He brushed at his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “I’m nominated for two.”
She picked up a rocket ship and moved it to the back row, clearing a second space.
“You’re that confident I’ll win?”
“I am, but you should be too.” She put her hands on her hips, scrunching the fabric of the shirt. It rose just high enough to tease the bottom curves of her ass. She glanced back. “Close your eyes.”
“I really don’t want to.”
“You have to visualize it, Bran.”
Nelle swung around and he lost the view anyway. Sighing, Bran closed his eyes. Because she said so and because he’d do anything to make sure those Cleffies came home with him. When the band’s last album had been snubbed, and Judith dissolved shortly after, he’d thought it was over—that he’d never be good enough, especially on his own. It was a message he’d heard often enough.
But Bran wasn’t listening to his dad anymore, he was listening to Nelle. She moved purposefully through the room and he pivoted the chair to follow the sound.
“Okay. It’s your night. They are your Cleffies. You win them both. You’re leaving with everything you want.” Fingers sank into his hair, nails scratching his scalp, and he chased after them. “Cultivate a mindset of abundance. Say yes. And manifest that shit.”
Bran laughed, opening his eyes to the bright room. “Is that another Benjism?”
Nelle stood, stroking his hair, the wall of guitars behind her. “That’s all me.”
All Nelle. He couldn’t think of anything better.
“You just bend the universe to your will?”
“I think the universe hears you, if you make yourself clear, if you let yourself trust. It’s a conversation: the universe sends signs, and if you say yes, if you believe, you receive. Positivity, patience, no fear. Then the universe does what it can, and you do the rest—like any partnership.”
“And that works for you? You didn’t win last year.”
“I had my heart set on something bigger. The universe responds to intention. To desire.” She leveled him with a look—did she mean him? “Notable New Artist wasn’t my category. When I know I earned it, when I’m not competing against the other beginners, when I’m in it with the greats, that’s the win I’m taking.”
“You’re talking about ‘Under Water.’”
“I know.” She twirled and ran a hand along the wing of a black-paneled Rickenbacker. She held up fingers layered with dust. “You want to talk about it?”
He shrugged. “I’m thinking of pitching a Springsteen cover album.”
“I knew you liked Springsteen!”
“Oh, could you tell from my beating heart?” He grasped her hips, tugging her onto his lap. His hands moved under the shirt, drawing a shiver out of her as he plucked at her nipples. “How are we going to do this?”
Her eyes closed and her voice grew husky. “Here is fine.”
“I meant—us, this. Having something. And keeping it secret. Both.” The impossible. They’d have to choose—wouldn’t they?
Nelle blinked, sighed, linked her fingers together at the back of his neck. “Well. We take it one night at a time. That’s all I have. My schedule is booked—I won’t be in town again until the Note Awards.”
“You’re performing?”
“That’s right. And next year, universe providing, I’ll be giving my own uplifting Notable Song speech.”
“You already know what you’re going to say?”
“Don’t you?”
“Not even a little bit.” Bran rested his palms on her thighs.
“You should work on it. Make sure you use your platform to matter.” She stared into his eyes, thoughts spinning behind them. “This year you’ll be busy celebrating after the show, so let’s plan on me sneaking out of the hotel the night before. I’ll stay here and head back early in the morning, before the glam squad is scheduled to show up at my room.”
“And at the awards? What do we do?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes narrowed as his thumb stroked higher. “Nothing like that. We don’t speak. We don’t look at each other. Nothing. It doesn’t exist outside this house.”
“So I’ll divert my gaze and pretend I didn’t spend the last twelve hours making you moan my name? You think that will work?”
“There’s no story if we don’t give them one. And...” She trailed off, lifting her hips as he ran a knuckle through her crease. She was wet and warm, but he pulled his hand back, wondering what she had been about to say.
“And?”
“And. We can always give them a better story. Like I did before. Make it public knowledge that we can’t stand each other.”
Bran pushed a hand into his hair, sliding it up and back, breaking Nelle’s hold on his neck. “I don’t like involving the media.”
She sat back as much as she could on his lap. “It’s not involving them. It’s using them, the same way they use us to get what they want. If they don’t have to abide by common decency, neither do we. We’ll beat them at their game. And gloat in private. You said you did the same thing with Cormac and Arlo. It’s a better story that there’s a rift between you.”
“I didn’t give that story to anyone. I just haven’t said it’s not true.”
“Because it benefits you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“How?”
“You’re talking about setting the house on fire with us inside.”
“It’s easier to hide when the smoke is thick.”
“Also easier to choke, stifle, and die.”
“It’s a backup plan. We’ll only need it if you—”
“Me?”
“Yeah, Bran, you’re the one who can’t keep his head down.”
“I can too.”
Nelle ducked her chin and ground down against his lap, where his dick had begun tenting his pants.
He gripped her hips and held her there, sitting up to bring his mouth to hers. “Is that a problem now?”
