“Tell me how the heat’s treating you in that fabric. Are you looking forward to changing out of it for your performance?”
“I’m looking forward to the performance,” Nelle said, taking any opening she could. Stone held the microphone tight to his chest even when she was talking. She leaned closer to him, keeping her sentences short in case he cut her off again. “We’re getting ready for tour. Working so hard. Very excited. Can’t wait to see everybody, to dance together and sing with you guys. And tonight’s really special because we get to give people a glimpse of what we’re putting together for them.”
She smiled at the camera, glad to have gotten her whole message out. And she’d done her part for the conversation, helped lead him into the real important stuff—like stats about the tour running April through September, over three continents, with fifty sold-out shows—but that wasn’t what Nick Stone thought the people at home wanted to hear.
“What do you eat in preparation for something like that?”
Nelle blinked. “Food?”
That earned her a laugh and a wink. Then his glassy eyes were staring at the camera just off her shoulder again. “All that dancing must be great for your metabolism.”
Nelle caught her breath and held it until the response she wanted to blurt become secondary to the air she needed to exhale. By the time she was ready to respond without calling Stone an asshole, the tide was changing. Producers motioned for Stone to toss her back to the carpet, and then everyone was shifting, making room for the next catch. In a matter of seconds Nelle found herself facing the stairs again. Her forehead was hot as she started down them. Under the layers of Benj’s makeup, she was sure her face was red. Not from the unrelenting sun, but from inner frustration, that she hadn’t put her words together fast enough to tell off a man in an ugly suit who had tried to reduce her accomplishments to the shape of her body.
Nelle took a rushed step down the narrow set of ledges, forgetting to gather her dress to the side in her haste. Her shoe twisted in the slit. On one foot, the other caught in the folds of her dress, Nelle felt the world lurch sideways. She was going to fall, tumble straight off the edge of the steps. Her arms flailed, finding nothing to hold—
And a hand clasped her elbow.
Instinctively she grasped at the suit sleeve that pressed against her forearm. Steadying herself, she looked up. Blue eyes met hers. And the air left her lungs, knocked out of her like she’d landed on the carpet below after all.
Bran Kelly had caught her. He shared the space in a wine-colored suit cut to fit his body like it was made for him—which of course it was. He was here to win not one Cleffy, but two. The whole night was custom-designed for him. Her mouth went dry—Bran Kelly looking like a tall glass of red made her thirsty.
“I got you,” Bran said as his calloused palm scraped down to her wrist, shooting fireworks through the rest of her body.
So much for parallel lines. Arm to arm, they literally overlapped, the sun serving as a spotlight.
Nelle sucked in air, trying to ignore the way his eyes flickered to the top of her dress, her breasts testing the hem of the strapless gown. She blew it out through the ring of her mouth, performing a friendly “phew” for anyone watching. Her voice low, she told him, “This is not what we talked about.”
His mouth pulled in a casual smile, one for show, that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze or the heat of his skin on hers. “Neither was last night.”
He tilted her arm, surreptitiously checking that the ring he’d given her was nestled among the others she wore. It was a gesture that would go unnoticed by the millions of people watching, but it set her cheeks on fire nonetheless with its audacity.
She tugged her hand back and his slid lower, linking them palm to palm. The watch glaring up from his wrist left spots in her vision. “Just help me down and then you can get back in line for the oral surgery that is talking to Nick Stone.”
Bran eased them away from the top. “Seemed like a pretty standard interview from down here.”
She fought the instinct that told her to stay close to him, his palm frustratingly familiar, his shadow providing momentary relief from the sun. With her feet on solid ground, she was able to roll her eyes without risking loss of balance. Nelle broke her hand from his, letting it float just off her shoulder as she turned. “If only I had time to explain misogyny to you again.”
Mina fell in step just behind Nelle as she swept down the carpet. “What a dickhead.”
“Bran Kelly?”
“Nick Stone.”
Nelle’s mistake fizzled in the air between them. As much as it appealed to her, she could not come undone around Bran Kelly.
Mina’s mouth pulled to one side. “Bran Kelly is—”
“A Cleffy-nominated dickhead. Different variety.”
Nelle pitched into the final step and repeat before her manager could raise an official red flag. Tonight was not the night to let him get under her skin. Whatever unfinished business they had, she’d handle it later. She was here for her.
Chapter Seventeen
The Staples Center was split into three stages, and Bran sat front and center. Nelle had been seated a few rows back, on the aisle. He’d seen her on his way in. It had taken more effort than he’d expected to walk by her without making contact. He’d wanted to stop, dip his head, press a kiss to her bare shoulder blade. Lips to skin. He’d wanted to drop next to her chair and ask, kneeling at her feet, why she had changed her mind about seeing him last night.
It’s too late.
That was the only explanation Nelle had offered when she hadn’t come over as planned. He had done everything her way, no contact, no nothing—with the exception of stepping in to make sure she didn’t become a fixture on someone’s list of top-ten red carpet stumbles. And she hadn’t even thanked him. She’d said: “If only I had time to explain misogyny to you again.”
