only makes her madder. She keeps throwing threats and curses at my locked door, kicking it with the toe of her ridiculously pointy shoe. But her threats fade when I walk up the stairs, shut my bedroom door, and collapse on my mattress, fully clothed.

***

My phone’s angry ringing wakes me and I roll over, groaning and fumbling in my back pocket.

“Whuh?” I’m not at my most coherent when I’m running on less than two hours’ sleep.

“Just wanted to make sure you got up OK.” Willa’s warm sleepy voice is like balm through the phone, soothing my muscles that ache from sleeping all wrong.

“You’re checking up on me.” I stand, rub my eyes, and run my hands through my hair. Presto, I’m dressed. I’ll shower in Pitt. Anybody who complains about my funk on the band bus can fuck off.

“I just finished my last canvas. Going to sleep a little until the dealer shows up.”

“Thanks for waking me. I kind of forgot to set my alarm,” I confess.
 

“You? Mr. I-got-this Manager?” She’s mocking me and I hear the smile in her voice.

“It was kind of a rough night.” I don’t want to go into it all right now, especially since I have exactly thirty minutes to get my ass to the bus.

“Have a good trip,” she says, and her soft, throaty words stroke me like a hand down my chest, heavy with desire. I want to race back over to her place and kiss her, thank her, do
something
to show her how I really feel.
 

“Willa, I wanted to say—” I want to say it, but I can’t. Not on the phone. I clear my throat. “Uh, I’m late. I’d better go. But thank you for the wake-up call. It was seriously the best ever.”

***

It’s bad enough when you’re running on almost no sleep and grouchy as shit. It’s worse when Gavin starts some demented “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” jam session.

Asshole.

Talented asshole, but still.

I do my best to ignore everyone behind sunglasses and headphones that mask most of their noise. I pretend I’m sleeping but I catch scraps of conversation and pick up the fact that Ravi’s organized a pretty heavy media tour for us tomorrow before the next day’s concert.

When Tyler pokes me awake to join the band for lunch at a diner, I pick a seat as far from Ravi as humanly possible. But after we order, he picks up his chair and brings it all the way around the table until it’s squarely next to me.

I give him a death glare, but in my punch-drunk tired state, it probably just reads
grumpy.

“I thought we could have a little chat about how the next couple of days are going to go,” Ravi starts, and he’s pleasant enough. It would be easier for me if he were a dick about it.
 

Then I could repay like with like.

“We’re going to split up for the interviews, you with Gavin and Tyler with Jayce,” he says. “Radio interviews feel more natural with a smaller group, and it lets us hit six stations without as much logistics hassle.”

I nod. That’s the right call, and I’ve made that same call before, back when we were getting big in Pittsburgh. You throw four guys around a microphone and it’s chaos for a listener.

“I’ll go with Jayce and Tyler. You can manage the interviews with Gavin on your own.”

“Done it before,” I say, and my tone holds a note of warning.

“I know. That’s why I’m trusting you to handle it.” He takes a sip of his energy drink, then leans in and lowers his voice. “I’m not the bad guy here, Dave. And I think you know it. I’m just doing what needs to be done to keep you guys moving forward.”

“We’re a
band
. Not a car with interchangeable parts.”
 

Ravi stills, his eyes narrowed from behind thick glasses. “Then go out there Saturday and
show me.
Show us all what you’ve got, lay it all out there, and we’ll talk when the show’s over.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When I walk in the door, the first words out of the relentlessly polished gallery receptionist’s mouth are “Sorry, there’s no public restrooms here.”

Even though I’ve had a nap and a shower since the gallery picked up my work this morning, I double-check for paint streaks on my shirt. “I don’t need to … I mean, I’m here for the opening.”

“That’s not until Sunday.” She frowns and eyes me head to toe, my yellowed jeans thoroughly out of place in the tony Upper East Side. “And it’s strictly invitation-only.”

I swallow and dig for the strength to be seen as something more than a homeless street kid. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “I’m the artist.”

Her mouth forms a little O and she looks down at the papers on her desk. “You’re … VIIIM?”

I nod, enjoying the fact that she’s squirming. “Willa, actually. That’s my tag.” I point to the glossy catalog brochures on her desk, freshly printed and ready for the opening.

“Just a moment. I’ll call Ms. Alton.” She picks up her phone and dials while I peer over her shoulder to see the progress behind her. Two men are working on different sides of the gallery, one measuring with a laser level and the other fixing a hanger to the back of a frame.

I hear Patricia’s clacking heels before I see her. She looks even thinner than before, as if she could turn sideways and disappear.

“Willa,” she coos, clasping my elbow as she air-kisses each cheek. “Are you ready for your big debut? We’ve already got a lot of good buzz.”