She rocked in his lap, her hands sliding up his arms and tightening on his shoulders. “The problem is how much I like that.” Her head dropped back and she rolled her hips harder as she spoke. “I married you not knowing how much I liked that. But I like the first part too—” She broke off to gasp, then swallowed hard and continued, “The original plan to have something that was just ours. Burning the whole thing down is the last resort. Don’t you want to keep doing this? Without anyone calling a hashtag meeting?” Her brow furrowed. “Don’t you want both? Me, and a secret?”
His chest twisted, his brain fogged. She was a tornado, lifting him up, setting him down dizzy. Making it easy because he didn’t have a choice.
“One night at a time,” he agreed, before carrying her down the hall and tossing her onto the bed. She wanted both: sex and secrets blurred together into one. He wanted her, and the only way to have her was to agree. If the universe didn’t dare deny her, what chance did Bran Kelly have?
Bran Fucking Kelly
Today 12:17 am
LA?
yeah but
it’s too late
Chapter Sixteen
Nelle bobbed forward as her driver, Albi, tapped the brake. The sea of black SUVs and one lone Tesla was as LA as the sun beating down from its peak. Even with the AC on full blast, the combination of tinted windows and hot metal made her feel like she was driving in an oven. And for the second year in a row, she’d made the wrong fabric choice. Last year she’d shivered down the red carpet in thin blue silk with a low, low back and a temp to match. Now she was sweating in a swath of green velvet, at odds with more than the weather, and running up regrets.
The first, of course, was choosing the dress for its hue, ignoring its breathability. The deep emerald was a subtle nod to a man she could not back outright. Her team had helped pi
ck it out weeks ago. “Green looks good on you,” Benj had said, and Mina had agreed, missing the wink. “Gem tones,” she’d said with a decisive nod.
Nelle had spent the morning in processing, packaged into her picture-perfect public persona. Because on days like this she wasn’t so much a person as she was a product. She had yawned through the preparations, cementing her second regret: staying up, knowing she had an early call, waiting to see what time the aforementioned man would remember that they had plans. She should have just gone to sleep. In the month since she’d barged into his house, Bran Kelly had apparently forgotten she existed. He hadn’t texted, he hadn’t called—he hadn’t so much as sent a New York Times link to an article that might interest her.
He’d just let her go. Out of sight, out of mind.
She didn’t expect daily check-ins. She was too busy for that anyway, crawling into bed exhausted, her mind crammed with blocking and transitions. But when she married a man known for his ability to string a line together, and then they agreed to see what might happen, was the occasional exceptionally worded sext out of the question? Bran had said he wasn’t writing, she just hadn’t thought that applied to typing more than two letters as a late-night booty call.
Nelle recrossed her ankles, kicking at the stupid thick dress as it tangled in her physics-defying gold platform wedges. Today was not the day to have a bad attitude. It didn’t go with her outfit. But she’d brought one anyway. She was used to being hot and bothered about Bran, just not like this. And despite the traffic jam, she felt herself hurtling forward on a collision course towards him.
There was no way she wouldn’t see him. That was what audiences loved about award shows: all their faves overlapping in one place. She didn’t want to overlap—well, she had last night—but today she was committed to running parallel, keeping their storylines separate. It was going to be a big night for them both, on their own merits.
If Albi could get her there.
Nelle closed her eyes, leaning into the fan’s airflow. “Are we concerned that even if we’re in time for the red carpet, my face will melt off?”
Mina answered without looking up from her phone. “Yes.”
“No,” Benj countered, hanging over the back seat. “Your face is under your face. And it’s perfect. Besides.” Nelle’s best friend surveyed the half ponytail and loose curls she’d arranged. “Your hair could resist a hurricane. And if you hadn’t stayed up so late, I wouldn’t have had to pack on so much concealer—”
“You were up late?” Mina asked, her head still down. A potential problem was worth a bit of her attention. “Why?”
Nelle tried and failed to cross her arms over the wide couture bow at her bust. She shrugged her bare shoulders instead. “I was writing. You know. Making music—that’s kind of the point of this.”
It wasn’t an outright lie. Nelle had composed a number of strongly worded text messages she hadn’t sent. And the last few had the kind of underlying rhythm she recognized as lyrical. She’d screen-grabbed them to come back to when she had time.
Mina didn’t waste any energy debating whether the Note Awards red carpet was more or less a part of Nelle’s job than writing music. “We’re supposed to be seated by 4 p.m. There won’t be time for touch-ups. Just try not to sweat too much.”
Nelle tongued her teeth. “Yeah, no problem. Just like I’ll try not to need air or sustenance.”
“You had breakfast.”
“Egg whites aren’t food. And typically people eat more than once a day. I told you I wanted to stop for a milkshake.”
Mina finally looked up. “It’s the Note Awards, Nelle. People will be scrutinizing every frame looking for something snarky they can say to help them go viral. Do you want that to be at your expense? Again?” Her manager sighed when Nelle didn’t answer. “I got you a juice.”
