All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  Bran kissed the side of her head. “Let her in.” But he didn’t pull away. He breathed her in again, a tingle spreading across her scalp. “You smell amazing.”

  “I smell like sex. My hair smells like sex.”

  “You should have showered with me.” His voice dropped low, a growly whisper that revealed his own regret about the missed opportunity.

  Nelle realized that they were swaying, inertia growing between them as their bodies pushed closer. Her head went fuzzy, her eyelids weighed down by his gravity.

  “ANTONELLA!”

  Bran stepped back and Nelle blinked.

  Then she was in motion, swinging around the wall dividing the bed area from the door’s short entryway, fingertips dragging across textured wallpaper. Nelle ushered Benj in through the narrowest gap she could and shut the door with a swift click, her hand flat against the surface. Her eyes widened, her heart beating double time at the one ring on otherwise bare fingers. Snatching back her hand, she stretched the sleeve over it and turned to face her best friend.

  Benj, wearing almost the exact same outfit as her, was scanning the room, clocking the robe laid like a bearskin rug by the fireplace, the man’s jacket crumpled next to it, and—Benj stepped forward to peer at the bed—the sheets pulled almost completely off the mattress that said enough.

  Slipping behind her friend, Nelle made for the chairs by the fire. She managed to shove a few decoy rings over her fingers before Benj completed a full-circle turn to find her.

  Eyes glittering with triumph, Benj whispered, “He’s still here.”

  I know, Nelle mouthed. She stooped to collect a condom wrapper and another condom wrapper. Bran had a knack for making contraception appear out of every garment of clothing he owned. She wasn’t complaining, but she couldn’t leave them littering the floor like this for the cleaning staff to find. She bundled them together and thrust them into the empty hot dog bag.

  Holding the bag close to her chest she stopped in front of Benj. “I need you to help me get him out of here without anyone seeing.”

  “You need to tell me what happened in this room last night.”

  “Please, Benj—scope out the hallway, hold the elevator. Text me when it’s clear and I’ll send him out.”

  Benj held up her hand, only her pinky extended. “If I do this, you will tell me every depravity you and Bran Kelly engaged in.”

  Twisting her pinky around Benj’s, Nelle nodded, desperation tightening her throat.

  “Like I lived it.” Benj shook the knot of their fingers and was gone just as Bran came through the bathroom wearing a dark red flannel buttoned to the top and carrying his bag. Pancakes, Nelle thought immediately. They should be eating pancakes and there should be melted butter and sticky syrup. Those blue eyes hit her again and Nelle looked away, collecting the rest of the trash and excavating through her discarded clothing to find her phone.

  Bran hitched up his jeans and sat to fit his feet into the suede oxfords he’d worn the night before. He was head to toe touchable—soft but durable. Nelle sat opposite him, pulling his jacket onto her lap. She smoothed the denim, her hand finding the pocket gap and sliding inside. It was her last chance to read the coaster—but her fingers closed over a pair of sunglasses instead, mangled, she saw, when she brought them out. Wrong pocket.

  He sat back and sighed as she twisted the bent sunglasses back into shape. “I know I was confident last night, but I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to do this now.”

  The phone in her lap buzzed. “That’s Benj. She’s holding the elevator and the hall is empty.”

  “Oh.” He opened his mouth and closed it. “You got me, I guess.”

  She flicked her eyes to the door behind him. The end game. “You should—”

  “Right.” Bran stood, patting his back pockets, gathering his things. He pulled the Sox hat over his hair and accepted the sunglasses, sliding them over those blue eyes, closing himself off. “You fixed them.”

  “They weren’t broken.” She gave him his jacket too, all the final pieces of himself to take on his way. Her hands were empty. And Bran was going.

  “Your car key!”

  Bran paused, his hand on the door’s metal latch. “Keep it. Have your accomplice park my ridiculous ride somewhere near the venue and I’ll pick it up later.”

