All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  “Okay, love you guys.”

  Her mother never hung up, just put her phone down and assumed Nelle would do it. Sometimes Nelle stayed on the line, listening to her parents go about life at home. But she didn’t today. Because Bran Kelly was standing across from her looking like he was going to burst.

  “Let me see them.”

  “My parents?” She held up the lock screen of her phone.

  “No, the ‘meat hands’ you inherited from your mother.”

  Nelle dropped the phone into the cushions and held her hands up for inspection. “He exaggerates because he’s got the most exquisitely dainty fingers in the family. Surgeon hands. And he said the moment I was born he knew I’d never follow in those footsteps. But he was thankful I already had my mother’s hair.”

  Bran put his hand in the robe pocket and frowned. He felt around like he was searching for something and then shook his head. “And they call you Nella.”

  She blinked. That wasn’t something she’d noticed, let alone the part she expected him to latch on to.

  “Yeah. They do. Most of the time. Everybody did until this year. Now I’m Nelle even to people I grew up with. People that should know me better.” She paused to look him over. “You call me Nella sometimes too.”

  “Do I?”

  “When you come.”

  The corners of his mouth pulled down thoughtfully and he pushed off the wall. “Think you can prove that?”

  He stopped behind the couch and she reached forward to undo the tie at his waist. She pushed the sides back to reveal his willing dick. Her hands on his hips, she pressed a kiss to his pelvis and whispered, “You were mad.”

  “I wasn’t mad.” He caught the back of her head when she pulled back. “I was mad.” She licked down, caressing the soft, loose skin of his balls with her tongue. A reward for honesty. “But not at you. I’m mad there’s no other way for us to do this and have it be ours. Except to lie. To bring the press into it.”

  “It’s still ours. I wasn’t bringing them into it. I was keeping them out of it. And I didn’t lie. I said I didn’t marry you this week.” She didn’t add that she had liked doing it. That it felt like her own taunt, her chance to twist the truth to fit the story she wanted told.

  “And you called me a dickhead.”

  “I always call you that.” A bead of lust had accumulated on the tip of his dick and she licked it off.

  Bran hissed. “It’s different when it’s on television. Why can’t we just say nothing?”

  Nelle stopped to look up at him. “Doing nothing doesn’t work.” Sometimes it felt like she had read a few pages ahead of him and she had to help him catch up. She nuzzled his hip. His skin was warm and soft. He always smelled so good, fresh and woodsy and another underlying scent that was more abstract. She inhaled possibility, attraction, heat. Spotlights. Her eyes closed. “I like it this way. I thought you did too?”

  “I do. I like this.”

  “So if I say I won’t see you in London unless we also stage a screaming match backstage...”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Or I could have dinner with Santino somewhere flashy. Take the lens off us?”

  His hand tightened in her hair, maybe from jealousy, or maybe because she’d sucked his dick down to the base.

  “No,” Bran huffed out, his eyes closing and his mouth hanging open. “I’ll fight you. And then we’ll make up.”

  Nelle knew she wasn’t playing fair, but Bran wasn’t thinking straight. He was too busy avoiding the things that caused him discomfort. He could pay his dad, and have the house. He could work it out and write a damn song already. He could accept that they had to do something to protect themselves. The solutions weren’t easy, but they were simple enough.

  This was the way to keep them together. And it bought her more time to work out her own answers, the complicated ones. Even if she admitted that Bran was a man she might love, they couldn’t risk going public. Not when it was her reputation on the line. What was considered on-brand behavior for a rock star was the kind of salacious gossip that would eclipse her accomplishments. Being with Bran—really with Bran Kelly—was too much fantasy for the universe to deliver. She had to get him on the same page while she figured out where she wanted the story to take them. While she found a way to produce her happily ever after.

  NK

  Today 11:13 am

  London?

  almost

  (sparkle hearts sent with echo)

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bran yawned and someone offered him “a cuppa” for the thousandth time since landing. He didn’t need tea, he needed something he could drown in. Wasn’t London gin a thing? But Aya nodded and the production assistant hurried out of the room.

  The plan had been to sleep on the flight over, only that was when Aya had broken the news. Now the no sleep and jetlag made London feel like Vegas. Too bright when it was supposed to be the middle of the night. Designed to take you for all you had. Bran rubbed his eyes, glad Aya had set up a radio interview and not a TV appearance because he was sure he looked like shit.

