Say it Louder (29 page)

So much for me getting rid of Kristina. The band’s getting rid of me.

“Is this what you want?” I demand of my bandmates, and again, Jayce and Tyler nod.

Gavin hesitates, turns to Ryan. “We really appreciated you sitting in for recording, and at the Pitt concert.”

She nods, silent and still fidgeting, her face pale and a little scared. I guess my expression is pretty scary right now.

Ravi holds up a hand before I can speak. “Before you say Tattoo Thief doesn’t need two drummers, let me tell you that it’s been great to work with you as your interim manager, but now that we’ve got the album ready and the first sequence of tour dates nailed down, I think it’s time for me to take a step back and focus on producing.”

“You’re quitting?” Tyler asks, alarmed.

“Stepping back. If you’d still like to work together, I’m open to it. Besides, you’ve already got a great manager.” He turns to me. “I think that’s your happy place anyway, Dave. All this bitching and chafing when things aren’t going the way you’d direct—that’s your instinct coming out to manage the band.”

“But they don’t want me.” I jab my finger toward Jayce in particular. “They’d sooner have
Chief
.”

Jayce holds up his hands. “Not true. You were the best manager we’ve ever had, present company included.” He nods to Ravi. “When you weren’t stressing out over all the shit from Kristina, you were actually really fun to work with.”

“We only hired Chief because the job got too big for you to handle
and
be on stage,” Gavin adds. “But if you’d be willing to take over the helm again, and let Ryan step in on drums, there’s no one I’d rather have running the show.”

Tyler’s last to speak. “Maybe the reason you’ve been frustrated with the band is because you’re frustrated with yourself. You keep saying you’re not a good enough musician. We give you shit, but that’s nothing compared to the shit you pile on yourself. Why not get off the drum throne and give yourself a break?”

My mouth hangs open. That grenade? It’s gone, replaced by a staccato beat of my heart. And it only takes a few beats to realize that yes,
hell yes,
this feels right.

Tyler’s smile cements it. “You’re part of the band, no matter what, Dave. If you want to stay onstage, we’ll work with that, maybe get some other guest musicians from time to time. But if you want to do something different, I think this could be good. Real good.”

What I want.
How is it that I’d never considered this before? I’d never looked at what I do—all that I do for this band—and thought, hey, do I like this better than that?

Being in a band, a successful top-of-the-charts band, has been my dream since I was a kid. But when I parse that out, it was never about being the drummer. It was about being part of the success.

Success I made happen. Success I could make even better.

“What do you say, Ryan?” She looks up at me, startled. “You want to rock with this band of assholes?”

Her eyes shine and I see the hunger in them to make music, the same thing I see in my bandmates. “More than anything.”

“Then it’s settled. My first act as manager will be to tell you all to get your asses back to practice.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I show up at Willa’s in a bona fide suit, with the wildest bunch of flowers I could get my hands on.

When she peeks out her door, they have exactly the effect I was hoping for. Shock paints bright spots on her cheeks.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh. Sorry, yes.” She pulls open her door, still hiding behind it a little, so I don’t get the full effect of what she’s wearing until I’m all the way inside. I turn to look at her and
holy wow
.

“You. Look. Amazing.” I’m surprised I can even string three words together, considering how she is transformed. Her hair is in big pink Marilyn Monroe curls, and the dark blue-green dress does things for her cleavage that make my mouth water.

And her legs. Oh my God, her legs are strong and curvy like some pinup bombshell fantasy.

“Don’t get used to it.” She blushes even harder and smooths the dress. “I’m pretty sure this is the only thing I own that doesn’t have paint on it.”

I pull her hand to my mouth to kiss it and notice paint still stuck around the edges of her nails. That makes her even more perfect. “You get that I’m going to spend all night fantasizing about how I’m going to peel this dress off you, right?” I lower my voice and breathe a few more words into her ear. “With. My. Teeth.”

Her shiver is palpable and I fold her into my arms, kiss her hard and then kiss her soft. I kiss her in all the ways I want to make love to her tonight, all the ways I have to show her what she means to me.

When we’re both out of breath and kind of dizzy, she pulls back a little, squeezing my biceps. “Behave. We’re already showing up fashionably late, but if you keep kissing me like that, we’re going to miss the whole damned show.”

***

The crowd is thick in the gallery, but Patricia pounces on Willa the minute she steps in the door. She propels us to the corner of the gallery where there’s a little raised platform, and takes Willa up two steps to a microphone while I stand to the side of the stage.

It feels good, actually. Knowing I helped her get here, even if I’m not sharing the limelight. It reminds me that manager is who I am, what I do best, and what I love best.

Best, after Willa.