“I’m ready,” I say, and mean it. My confidence is back and I’m not going to let some receptionist’s assumptions undermine it.

Patricia leads me around the gallery, pointing to various pieces, explaining how she’s grouped them for maximum impact.

“Here’s our centerpiece,” she says, her arm sweeping to a big freestanding wall in the center rear of the gallery space. The abstract New York skyline was one of my most challenging stencils, requiring zillions of little squares strung on fishing line to knock out panes of glowing yellow from within darkened buildings.

“I have to say I didn’t expect this from you,” she goes on, even though I’m hardly giving her my attention. My breath is fluttery and my stomach light like I’m in free-fall. It’s one thing to see these canvases propped up against the dingy walls of my loft, quite another to experience their impact against the pure white gallery displays.

She pauses, and I try to recall the last thing she said. “You didn’t expect what?”

“This depth. The canvases I looked at in your apartment were flatter. More primitive. But what you submitted has a more sophisticated palette. More mood and grit.”

I give her a wry smile, thinking of how much grit it took to power through creating these pieces all over again. Of course they’re not facsimiles of the originals. I’m a different person than the girl who made them.

Somehow, since Dave, I have a different way of seeing and being seen.

Patricia gives me a rundown of how the show will go and what she expects of me when interacting with prospective buyers. I try my best to listen and store it in my brain, but a bigger part of me wonders how I’ll get through it all.

I told Dave I needed him beside me to navigate the crowds and critics. I know he’ll jump in to help, in full manager mode, if I get stuck.

But there was another piece I couldn’t voice to Dave. This is the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I want someone to share it with. For once, I don’t want to do it all on my own.
 

“Are you bringing anyone to the show with you?”

“My, uh, friend. Dave Campbell.” I hate that I can’t call him anything else. But racing back from Pittsburgh to be by my side is proof that he’s more than just a friend with benefits, right?

Patricia gives me a surprised look, so I clarify. “The guy who helped me with the contracts?”

“Is he … Dave Campbell, the rock star?” Her brows lift even though her forehead remains immobile. “Oh, that’s very, very good. You didn’t introduce me properly the first time, you know. And I hate to be surprised.”

I swallow back a snippy comment to answer her chiding.

“We’ll have media here of course, so they’d like to do a sit-down with you beforehand. We’ll have Dave sit in too.”

I balk, unsure of whether Dave’s willing, but I nod my assent because I can’t think of any reason why not.

Patricia steers me around the rest of the gallery, chattering about what’s going where, what to wear, and a dozen other details that escape me. One thing I know is that absolutely nothing in my strictly jeans-and-T-shirt wardrobe is going to work.

***

When I finally escape to the sidewalk, my mind is spinning and I point my feet toward home to save a subway fare. It’s a long-ass walk on a hot day and after a dozen blocks a little sign stops me in my tracks.

VINTAGE AND RESALE.

I glance in the window and don’t see anyone inside, but I push open the door and immediately bask in the cold blast of AC coming from a vent overhead.

“Can I help you?”

The girl is sweet and chipper, no doubt an Upper East Sider from her perfect teeth. She wears a 1940s throwback housedress with a cute little cardigan, a slash of bright red lipstick, and patent leather heels.

Head-to-toe retro chic. But unlike the gallery receptionist, she’s not looking at me like I don’t belong here.

Still, I’m not much of a shopper. “Just looking around,” I mumble, and turn toward the nearest rack.

Menswear. Dammit.

Retro Girl comes from behind the old glass-and-oak case that serves as a cash wrap. “I’d love to help you find something. Things are a little disorganized in here, but I’m working on it. This is my grandmother’s shop. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

Her red and white smile is so disarming that I blurt, “I need a dress.”

She laughs. “That’s a good start. Not this rack then.” She steers me toward the other side of the store. “Something simple for everyday, or something for a special occasion?”

She flicks through dresses on the rack that span the decades from the ’30s to the ’60s.

“Wow. You have really good stuff. I’m dressing up, actually. But I don’t have a lot to spend.” I confess that last bit quickly, worried that it will shut down Retro Girl’s sunshiny personality pretty quick.

“I can handle that.” She holds out a hand with another bright smile. “I’m Ryan.”

“Willa.”

Ryan grabs a tape measure from behind the counter and tells me to lift my arms so she can take my measurements. I’ve never done this before and I’m afraid my truckload of awkward shows.

But she sets me at ease with breezy chatter, asking about my event while she measures. The details pour out of me—not just the opening, but how worried I am that my debut will fall flat.

“Then let’s make your dress as unforgettable as your artwork. How about you go to the fitting room and I’ll bring you some options?”

I try on several dresses, each one flattering and desperately expensive. I check the tags and give her a feeble excuse as to why each one isn’t quite right. I’m about to make excuses about being out of time when she hands one more through the fitting-room curtain.