  He felt like shit. And he deserved it. He’d waited too long, made a shit decision, and now his past was forfeit.

  His dad had sold the house. And everything in it.

  This albatross that had been weighing him down for months was gone. Replaced by a black hole. The dark gravity of an unknown outcome that would pull him in whether he liked it or not. He was powerless now. He’d had a chance to take control of the situation and he’d been too stubborn to do it. Too weak to break from the old pattern. He’d practiced too often how not to react to his father and reverted to a teenaged version of himself, waiting his old man’s anger out, shutting down, until he could get up to his room, unclench his fists, work his fingers over the chords, and let it all out. Only he hadn’t done that either. Now his life was in someone else’s hands.

  Why had he thought a few small payments would be enough to appease his dad? Fucking stupid. Nothing was enough. Kellys pushed.

  He fucking knew that.

  Fucking idiot.

  Fuck.

  Bran’s fist connected with the wall and Aya was on her feet.

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Bran shook his wrist. That was more stupid. He could have broken a finger and he had to play tomorrow. And he had to produce...something soon. Aya had also said the label wanted to meet with him when he was back in LA. She was full of good news. He flexed his fingers. The knuckle of his pinky was bruised but that was fine. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I told you to pay him.”

  “Remind me to listen to you next time.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Bran shook out his hand, his pinky aching. “I didn’t think he’d go through with it.”

  Every holiday, every gathering, every family toast Gran had made—his dad had heard it too: We Kellys may fight but we always unite. At the end of the day, he hadn’t expected his father to sell him out. It wasn’t what family was supposed to do. He’d never thought it would get this far. He’d expected something to stop him. Or someone.

  Gran.

  The thought was sudden, a sucker punch he hadn’t seen coming. He’d expected Gran to broker the fragile peace between him and his father, like she had all his life. But she was gone, and she’d taken that supposed Kelly loyalty with her.

  The PA returned and Aya thanked him for the tea, handing the cup out to Bran. “We’ll get you something stronger later.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got something lined up later.”

  An eyebrow shot into Aya’s forehead. “Oh, you do? Funny the person who makes your schedule doesn’t know about it.”

  “She doesn’t approve.”

  Hot tea sloshed over his hand when Aya shoved his shoulder. �
�You’re not going to see her.”

  “I am,” Bran snapped. Aya blinked at the force of his reaction and some of the heat left his chest. “I am. I have to.” Everything was shitty. And the last time everything had been this shitty, he’d let his eyes adjust to the dark and seen Nelle. Really seen Nelle. And she’d fixed everything. Nelle had made him forget the rest. He had to see her again soon. These weeks between nights with her were killing him, making him impatient and irritable.

  “That’s what you need?”

  He nodded. “And I need it to stay a secret.”

  A secret. That might have been how this had all started, but Bran had to admit it had escalated. When Nelle had suggested a public affair with another man—if he hadn’t been otherwise engaged—the wall wouldn’t have stopped Bran’s fist. He’d have struck straight through. That was too far, too much to protect the game they were playing. Bran let out a frustrated breath.

  It wasn’t the secret he had to protect anymore. It was his ability to see Nelle, according to her terms. And her terms... How long could they keep this up? What would they have to do? Realistically, what was the longevity on an arrangement like this? Could he handle pretending to date other people and meeting up five times a year when their schedules overlapped unsuspiciously? At least they’d always have Cleffy night.

  It wasn’t enough. And even his place at the Note Awards was contingent on him staying industry relevant. On his ability to work.

  Aya snapped to get his attention. She set a hand on her hip. “How did you see her in New York?”

  “How did you know—”

  “Arlo said you disappeared for a day. Her MSG show was that week. It doesn’t take a podcaster to figure out what happened.”

  Bran took a gulp of the hot tea. “I had myself delivered in a tour trunk.”

  He hoped that sounded more rock star than desperate, but the soft shake of Aya’s chin told him it hadn’t. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  What was worse than him liking Nelle and pursuing Nelle and secretly marrying Nelle so he could fuck her in a hotel room every other month? That he also needed her, to talk to and laugh with and to feel understood. What was worse than falling without a parachute?

  “It’s as bad as it can be,” he agreed.

  Something like pity flared in Aya’s eyes, and then she sighed and asked him where Nelle was staying. She walked behind him, her eyes on the phone screen, as he was ushered into the studio. With Aya perched in the shadows against a padded wall, working on a solution to get him to Nelle tonight, Bran felt better.