“Thanks for joining us for an encore show for Willa,” Patricia says. “We heard from so many of you after her first collection sold out that we were able to do it again. So please join me in welcoming the artist.”
 

There’s strong applause from the crowd, and cheers and hoots from an especially rowdy corner. I recognize them—the whole band and all the girls are here to support Willa’s show.

It feels like a homecoming.

“Unfortunately, I have some bad news,” Patricia continues. “This show sold out in thirty-five minutes. It’s a new record for our gallery, and I apologize to those of you who were unable to purchase your favorite pieces. But I think it’s safe to say we’ll be seeing a lot more from Willa.”

My girl smiles and nods, adding a heartfelt thank you to the crowd. When she steps down from the podium I can’t help it—I catch her and twirl her and kiss her again like nobody’s watching.

Of course,
everybody’s
watching, but for once, Willa doesn’t seem to mind. When we make our way to the rowdy kids in the corner, the band holds champagne flutes and swiftly plants one in each of our hands.

“To Willa!” Gavin toasts and we all clink glasses.

Patricia doesn’t let her stay with us. She captures Willa and steers her through the crowd of buyers and media. I stand back, admiring Willa in a spotlight that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that
she has made her mark.

When the crowd thins and she’s finally allowed to go home, I capture her, steer her to a waiting limo, and give one request: “Just drive.”

We’re quiet in the back seat, our hands twined together as we glide through the city at night. The energy from the opening still buzzes inside us, and Willa is wide-eyed from the utter chaos she just created in the art world.

They never expected her. They never expected to
love
her. And now, tomorrow’s going to be even brighter.

And that’s how it should be.

“You got any cash?” Willa asks.

I pull a wallet out of my suit jacket and hand it to her. “Yeah, plenty. Why?”

“Let’s get pizza.”

We direct the driver to an all-night pizza joint and go in to order. It’s her day, and if my girl wants pizza, I’m not stopping her.

“How many pizzas could you make in, say, the next half hour?” she asks the scruffy guy behind the counter.

“Uh, fifteen?”

“Try harder. Think you can do thirty?” Willa gives him the same
man up
look she gave me when I was drowning in self pity and I almost laugh at his frightened expression.

“I can try,” he says.

“Good, because two bucks tip per pizza says you’re going to try really damn hard.” Willa slaps my cash on the counter and the guy shouts to the back for another dude to come help him.

We wait.

“Um, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I don’t think I can eat thirty pizzas,” I say.

She cocks a brow. “They’re not for us.”

She deflects my prying until we’re each laden with more than a dozen fragrant pizzas. “Follow me.”

I know better than to question her or her rules.
Keep up. Follow her, ask questions later.

She directs the limo to take us back to the railroad bridge where we had our first not-a-date. Then she dismisses the driver for the night.

Pizzas in hand, I follow Willa through the homeless camp, handing out boxes, insisting, “No, really, take the whole thing.”

Willa introduces me to Hal, who let her sleep in his tent the first winter she spent on the streets, a grandmotherly woman named Maggie who fusses over us and calls me handsome a dozen times, and some hard-eyed teens who greet Willa with a an unexpected warmth.
 

“Remember how I told you they’d give out food, but they’d never give street kids art supplies?” Willa asks as we walk from one makeshift shelter to the next.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s change that.”

When our arms are empty, I follow her up the steep steps to the bridge. She takes off her heels and steps carefully on the narrow beam, out to the center above the rushing traffic.

She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.

We both start talking at once, and she laughs.
 

“You first,” I offer.

“You saved me,” she says. “When I thought I’d never be able to deliver for the first show, you believed in me and got me through it. There aren’t enough words in the world to tell you how grateful I am, but there might be enough paint.”

She points, and I look at the warehouses stretching down the block. There’s a mural painted in a strange way, pieces of it on the edges of three buildings.

These pieces wouldn’t make sense to someone looking at them from the street. But from this vantage point—and I realize,
only
from this vantage point—I can read them clearly.

There’s a shape of two fists, knuckles facing me. And on the knuckles, the words
love
and
fear
are written.

I look down at my hands, exactly the same as this mural, then back up to the mural where the words written above the fists take my breath away.

Because I know
love,

I know no
fear.

“Oh, Willa.” I pull her in close, breathing in cinnamon and eucalyptus and just
her.
This strong and complicated and fierce woman who fought for me. And I fought for her.

I swallow hard and finally let go of her enough to cup her chin and tip up her face so I can see the clear blue in her eyes. “You say it louder in paint, but I’ve got to say it in words. I love you.”

Her breath hitches, but when she smiles, when she says those three words back, it’s like my own personal drum line is beating its way down the street in celebration.

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