  “You don’t have to do that—the valet guys won’t remember—”

  His mouth quirked up. “The gorgeous woman in the gorgeous car? Yeah. They will. And—” he shifted his grip on the bag “—I was thinking of coming anyway. I want to see you perform.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I know we can’t...talk while we’re there. But. I’d like to watch—if that’s okay?”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Her phone buzzed again and she held it up for him to see. Bomb, clock, explosion.

  “Time’s up,” he said.

  She nodded.

  And he left.

  * * *

  “Bran Kelly rocked your fucking world.”

  Benj wasn’t wrong. But she needed to keep her voice down. Nelle swiveled in the makeup chair, making sure the door to the hall was closed. Otherwise, anyone walking through the concert’s backstage could overhear them.

  Completing her spin, Nelle covered her yawn with the back of her hand and sank lower in the chair. The bulbs surrounding the mirror were too bright and she careened away from them.

  Benj’s reflection watched her. “How was your nap? Are you going to be able to do this tonight?”

  “Just patch me up and get me out there, Coach.”

  Concealer, highlighter, gloss—Nelle would be fine. Once she got onstage, instinct would kick in. She could already feel it, the energy starting to swell in the arena. Her personal favorite drug.

  Benj produced a small fruit from her bag. “Open an orange.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “First of all, you don’t eat a clementine to feel full any more than you would take a shot of mimosa to get drunk. It barely qualifies as food. Second, I didn’t tell you to eat it. I told you to open it. You wouldn’t believe what an orange signifies—creativity, enthusiasm, success, sexuality, freedom. And the smell reduces stress. Get those essential oils in the air. I’d buy you a spray from Goop, but it’s more cost-effective to get a bag of Cuties from Costco.”

  “Should I return the jade yoni egg I got you for Christmas, and just get you a mini avocado instead?”

  Benj put the orange on the counter next to the open eyeshadow palette. “Bran fucking Kelly,” she muttered, getting to work on Nelle’s tired hair.

  Bran fucking Kelly, indeed.

  Benj froze, her hands on either side of Nelle’s head. “Did he—”

  “No. Not in my hair.”

  “I’ll find out if you’re lying when I try to get a comb through here.”

  “I told you everything that happened.”

  Nelle’s head snapped back as Benj teased the top of her hair. “You told me the bare minimum—and then clammed up, claiming you needed vocal rest.”

  “I’m performing tonight—” Nelle winced as Benj twisted her hair into a voluminous, crown-high ponytail.

  “Oh like that mattered to you when you were shrieking Bran Kelly’s name and deep throating his—”

  A burst of sound signaled the door opening and Benj cut off, her lips flattening.

  One of the event coordinators entered the dressing room. She was blessedly distracted, with an earpiece connected by a wire to a radio chirping on her hip as she reviewed the phone in her hand. “Nelle? We’re doing bonus content for YouTube, can you come sit in the lounge for an interview segment?”

  “Let me check.” Nelle pulled up the group chat that included her publicist and managers, and sent a text. That was the condition of her so
lo trip to Chicago. That she wouldn’t do anything without approval. Nelle touched the point of her wedding band. As long as it stayed a secret, she didn’t have anything to worry about—and that twinge of guilt? It didn’t compare to the flood of warmth she rode seeing the ring on her finger.

  Her phone buzzed with a response from Mina. “Yeah, that’s fine,” she told the coordinator.

  A half hour later, wearing a tight long-sleeved navy shirt under a red-and-navy-checked pinafore, Nelle sat on a black leather sectional holding a microphone in her lap.

  “Just one more minute,” a production assistant assured her, and Nelle smiled.

  “No problem.”

  She recrossed her legs and leaned back. It was hard to make anything out beyond the burning set lights, and she had the distinct feeling that she was on display for the rest of the people in the room who got to exist in shadowy anonymity. She should be used to the feeling, but today it set her on edge, so different from the intimate night she’d spent in the quiet hotel room with Bran.

  Bran.

