All the Best Nights
Hanna Earnest
This one’s for me.
Contents
Group Chat
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Group Chat
Group Chat
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Group Chat
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Transcript of Tonight with Tony
Chapter Twenty-Four
Group Chat
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Group Chat
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Group Chat
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Photo Caption
Chapter Thirty-One
Group Chat
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Lush Money by Angelina M. Lopez
N
Wed, Mar 21, 6:03 pm
LA?
NYC : (
Sun, Jul 22, 3:47 pm
London (praying hands emoji)
Mexico City
(Taco beer guitar)
Today 1:13 pm
Chicago?
Chicago.
Chapter One
The drumming was louder now. Three even beats tapped out by two candy-shell nails on the bar, punctuated by a one-count pause held just long enough to infuse the silence with her displeasure before the rhythm repeated.
Meeting Nelle tonight had been a mistake. A year had passed since the magic moment she’d slipped her number into Bran’s pocket at the Cleffy after-party, her breath raising the hairs on his neck as she whispered into his ear, “You’re it.” That last image of her stood out in his memory like the bas-relief of her raised and defined shoulder blades in the open-back dress she’d worn as she walked away from him. He’d been dazzled—there was no other way to describe it—dazed by her radiance. Charmed by her audacity to go after what she wanted, her confidence to approach him even as the requisite supermodel held tight to his arm.
And he’d been an idiot to assume he could recapture that spark. He wasn’t the same person he’d been a year ago. He’d cracked and broken since then. And Nelle had changed too. That night she had been green, nominated for best new artist, and now, based on the supercharged buzz surrounding her second album, her star had risen. Nothing could touch her. Whatever might have fizzed between them that night had gone flat now. Maybe it had never really been there. Maybe he’d just been surprised, lured in by all that gold-tinged skin, by a bold display he hadn’t expected from a media darling with a good-girl image like Nelle’s.
Tonight he could barely focus on her. The sun had been in his eyes the whole drive into the city, glinting off the skyline as it set at his back, angry and red. He’d spent the day squinting against excess light. Everything had been too bright—the glare off the topcoat of snow covering a field of graves blinding him worse than any stage lights he’d encountered. He’d had no relief from it, his sunglasses broken and twisted in his jacket pocket. A jacket that was woefully thin against Chicago’s December chill.
All that sun and no warmth.
It was a good thing he was so numb.
One, two, three, Nelle drummed again.
Bran filled the gap, setting his empty pint glass on the polished wood, the dull thud familiar, a bass note of a chord he’d heard before. They were sat on either side of a rounded corner, an arrangement that afforded room for intimacy had they been angled towards each other, but instead seemed to accentuate their opposition in the moment. They sat as disinterested strangers, each facing the man in rolled shirtsleeves busy behind the bar.
Bran leaned his elbows on the curved countertop and motioned for the bartender, not missing the man’s sharp glance at the untouched cocktail in front of the woman next to him. Their server had definitely recognized her, based on the reverence with which he had placed her drink down, a two-handed approach complete with a respectfully low head bow. Nelle’s face and voice had been everywhere for the last two years and even in the bar’s dim light she was recognizable: amber eyes like scotch on ice under thick dark lashes and thick dark brows set in a heart-shaped face. And that hair—trademark black waves fell over her shoulders as she sat straight in the low-backed bar stool.
“Another Two Hearted,” Bran said. The barkeep stalled, waiting for Nelle’s reaction. Bran’s own fame was apparently of little consequence to the waiter. Sure, his band, Judith From Work, had broken up. But Bran had been on the scene for years before Nelle. And he’d just come off his first solo tour, which had been deemed a critical and commercial success—if not as lucrative as his label had wanted because he’d played smaller venues. And what about hometown advantage? Shouldn’t that tip the scales in his favor?
But the barkeep only had eyes for Nelle. She noticed the delay and set the man into motion with a smile. “And can we have some French fries, please, when you have a second?” she added with an aggressive pleasantry that made Bran’s molars ache.
“French fries?”
“Did you want a burger?” Nelle’s voice, while high in tone, had a steely weight, like it was anchored deep inside of her. Tonight it held an unmistakable edge. The clear metallic scrape of a knife against the sharpening stone.
Bran shifted in his chair. “This is a Michelin-starred restaurant. We don’t need to eat at the bar—I can get us a table.”
“So can I.” Her cheerful yellow fingertips took up their rhythm on the counter again. “I don’t think we’ll be here long enough.”
He didn’t doubt that assertion. There wasn’t anything here for either of them, it seemed. And the longer they stayed, the more likely it was someone would notice and think the encounter more than it was.
Across the restaurant a light flashed and Bran and Nelle both swung instinctively towards it to determine the source. But the flare was just a candle flame momentarily enhanced by the curved water jug of a passing waiter.
