All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  “Cormac outfitted this kitchen?”

  Curiosity coated her question. It reminded him of how she’d prowled through his closet the day before. She was digging into his life, but Cormac seemed like a safer topic than how often someone tried to trick him into using a sabotaged prophylactic. “He’s into food. Trying to get a restaurant up and running. He’ll just about fall over to open that fridge and see vegetables.”

  “And he’ll see them? Because he comes here? I mean, he was here yesterday.”

  “You thought we weren’t friends anymore? Because of what some magazine reported?” A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed her reddening face.

  “The band broke up.”

  “The family didn’t.”

  “Bran Kelly, I’m not even chopping onions and that brought a tear to my eye.”

  The dishes clean and lined up to dry on the towel, Bran turned to watch her chopping peppers into dippable spears.

  “So you’re pretty domestic, huh?”

  “I made eggs.”

  “And you’re chopping stuff.”

  “For store-bought hummus.”

  He bracketed her body with his arms, standing behind her. “Crudités,” he whispered across her skin, smiling as she tensed against him.

  He liked crowding her, he liked that she let him take up all the space around her. He was so used to people coming on to him, forcing him to retreat. He liked being in control of the advance.

  “You keep all your relationships out of the press?” she asked.

  “The ones that matter.”

  “Someone could easily take a picture of their cars coming in and out of here.”

  “No one bothers because it’s a better story that there’s a rift between us.”

  “So what really happened?”

  “They wanted to do other things.”

  “And you?”

  “There’s nothing else for me. Music is it.” He rested his chin on her shoulder. “I forced them into it anyway. And they went with it because I refused to spend my time any other way.” He paused. The memories were thick as the shag carpet in his gran’s basement where they practiced. “We weren’t even that good, you know? We just had chemistry. Arlo’s always had soul, direction. He’s the quiet one, the steady one—which is the perfect disposition for a bassist. And Cormac. He could bang the hell out of those drums when he got riled up—which was always back then.”

  She stopped chopping and they swayed together to some silent song. “And then?”

  “We got better. We picked up steam. Then we exploded. After a few years they were done. Arlo always wanted to go to school. He can afford as much institutional learning as he wants now. And I think that rage in Cormac burned out, or leveled off anyway.”

  “They didn’t need it like you did.” She turned in his arms to look him in the eye.

  That goddamn understanding in her words, the feeling of being known, had his mouth crashing into hers. She opened up to him, threading her fingers into his hair, tugging at the back of his neck. He could smell raw peppers on her skin. Bran groaned and crushed her into the counter with his hips. Then, thinking better of it, he lifted her onto the cement ledge.

  He’d had breakfast, he’d cleaned up, now he was going to devour her. Here in his kitchen.

  They didn’t hear the front door open. Nor the click of stilettos on Bran’s polished floor. They did hear the cough, professional and cutting. Bran broke away from Nelle to see Aya, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cellphone that might as well be glued there. A silk blouse was tucked smartly into her wide black pants, and her kicked-out hip meant business.

  “What’s up?” he asked. Of course she hadn’t knocked. She had a key, she ran his life. From Aya there were no secrets. Except Nelle’s.

  “Wellness check.” Aya’s sharp gaze shifted between the back of Nelle’s head and his face. “Cormac said you were acting squirrelly. You haven’t answered your phone in a day. And your card showed a Postmates charge at 7 a.m.”

  “So?”

  Nelle slipped off the counter, which only brought her closer to him as he refused to pull back farther.

  “So a 7 a.m. alcohol delivery concerns me.”

  “It was groceries.”

  “What are you going to do with groceries?”

  “Not me.” Bran nudged Nelle’s side so she’d turn around. “Aya, Nelle, Nelle, Aya.”

  This wasn’t an introduction he had planned to make, but there was no getting around it. Maybe they’d get along—the two women that kept his world and his head spinning.

  Nelle lifted a palm to wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  Aya narrowed her eyes at Bran. “Can I talk to you in the hall for a second.”

  It wasn’t a question. And now when Nelle tensed, it wasn’t because of him.

  Bran sighed. So much for that kitchen fantasy—Aya’s presence meant one thing: it was time to get real.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When she’d arrived yesterday, Nelle hadn’t had time to think about it, but that morning when she’d slipped out of bed to explore, her first thought was that Bran’s house was a lot like Bran. Hard to get to. Remote. But the curb appeal, chef’s kiss. Modern, confident, long and sturdy with great lines. It was purposefully separate. It had levels. Out front, a garage sloped down on one side, a set of steps rose up on the other. And inside: a house divided, compartmentalized. The first floor had two big rooms: a den and an open kitchen with a dining area. Upstairs was dominated by his large master. At the top of the stairs from the den was an open space dedicated to music, as indicated by the guitars on one wall, and the gallery of awards on the other.

  In the rest of the rooms, Bran’s décor moved away from music. Over and over she encountered paintings of water and sky, waves and clouds. She’d expected at least one framed Springsteen poster but all she found were horizons stretching blue across wide oceans and lakes.