Nelle glanced at the plastic cup of liquid spinach in the holder between them. The paper straw had gone wet and gummy, closing off the hole. Mina produced a pair of emergency scissors from the bag of supplies she always carried and snipped a fresh opening.
“Here we go!” Albi called back to them as the car swerved into the next lane.
Behind her, Benj lifted Nelle’s hair from her neck, offering a cool reprieve.
Nelle took a long sip of the juice. It tasted better than it looked, with a kick of ginger and lemon. Much better for her than a milkshake, considering she was singing tonight and didn’t need to coat her throat with dairy.
Everyone in the car was here to support her and she was acting like a brat.
“Thanks, guys,” she said to rework her mood into an attitude of gratitude.
Mina bobbed her chin and took over directing Albi.
Her friend waited a beat and whispered, “You could have texted him.”
“But it’s always me, Benj.” She wanted Bran to come after her.
Nelle spun the angled ring on her finger as the car lurched forward once more and stopped. She tried desperately not to let the movement remind her of her first kiss with Bran, but she could still remember the moment he reacted to her, how hungrily he’d kissed her back, forgetting to shift the car into Park.
“Ready?” Mina waited with the silver door handle half sprung for Nelle to respond.
When she got out of the car, Nelle knew she wouldn’t have time to worry about Bran Kelly, last night, or being tired or hungry or hot or any of it. These kinds of events were like rapids—the night would have its own course. All she could do was push off into the current and hang on for the ride.
Nelle nodded. “So ready.”
Stepping out of the car was like stepping into a fever dream. The noise hit her like a wall. Next was the blast of heat, but Nelle had played Midwestern state fairs in August, so she squared her shoulders and dove in.
The red carpet under her feet seemed to pulse through her body, turning her on and charging her up. She raised a hand to wave as someone straightened the hem of the gown behind her. They would make her look as good as they could, and she would do the rest. She would be Nelle.
Heading downstream, interactions hit her like flashes of light: a hug from a fan there, a promise to come to India soon, a smile and a thank-you, spinning from one moment to the next.
The crowd, the glitz, the sun. Glinting light glanced off phone screens, lenses, glasses, up, down, and all around her.
Nelle twirled out of a selfie and into an embrace from fellow bop-maker Miss Charma. There was just enough time to compliment her fresh look before Mina steered Nelle the other way. “Music Now! wants an interview.”
“Kara Robins?” Nelle asked, taking a swig of water Benj offered.
Mina shook her head. “Maternity leave. It’s Nick Stone. Don’t make a face, it’s part of the job.”
As long as Stone was with Music Now! Nelle couldn’t avoid him. They had him set up on a platform to the far side of the carpet. Nelle wobbled up a rickety set of steps, wishing for a handrail. The production team had apparently spent as much time on Nick Stone’s ensemble—a neon suit with stark stitching that had an inside-out look, like it was taken off the tailor’s dummy unfinished—as the stairs leading up to him.
She kept her focus on her feet until she reached the top. In the monitors, an inflexible smile on Stone’s unlined face revealed teeth so white they were almost blue. “And now we’re being joined by the beautiful Nelle!” He didn’t turn to greet her. His priority was keeping his face on the air.
Nelle breezed forward, coming into frame. The production footage showed a square outline over her body, uncomfortably reminiscent of a sniper narrowing in on a target.
“Hi!” she said as brightly as she could.
“Big night! Biggest night in music!”
Nelle nodded. “It sure is.”
“So let’s get down to the important stuff.”
“Please.” She couldn’t wai
t to talk about what she had planned for “Under Water” tonight.
Nick cocked his head, loading his question in the chamber. “Do you have a date tonight?”
Nelle watched her smile dim in the monitors, and she charged it back up again, pretending the highlighter on her cheeks was iridescent war paint. This. This was exactly why she had to keep Bran Kelly a secret. People like Nick Stone cared more about who she was with than why she was here.
“My parents couldn’t make it,” Nelle said, purposefully misinterpreting the question.
She didn’t add that they were camera shy after what had happened at Christmas. That when she’d asked if they wanted to come out and see her perform, her mother had gone uncharacteristically subdued. “Your father’s not up for it, I think, Nella.”
“Is everything okay?” Nelle had immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. “Is Papa—”
“He’s fine. Everything is fine. We’re more comfortable at home.”
Nelle didn’t add that because it was private. Her father had never wanted a press release about his illness. Her mother had never consented to having her vulnerability monetized. Now they were pulling back, watching her from a safe distance. If she had pushed it, they would have come. But how could she blame them for trying to reclaim some sense of privacy—wasn’t that exactly what she was doing, practicing discretion with Bran? To show her love, her support, she had to respect their decision, their healing.
So she walked the red carpet alone.
Stone forged ahead with another frivolous question. “Who are you wearing?”
Nelle kept her smile in place. This was the script, even if her opinion was that it desperately needed a rewrite. And she’d picked a designer she was proud to plug. “Very excited to be in Shonda James.”
“Absolutely stunning, of course.”
“She’s amazing, especially the work she’s doing in her community—”
All the Best Nights Page 15