Bran exhaled slowly. “Because we won’t be able to get through a meal before the paps catch us?”
Nelle curved her hand protectively around the stem of her coupe glass, a lemon peel on a metal spear resting across the rim. “Because this isn’t going how I thought it would.”
Honesty saturated her voice. Genuine emotion that carried through her music, unfiltered even in recordings. And in person it just about devastated him. He’d wanted something else from this too, but he wasn’t going to say it. And it wasn’t her fault: he shouldn’t have agreed to see her. Not today.
Bran rubbed his eyes and looked down, landing on the brimming drink in front of Nelle. She lifted the shallow bowl and Bran followed it up to her mouth as she sipped the cloudy liquid and back down, replaced soundlessly on the bar. His gaze idled on the red smudge of her lips imprinted on the glass.
Okay, so that was one reason he’d g
one against his better judgment and come tonight. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that mouth for months. Every time he heard her voice on the radio or caught a glimpse of her on some magazine cover, he’d obsess about the full-lipped curve of that smile she’d given him when the heat of her skin radiated through the lining of his pocket.
She wasn’t smiling now, pulling her hands into her lap and twisting one of a half dozen rings she wore staggered above and below her knuckles like notes on sheet music. The obsidian stone disappeared once, twice, before she released it, squared her shoulders, and tried valiantly to engage him in conversation again. “Don’t worry about photos.”
“You don’t mind?” His head tilted to the side as he considered the statement. Maybe she liked it—the attention. She was good at getting it.
“Of course I mind. But they don’t know we’re here. They won’t bother us.”
“They won’t?”
“It isn’t like that here. It’s the Midwest. It’s home. It’s safe.”
Home? Not really. Not anymore.
“It’s like that everywhere for us. Don’t tell me you’re that naïve.”
Nelle lifted her glass again. “I’m not. Andre and I have an arrangement.”
“Who’s Andre?”
Nelle motioned to the barkeep and the garnish slid into her drink with a soft clink.
“You paid him?”
“We took a photo together.”
Bran laughed, the sound as hollowed out as he felt. “Oh, that’ll stop him. I thought you said you weren’t naïve.”
A glare narrowed her eyes. “I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with trusting people to help you.”
She waited a beat for him to respond, giving him the chance to show some willingness, some effort on his part to salvage the conversation. But he was done here. It wasn’t enough to risk the blog fodder that would be twisted out of pictures of them having dinner together.
When he didn’t say anything, her lips pressed together. She’d reached her limit too. He was surprised she’d let it get this far. Nelle didn’t need to sit here. She was like him. She had options, anywhere she went. Better for her to use them. And he’d have the next drink alone. Take a nap in the car. Forget the company he’d hired to ship it back to California, he’d drive it himself. The album he’d promised his label by the New Year hadn’t materialized. New music just wasn’t coming to him. A spontaneous road trip wouldn’t put the album any further off course. Maybe he’d even be inspired. Maybe he’d find what he was looking for rolling across the great American plains. Or maybe the blazing desert sun would leave him as dry and shriveled as his current creative vision.
Nelle uncrossed her legs and inched to the front of her seat. “I really thought you’d be different.”
“Yeah?” He spun his own stool to get his knees out of her way, make it easier for her to go.
“But you’re just a talented dickhead.”
A lot of things had been said about Bran Kelly. He’d worked his way into the spotlight by nineteen, becoming the lead singer of a world-renowned band, so people who’d been inclined to comment had had seven years to come up with some shit. But no one had ever called him a talented dickhead.
And Nelle wasn’t stopping there. “If you just wanted to have a drink, flirt a little, go back to my hotel, no pressure—we could have done that. Instead you show up late in that ridiculous car, slam a beer, and call me naïve? At the very least I expected some originality from Bran Kelly—but I’ve heard this one. A couple versions, actually. And I don’t care for a repeat.”
She stretched one black ankle boot to the ground while reaching for the big leather bag hanging from a hook under the bar. Behind her, large windows framed the dark city street, his car parked across it next to an empty lot. It unnerved him that she’d seen him arrive, like a perspective in the wrong direction, a Nighthawk looking out, studying him. Headlights from a passing car cut across the room, outlining her edges in a burst of backlighting. Bran’s eyes widened, taking in her flared leather miniskirt and tight black turtleneck sweater. A silhouette of black on black. Even her thick hair, loose and cascading down her back, shone with the ebony gloss of night.
Bran had wanted the day to be over and suddenly it was—of course partial credit could be given to how quickly the sun set in December, how early, but for a moment it seemed like Nelle conjured the darkness that appealed to his tired eyes. And she alone was defined in it, by it, fierce and powerful—a goddess whose blessing he craved.