  On the front wall, all the windows started above her head, letting in light while revealing nothing of the inside. But upstairs, in the back of the house, glass walls opened to a yard with a manicured patio surrounding a pool. The area was wrapped in a tall planked fence, edged with trees. A little hidden Eden. Open and surprising.

  The size of the house also surprised her. It was small. So small that when Bran and Aya moved into the den, she could still hear them from the kitchen.

  She considered going upstairs. At the very least, she could outfit herself with some pants as they weren’t alone in the house anymore. Instead she perched on the last stool at the island, closest to the hall, tugging Bran’s shirt to her knees.

  Nelle was going to listen, because they were going to talk about her.

  Aya spoke first, her voice low and powerful like undertow. “This is the holdup? You can’t afford to be distracted right now.”

  “I can afford plenty—”

  “She better be here to inspire you—and I mean inspire more than your dick. Because you promised the studio a big album. Fast. And you haven’t delivered. They were going to fast-track a stadium tour. Now you’re going to have to wait until next summer.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s a long time before you bring in any money.”

  “I have an extensive back catalog.”

  Aya sighed and Nelle got the feeling they’d had this argument before. She hugged her torso. They’d stopped talking about her, which lessened her claim to the conversation. Still, she stayed put.

  “Which your fans already have. To reach new audiences you need to be making appearances.” Aya shifted her approach, her tone becoming gentler, more persuasive than forceful. “Like the Jingle Jam. That was good for business.”

  Nelle sat straighter. Now they were getting to it, and she shouldn’t have been surprised that Bran’s people—person—had the same reaction as
her own. Almost a year ago, with the rush of approaching Bran glowing hot on her cheeks, Max had tracked her steps back to their table at the Cleffy after-party. “We can make that work,” he’d said. “It would sell.” Like that was the reason for any decision she made. Like there was nothing worth keeping to herself.

  Would Bran be drawn out? Under Aya’s coaxing? She held her breath waiting for his response.

  “I told you to forget about that.”

  “Bran—”

  A cloud moved over the sun, the house growing as dark as Bran’s voice. “It doesn’t exist outside this house. I’m handling it.”

  “You don’t handle anything. That’s why you pay me three salaries.”

  “Nelle isn’t business.”

  Nelle could almost feel the house shudder as Bran dug his heels in. Her body did shudder, a deep shiver that rocked her shoulders. Goose bumps rose on her arms when he spoke her name with such vehemence. Protecting what they had. Bran got it. They’d written the rules together—she let her guard down, her shoulders relaxing, knowing she could trust him.

  Aya huffed out another exasperated breath. “I need something from you, Bran. I need you on red carpets, doing interviews—performing anywhere.”

  “They’re gonna ask me about new music.”

  “And you’ll tell them it is coming.”

  “I’ll be at the Note Awards. I won’t skip the carpet.”

  “That’s a given. I need more.”

  Nelle imagined the single nod, the half shrug he offered Aya as he said, “Fine. Book some stuff.”

  “Interviews? Festivals?” Aya asked.

  “Whatever,” Bran agreed. “And you forget what you saw in the kitchen.”

  “Done.”

  How many conversations had Nelle had with her team like this? None. She was never obstinate. They were professionals she hired to help her. They were on her side. She trusted them to consider what was right for her. And they did. The only time she’d pushed was to get that time off for Christmas before tour prep. And because they knew she didn’t ask for much, and she made clear she wouldn’t compromise on it, they’d all tried to make it work.

  She expected some of the tension between Aya and Bran to recede after they came to an agreement, but a silence stretched taut as a wire.

  No, not a silence. Aya was whispering.

  Nelle climbed off the stool, wincing as it scraped against the floor. She all but tiptoed to the kitchen doorway and hid behind the wall.

  “He wants money.”

  Bran swore. He’d be roughing his hair and settling it back. “I need more time.”

  “You need to make a decision. He’s getting impatient. Or, just let me pay a little now and we’ll buy you more time.”

  He sounded pained when he replied. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  The sun streamed back in through the windows, glancing off the polished floor, bathing the kitchen in bright yellow light and warmth. But Nelle had gone cold, like she’d plunged into a mountain stream, the icy water knocking her lungs flat.

  Bran needed money.

  Bran wasn’t protecting their privacy or their secret or her.

  Bran was trying to keep them married for as long as he could, running up the tab, so when the time came for divorce, he could wring more out of her.

  The signs were all there.

  The small house? It wasn’t a choice. He didn’t shirk opulence because he “didn’t need a lot.” He couldn’t afford it.

  The empty closet? She imagined Aya selling Bran’s old Tom Ford suits on eBay. That pinstriped number from last year’s Note Awards probably fetched a real nice sum at auction. She wished her number had gone forgotten in its pocket to the new owner. Happenstance saving her from this debacle of her making.

  The fucking watches. He’d part with them last, living off them while he ratcheted up the days they’d been married, ensuring a bigger payoff.