The message was clear: time was up.
But why?
He closed his eyes.
Bran had a good ear. A remarkable ear. People loved working with him because he could hear when something was off, pick up on the wrong note or the wrong chord without a moment wasted. Even three rows back, he heard what was wrong immediately: Santino’s voice, chatting up his wife. His wife who he wasn’t allowed to look at or speak to. His wife who changed her mind like she changed shoes, never wearing the same pair twice—no wonder he couldn’t keep up with what she was thinking.
His hand fisted as Nelle’s voice filtered through the crowd. “Contraband! You like pineapple?”
Santino spoke with slow, relaxed words. “I like not having a blue tongue on television.”
Bran’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t allowed to look at Nelle, but some dude with face tattoos could tell her about his tongue.
The wildest image rose in his mind, fueled by jealousy and pent-up sexual frustration—because it was pure fantasy. He imagined Nelle next to him, instead of Aya. And unlike Aya, whose elbows were tucked in tight, Nelle’s arm would rest casually across the molded shoulders of his suit, her fingers skimming under his collar for everyone to see—
Bran shifted in his seat. This was insane.
There was no balance to this arrangement. Nelle called all the shots. She said when it was on, when it was off. She invaded his home, made it impossible for him to be in any room without remembering the way his name in her voice echoed off that set of walls. She was inescapable. She’d left imprints on every surface and walked out the door without a mark on her.
And now she was done with him?
He stretched his leg straight to slide the flat phone from his pocket, pulling up their text chain before he could stop himself.
We need to talk
I want to know what’s going on
I shouldn’t have tried outside
With Stone and the carpet
&
nbsp; There were too many phones under one roof and it took forever for the messages to send. Bran held the phone low, willing them to go through. Then he reread them and realized how desperate he sounded. Before he could figure out how to stop them, the service icon flushed full bars. And a call popped up on the screen.
He stared at the caller ID, letting the phone shake in his hand. When it stopped buzzing he shoved the device at Aya. She read the missed call log with a frown. “He called my office last week, asking for his money—”
“His money?”
“He made threats, Bran. Told me he’d have to start selling stuff to cover the cost of the house.”
“What cost? The mortgage has been paid off for years and we sent him enough in January to cover the property tax ten times over.”
“If you won’t pay monthly, he wants a big payout. He said—” A voicemail notification shuddered the phone again and she brought it to her ear. She held his gaze as she listened.
When Aya failed to conceal the anger in her eyes, Bran’s teeth ground together. “What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“He didn’t wish me luck?” He couldn’t imagine his father bringing up his big night now. A Cleffy only mattered to his dad when he hadn’t had one, because the man dealt in deficits, in negatives.
She looked down at his phone and her frown deepened.
“Aya.”
Her eyes met his again. “He said he hopes you win.”
Bran started nodding. That was unexpected, that was—
“If you win,” Aya went on, “the value of his inventory increases. So.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut and he lurched forward in his seat before remembering where he was. He tried to play it off like he was just adjusting his position, shifting up to get comfortable. He tried to play it off like it didn’t matter. Like his father hadn’t just tainted the wins Bran so desperately wanted.
Fuck that. No. He wasn’t going to give his father that power.
Bran pointed to his phone. “Can I get that back?”
Aya stacked it under her own in her lap. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m waiting for a message.”
“She says ‘you won’t get it.’”
Bran sucked his front teeth. The nerve—of both these women—for sidelining him on his own affairs.
“And ‘Stone is just a symptom.’”
What did Stone have to do with her not coming over? “I need to respond.” He had to find out what that meant.
“No. You need to sit there and enjoy this. It’s the Note Awards, Bran. Nothing else matters.”
Bran looked sideways at her. Aya arched a single thin brow, daring him to argue. He didn’t. Not just because he knew he’d lose. Last week Arlo had worried about Bran being alone for the show. “Do we need to be doing this anymore? Keeping our distance? What’s the point if it means we can’t support each other?” he’d asked. When Bran insisted again that Arlo not miss classes to fly in, the bass player had laid his concerns out. “What if you start wishing you could have taken her?” And for a moment panic had gripped his chest, only for regret and guilt to tighten the sensation. Arlo hadn’t been talking about Nelle, he’d been talking about Gran.
He’d worried Bran would feel lonely on the biggest night of his career.
Here, now, at the Note Awards with Aya at his side, looking out for him, Bran didn’t feel alone. Bran reached for Aya’s hand in her lap and squeezed.
She blinked a few times and then got back to business. “I thought you handled the carpet well. Especially Stone asking you about new music.”
Bran let go of her hand to smooth a wrinkle on his thigh. “Did you hear him ask Nelle anything inappropriate?”
“No.”
That’s what he thought. She’d looked gorgeous, talked about her performance, and smiled—god that smile, and that bow on her dress like she needed to be unwrapped—
“Is that what you don’t get? She has to explain it to you that he asked you about your work, and her about her dress?”