And he felt it—saw again that brazen determination that had mesmerized him a year ago. A shiver rocked his shoulders as the door at his back opened, letting in a gust of winter air. He was awake. He was wired—charged by her tractor-beam stare. The words pulled up from deep inside him, the rush of creation pricking across his skin.
She turned midnight.
A lyric flashed in his mind.
He needed her to stay. He needed her to do that again. Another flash, another spark leaping from her to him, like static electricity jumpstarting his process.
Bran blinked. Then he was on his feet, filling the cramped space between their stools before she could.
“Wait—wait—” Bran shook his hair and settled it back into place in one involuntary movement. He scrambled to remember the reasons she was going. “I’ve had a long day. I’m sorry. I’ll nurse the next beer.”
For the first time since landing in the seat next to her he locked his eyes on hers for more than a fleeting glance. They glowed like sun caught in honey and he felt just as stuck.
“I didn’t mean to be late. I was speeding. You gotta know I was—who goes the speed limit in a Ferrari, right?”
Her eyes sizzled with annoyance and he remembered her calling the car ridiculous.
Bran was so used to being the force in a room, the sun around which everyone seemed to gravitate. Normally it was his electric-blue eyes that shocked people into stunned silence. He was off balance when he was with Nelle, when it was his body that spun towards hers, his lungs that struggled under her gaze. Whatever he had that drew people in, she had it too. Only hers was fresher. Not yet faded. And it pulled something to the surface in him—something he recognized, something he’d lost.
Queen of light.
Another lyric. Another ray of hope breaking through his blocked mind. The hazy shape of a song formed in his periphery.
He had to make her stay.
Skewered by her gaze, Bran prepared another admission, willing to humble himself to any level, if she’d just sit back down. “Admittedly, yes, the car is a little over the top. It’s the first big thing I bought.” She had to understand. “You must have done something with your signing bonus?”
“I paid my parents’ mortgage.”
Maybe not.
He couldn’t keep the desperation out of his final plea. “Please stay.”
Half standing, she deliberated silently for a long, torturous minute while Bran held his breath. Finally, when his lungs had begun to ache, she settled herself back in her seat. And as relieved as he was, he had no idea why. Maybe she was curious about what had changed his attitude? Maybe she just wanted to finish her drink. It didn’t matter. He had a second chance to focus on her. To catch any flashes of her brashness and hope for another burst of inspiration.
She crossed her legs and leaned as far back from him as she could. “I’m not sleeping with you now.”
Bran let out a shaky laugh. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
As Nelle gulped the last of her cocktail, lips puckering, it dawned on him that was all she’d been interested in. This could have been easy. Both of them intent on quick access to passion—if only he hadn’t been so distracted, so stupid. That ship had sailed. But she was still here, the sour twist easing from her mouth. He could settle for a little conversation and a little hope.
He picked up
the beer Andre had delivered to take a restorative gulp and caught Nelle’s watchful glance. He sipped instead, to prove he could behave. The beer was cold and bitter and he held it in his mouth as she leaned forward. She took the pint from his hand, her eyes locking on his as she swigged it back, leaving him his own print of her lips on the rim as she set it down. Bran swallowed. A hidden sweetness coated his tongue. How had he not been paying his full attention to this girl?
“I’m not sleeping with you either,” he told her when he recovered himself.
Unmistakable interest lit her face. “Because you’ve rekindled things with Francesca.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Have I?”
“You haven’t heard? They’re saying it was backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show.”
“That’s news to me. I haven’t been in New York since October.”
“News is a strong word for it. Same source reported my butt implants.” She angled her hips to give him a glance at her backside. “Nice, right?”
And he’d been fixated on her mouth. The things he could do to an ass like that. He swallowed again. “Very natural.”
“Well. It is. So.” Her gilded lids glittered as she shifted her attention to the barkeep, thanking him with a smile for removing her empty glass. She stretched, the sweater pulling tight over her breasts, her sleek hair dancing over the crescent arch of her spine. Curves and shadows. This was the performer in her, aware of his attentiveness, feeding off her audience.
“I’m not with Francesca anymore. I’m not with anyone.” He put his arm on the low back of her chair, thumbing the nailhead trim that lined the edge.
“But you’re not sleeping with me?”
“I’m considering celibacy.”
She bent towards him. “Bran Kelly. Celibate. This is a line, right? You tell a girl you’re withholding your dick from the world to make her want you more? The rock-star thing not working for you anymore?”
It wasn’t a line. But a solution he’d entertained earlier—when he wasn’t close enough to smell the Chanel at her neck. When it felt like his only option was something drastic he’d never have considered before.
All the Best Nights Page 1