  And she’d kept it from her team—the people who would have stopped her from making such a huge mistake. She and Bran weren’t the same, they didn’t understand each other. That’s just how hustlers made you feel when they were telling you what you wanted to hear. Nelle tugged at the shirt’s hem again. She’d exposed herself to an impoverished con man.

  Nelle was dizzy on regret when Aya clicked back into the hall, heading for the front door. She stopped just after the kitchen, to look back at Nelle leaning heavily against the opening.

  Aya considered her, dark eyes round and alert. “Mina Hassan, right? In Max Field’s office? She knows you’re here?”

  Nelle pushed off the wall. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Just trying to get a handle on the situation.”

  “There is no situation.”

  Not anymore. Nelle was already forming the plan in her mind: she had to tell Mina. And Mina would assemble her publicist, her lawyer, maybe someone from the label if they needed it? There was that clause in her contract about image representation. Was eloping with a rock star a breach of her legal obligation to be a good role model? Mina would know what to do. That’s what managers were for. To have your back.

  Nelle stared at Aya. This woman, in her flowy pants and shirt, both loose and fitted, she was who Bran trusted. She was the one who took care of his problems. Knew his secrets.

  “Careful,” Aya said, as if reading her mind. “He’s...” She trailed off and Nelle filled in the rest: a liar, a predator, a hack. “He’s figuring some things out.”

  Yeah. Figuring out how he can use people.

  When Aya had gone, Nelle stared across the hall. She had two options: storming upstairs to grab her dress from where she’d hung it in the bathroom, shoving her feet into her boots, and walking, epitomizing an anthem. Or telling Bran Kelly off.

  Nelle froze on the second step down to the den, unable to bring herself closer to him.

  Bran had sunk into the grey sofa, his elbows on his knees and his head down. “Sorry, I needed a minute.” He rubbed his eyes and looked up at her. “And don’t worry about Aya. She won’t—”

  “How much?” Nelle interrupted.

  His head angled. “How much what?”

  “How much do you owe? How much do you want from me? I can tell you right now, you’re not going to get it. We’re going to fight—”

  “What are you talking about?” Bran stood and she held one finger up to stop him.

  “I heard you.”

  “You eavesdropped.” He crossed his arms. Like he had been wronged.

  “You’re out of money. Spent it all on Rolexes and Ferraris and there’s no more coming in? So you used me—how much do you owe? Tell me, Bran.”

  “I’m not using you—cash flow isn’t an issue for me.”

  “Sure—that’s why Aya is so worried about your purchases?”

  “Because she’s nosy. And I—”

  “I can’t believe this. God—what wasn’t a line? The celibacy, the secrets. The longer we’re married, the better your claim, is that it?”

  “I didn’t use any lines—you’re the one with the line.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re it. Literally asking me to chase you. Tagged me in. You got me. I was game.”

  Her face flushed at the memory. How embarrassing—that he was right. That she’d all but thrown herself at him. Made it so easy for him. “And what are you playing at now? How much do you want from me?”

  His head shook. “You started it. You showed up here. You came after me. You’re the one prying into my business. Which incidentally, has nothing to do with you.”

  Her accusing finger curled back into her fist as her hand dropped. “And what is that business, Bran? Who are you paying off? If you don’t have cash-flow problems, why wouldn’t you just pay for whatever it is—is it drugs? Vitamins?”

  “Really, Nel
le.”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Are you here to do this thing or justify why we shouldn’t? Self-sabotage isn’t very on-brand for you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Her bag was in the hall closet. She wasn’t going to spend another minute in this house. The smooth floor allowed her to pivot on the ball of her foot, turning away from him in one graceful spin.

  “It’s my dad.”

  She stopped. His voice tore over the words, like he was resisting saying them. But she couldn’t trust his voice—she believed it too easily. She had to face him and read the truth in his eyes.

  Bran stood in the den, his legs askance, frozen midstep. “He’s the one with debts. Gambling, mostly. He can’t help himself—used to make bets in the Little League stands about whether I’d choke at bat. But at least he was there, right?” His laugh lacked weight. “When my gran died, he got her house. And he’s threatening to sell it—sell it with everything inside. Every sketchbook, journal, picture of mine that she kept. You think someone stealing that moment at church was a violation? My father is extorting me—using my whole life as leverage.”

  If it was a performance to keep her here, he shouldn’t just be getting a Note Award. There was Oscar-worthy pain etched on his face. Real pain. It wasn’t an act.

  “Bran, I—”

  “I’m not using you for money. You want to see my bank accounts?” He set his hands on his hips. “I’m surprised you didn’t check when you had my phone—you already know the code.”

  She lowered down a step into the room. “Why don’t you just pay him and be done?”

  “Why should I? Why should I have to buy my own life from him? He’s my father. We’re family.” Bran’s mouth flattened as he went silent.

  The thick carpet cushioned her feet as she met him in the middle of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Nelle said softly. She meant it. She put her hand on his chest. Her thumb dipped in his collarbone as she slipped it up to knead the tight muscles at his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said again. Two apologies. For two reasons. For what was happening to him, and for her assumption.