  Her eyes narrowed at movement between the tripods, a familiar silhouette passing between them. Someone tall, someone who moved with the confidence that eyes would find him. Someone who brought a hand up to mess and smooth his hair in one languid motion.

  And then she was standing, leaving the microphone on the couch.

  “I need some water,” she told the PA, stepping over the cables taped to the floor.

  Her vision dimmed on the other side of the lights but she found the shape of him over by a folding table set with compartmentalized containers of dry vegetables and carafes of too-hot coffee.

  Bran “I got you” Kelly. He looked cool as hell, yet seeing him inspired nothing but heat. Especially that memory of the flames at her back, the spicy tingle his tongue spread through her. He’d found time to brush his hair straight, the one rogue curl curving over his forehead. She grabbed a cup and poured hot water into it to keep her hands occupied. Her phone buzzed in her pocket but she ignored it, reaching into the other one to remove his car key.

  “I don’t know if you remember, but we met at the Note Awards last year.” She put the key down next to a plate of oversized cookies. Her gaze followed his hand as he reclaimed it.

  “Yeah, I remember. Nice to see you again.”

  She scanned a plastic dish filled with tea bags, flicking them back one at a time, like perusing records. “Are you performing tonight? I didn’t know you were in town.”

  “No, just wanted to stop by, see the show.”

  The humor lacing his voice pulled her eyes to his and then to the last bag of organic peppermint tea pinched between his fingers. She took it.

  Their eyes held and she forgot how tea bags worked, submerging the whole paper envelope in her cup. Laughter flickered across his face but he frowned a moment later, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Aya—”

  His manager’s voice was loud enough for Nelle to make out clearly. “Where have you been, Kelly?”

  “Busy.” He raised his eyebrows at Nelle and she fought her blush, making it worse.

  “That’s great. Did you decide about—”

  His voice cooled. “Not yet.”

  “Okay. Well. Then let’s talk about your other financial concerns: like what the fuck is this Cartier charge, Kelly? Another watch?”

  Bran disappeared into the hall and a PA called Nelle to the set. “Nelle, Santino, we’re ready for you.”

  Nelle settled on the couch again, placing her “tea” by her feet. Santino, another established indie-rocker who’d failed to beat her on the countdown last night, sat next to her, his arm over the back of the couch. They ran in the same circles so his smile was easy as he looked her over.

  “What up, Nelle—where you been? I haven’t seen you in a minute.” Santino’s tan skin glowed under the set lights, the powdery residue of concealer under his brown eyes. What looked like a flame tattoo swirled over one of his brows.

  “Studio, European press, photo shoots. A few festivals,” she answered distractedly, her mind snaking out of the room, following Bran Kelly down the arena’s tunneled halls. How was it Nelle still wasn’t satisfied—after the size of her helping last night, how could she still want more Bran Kelly?

  “You coming to LA soon?” Santino let his knee bounce against her leg.

  A man with snowflakes etched into his fade lowered himself on the other side of the couch, his hand out. “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. Chris Kidd, DJ CK.”

  His voice was familiar, even without the megaphone affect he’d used on the radio last night.

  Nelle shifted forward and shook his hand. “You do the nine at nine, right?”

  “I do—did you catch it last night?”

  “Nine at what?” Santino extended his hand to Chris next, closing the inch of space that separated him from Nelle.

  “Nine at nine—‘Under Water’ was number one last night.”

  Chris laughed. “‘Under Water’ is number one every night. That song won’t quit.”

  The PA appeared again, nodding at Chris. He turned on his radio voice and the cameras started rolling. It was a short interview, the DJ asking both of them about their holiday plans, their favorite Christmas songs, who would win in a snowball fight. Nelle didn’t see the last question coming and it brought a hot panic to her face.

  Chris turned to her with a wink. “We hear you’ve been enjoying the local flavors.”

  “What?”

  “Insiders report you had a special delivery to your room last night.”