The lights didn’t dim as the show began but brightened, so the cameras could catch all the action onstage and off. To Bran it felt like a giant lightbulb turning on above his head. He tuned out of the real world, thinking about Nelle and what Aya had said.
Had Stone treated Bran like an artist and Nelle like a tapestry? Objectively it hadn’t been the best interview experience. He’d been annoyed by some of Stone’s inane questions too. But what he could shrug off with cultivated indifference, Nelle had to smile through. It wasn’t fair, she’d said. It was his world. A man’s world. She didn’t have time to explain misogyny to him because she was busy dealing with it.
Aya flipped her phone over and light winked off a ring she wore. Bran flashed immediately to Nelle’s wedding ring, glinting in the sun. She’d told him in Chicago the risk was hers, and yet she was the one walking around with the evidence on her finger.
If she was done with him, why was she still wearing it?
Aya poked his side. “You want to pay attention to this one.”
Bran fumbled for the present, trying to break out of the knot of thoughts in his mind. A new set of presenters had taken the stage. The category at bat was Notable Pop Album, and Bran’s album—his solo effort—was being announced as a nominee.
Bran pressed his feet flat to the floor in their black boots. Energy coursed through him but he wouldn’t let a shaky leg reveal how much he was anticipating this moment.
If he lost, he had to keep his face neutral.
If he lost, he still had another shot.
If he lost—Nelle didn’t think he would lose.
“Bran Kelly, Green,” said the announcer with a wide smile.
And then Bran was standing. Hugging Aya. Her eyes were shining when she released him, sending him on his way. His ears buzzed. Mirrored black stairs reflected the lights above him—like walking in the night sky—so dreamy they almost made him doubt this was real. When someone pressed a gold clef into his hand, his finger curled around the base. The metal was surprisingly warm, like he’d already been holding it for some time. Like it was already his.
He felt a rush of pride and disbelief and something he couldn’t name that felt like the best parts of fame: that he was worthy, that he’d done something people cared about. That he’d earned his place.
A sea of faces looked expectantly up at him. He should have listened to Nelle’s advice about having a speech prepared. She’d been so sure of him. As sure as she was about herself. Bran envied that confidence—he needed signs. Proof that people continued to care. Like that ring on her finger.
She was still wearing it.
Bran shook his head, trying to focus on what to say. Possibilities rattled inside his brain. I wish my gran could be here tonight, he could tell them, if he was in the mood to bare his soul to millions of strangers. Fuck you, Dad, he might add, if he really wanted to get into it. He tried to push the thought that his father would be happy with this outcome as far down as he could, but it kept rising to the surface as he stood there.
His heart picked up speed and his feet shifted as everyone waited for him to say something.
Get it together, Bran.
He fixed his gaze on Aya’s calm face and his mind quieted.
What mattered most in this moment?
“I put a lot of energy into trying not to be recognized,” he started. He paused for scattered laughter. “But this is truly a privilege.” The word hooked another memory of Nelle, calling it up. With the ring, she’d given him a sign: she might be mad but she wasn’t done. He’d send her a message back, prove to her that he did get it. He looked up, clarity producing confidence. “Outside someone asked if I was disappointed not to have gotten one of these when I was in a rock band. There’s a perception that pop music is for young girls, and
the implication that I should be disappointed in that audience really bothered me. It is a privilege to make music liked by such a discerning, smart, powerful group and I hope to make more music that meets their high standards—thank you.”
The stadium burst into applause. And even though he wasn’t supposed to, he looked right, to the third row, only to see Nelle’s seat was taken by a filler, a live television extra who turned beet red under his gaze. He gripped the Cleffy close. Nelle had wrapped herself up in the win like one of his shirts—she’d told him about the nomination, she’d told him to be ready to win. The Cleffy and Nelle were linked. She wasn’t even here and she’d always be part of this moment for him. He’d always feel like she had made this happen.
The urge to track her down drove him forward. And this time he was setting the terms: as long as that ring was on her finger, she was his for the taking.
Chapter Eighteen
The chair’s metal armrest dug into Nelle’s side as she bent around Benj to see the screen mounted in the corner of the dressing room.
“By all means, if the Joker is the look you’re going for, keep doing what you’re doing.”
“I don’t want to miss it,” Nelle said.
“You want to see him lose because he stood you up?”
He had stood her up. He’d also sent a pair of texts right before the ceremony started that had surprised her.
Bran Fucking Kelly: I want to know what’s going on
Bran Fucking Kelly: With Stone and the carpet
She’d written back that he wouldn’t get it because it was too complicated to explain over text and he hadn’t tried again. But he had reached out. It wasn’t nothing.
Nelle let Benj lift her chin, but couldn’t hold her mouth still. “He’s not going to lose.”
After scanning Nelle’s face, Benj stepped back, out of the way. She started a final warning, “But no more—”
Grinning, Nelle dropped one of the last two gummy bears Santino had given her into her mouth.
Benj pursed her lips. “You suck that—no chewing. Mina will blame me if it’s stuck in your teeth on camera.”
All the Best Nights Page 16