  That flush of panic turned quickly to simmering frustration. This was exactly what she and Bran had talked about. How nothing, not even the most mundane details of their lives, were off-limits to the press. Nelle forced herself to answer. “The Chicago-style hot dog is a game changer.”

  Chris laughed again and threw to the camera, reminding watchers to subscribe to the J99 channel for more behind the scenes at the Jingle Jam. Nelle was up almost before he finished. In the hall, she lowered her head over her phone as she walked. Her thumbs flashed over the keyboard before she realized that her publicist had texted. Just before she’d sat down. That buzz in her pocket when she’d been talking to Bran. She included a link to the blog article, but the headline was enough. Nelle didn’t bother clicking it.

  Back in the dressing room Benj handed her the orange without a word and Nelle broke through the mottled wax skin with her thumbnail, taking a deep breath of the citrus that filled the air. There was nothing she could do about it. And no one had mentioned Bran. So this was just one more speculation she would endure. Nelle sipped a fresh tea, warmed her voice, and focused on the show. By the time the event coordinator returned for her, the energy of the crowd crackled in her veins like a Geiger counter.

  Being onstage was a radioactive feeling, hot and intoxicating, lighting her up from the inside. Her focus narrowed with every step that brought her closer to it. Her heart pounded to the beat of Santino’s last song as she paced in the wings for her turn. Someone handed her a guitar and she leaned over it, pick between her teeth, to check the tuning.

  When she took the stage, everything else fell away. It was like skydiving—the crowd’s screaming an indistinguishable roar in her ears. Adrenaline sharpened her mind—and for a moment there was a heart-stopping fear of plummeting. She clutched the guitar, strummed the first notes of “Under Water,” and it was like pulling the cord on her parachute. All she had to do now was let herself drift back to earth, enjoying the view.

  With one chorus left, Nelle stopped singing, confident the energized crowd would belt the lyrics back to her.

  “Your turn!” she shouted, stepping away from the microphone stand. The audience surged after her, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Under water, sinking farther, cheeks salt wet, can’t get over it!”

  Nelle whooped, playing th
e last notes even as the cheers drowned them out. She lingered on the stage, not ready to step out of the blaring lights. Her heart pounding, she wanted to keep soaring, keep the rush of wind in her ears.

  “Can I do one more?” she asked into the mic, before the wild feeling left her. She looked to the side for some jam hand to give her the go-ahead. The audience hollered and the event coordinator held up her hand signaling Nelle could have five more minutes. Nelle grinned. “I’m gonna do another.” Her hands were already plucking out the melody, one of the first songs she had ever learned, one she practiced on the long drives to perform on little state fair stages, gazing out the window at Iowa’s green hills.

  “This song’s been stuck in my head since I landed. It’s by a local band. Feel free to sing along if you know it.”

  Of course they did. “Crash” had been Judith From Work’s biggest single.

  Nelle’s backup band caught the beat and the crowd was with her from the first verse. Her eyes shut as she sang.

  “It’s cracking and it’s breaking,

  The ground beneath us shaking,

  I’m giving and you’re taking,

  We’re gonna smash,

  You wanna clash?

  So watch me crash.”

  And then somehow the crowd was screaming louder. A wave of excitement pressed them forward, overflowing in her direction. Only the railings of balconies, the rows of abandoned, temporary chairs barely held them back. Nelle was lost in the music, the way the notes transported her through time, back to her little bedroom, under the glow of fairy lights twisted around her bedframe, this song playing through her earbuds—the memory so strong she could almost hear the original recording over her cover.

  No, she did hear the original.

  Another guitar joined hers, practiced fingers taking over the chords as naturally as hearts beat. Nelle opened her eyes as the smell of Bran Kelly filled the air. He leaned towards the microphone, inches from her face, the raw rasp of his voice loud and clear, but all she heard were the echoes of her name from his mouth, heavy in her ear. Chills rolled through Nelle’s body as he finished the second verse and she launched automatically back into the chorus again, Bran singing with her, their voices tangling as easily as their bodies had last night, fitting together seamlessly.