  Oversized headphones pushed his ears into his head, the tops heating uncomfortably under the pressure. But he could do this. Nelle was waiting and he was even excited for the concert tomorrow. The crowd would be huge and the sun might come out. Nelle wanted to exchange words backstage, and he’d agreed. She thought that was the best way to keep them safe. He had to keep them safe. Soon he wouldn’t have any secrets left but her.

  “One last question.” Peppa from GBR1 looked at him around a mesh microphone protector. “You’re headed up to Super Saturday. Lots of big acts this year.”

  Bran leaned forward. “Yeah, yeah, it should be an amazing show.” He felt Aya’s eyes on the back of his head. She’d told him not to say amazing—said it made him sound like a clichéd American. Whatever. The dark booth was warm and he was getting sleepier by the minute, one foot-in-mouth moment was fine. “What’s the question?” Fuck. Now he sounded like a rude American.

  Peppa tilted her head. If she had been going to softball him, she wasn’t now. She was going to ask about new music. Aya had rehearsed with him what to say about that too. It’s coming. Grin. Show excitement, show promise. No specifics. It’s coming. She’d made him repeat it, like a mantra, like a warning.

  It’s coming. Bran took a sip of water.

  “We English love a spot of tea, so can you comment on the rumors swirling that you don’t get along with one of the headliners—what do you really think of Nelle?”

  Water caught in his throat at her name and Bran coughed.

  He wanted to turn and look at Aya, but she hadn’t prepped him for this one.

  Nelle had.

  The professional truth was he thought she was talented—more talented than him. She deserved to be recognized in every way he had. And she would be—because she was driven, determined, unstoppable. There was a spark that lit her up inside and she wasn’t ever going to let it burn out.

  What did he really think of Antonella Georgopoulos? He thought he might be in love with her.

  That wasn’t what Peppa had asked. The question was: What did Bran Kelly really think of Nelle? Bran Kelly wasn’t supposed to know Nelle, not like that. Not if he wanted to keep their secret, to keep her. Bran Kelly wasn’t supposed to be fantasizing about dark curls caressing his skin like a blanket of silk, soft and light and the antithesis of the weight that threatened to crush him.

  The room had gone extra quiet, his answer taking longer than it should.

  He tried to shoot a hand back and forth across his head, knocking the band of the headphones and fumbling them back over his ears. “She’s—” amazing.

  No.

  “I—” love her.

  Fuck.

  “It’s...”

  His thumb found the edge of the coaster in the pocket of his leather coat. The thick board that had once been solid had softened, fraying into individual layers. Bran pictured Nelle in that moment she’d turned to go at the bar in Chicago. The black waves of her hair catching the gleam of the streetlights outside. “Hair,” he choked out, just wanting the interview to end. “It’s a lot of hair, but the girl’s got a killer voice.”

  That was it. The interview ended. Relief flooded Bran as he freed himself from the too-tight headphones and left them on the desk. That was the last obstacle between him and Nelle. He checked his watch. She’d have landed. Now he just had to get to her.

  His phone buzzed in the pocket of his fitted jeans, Nelle calling to say she was on the way to the hotel. But he couldn’t answer it here, in the hallway of a media outlet. He had to be smarter than that. The buzzing stopped. And started again. Bran caught Aya’s eye and nodded towards the elevators. She gave him the “one second” finger and motioned to a PA waiting to take a photo with him.

  He posed and smiled, the vibrations in his pants pulsing constantly.

  Nelle couldn’t wait.

  Neither could he.

  Bran plunged down the hall and took the elevator to the building’s lobby. He was out on the street, the air smelling of damp stone, when he finally answered her call.

  “Hey, okay, so I haven’t quite worked out how to get to you but Aya is—”

  “What the fuck, Kelly.”

  Bran stopped cold, the familiar sharpened-knife quality of her voice sending a chill down his spine. “What what fuck?”

  “Hair. I’m a lot of hair?”

  “And a killer voice.”

  “But hair first.”

  Bran rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Nelle. They caught me off guard. You don’t want me telling the truth—”

  “We. We don’t want that. We agreed.”

  “Right. We agreed to stage a feud. That’s what you want to do tomorrow, right? So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is you belittling my career. My work.”

  His mouth dropped open. “You called me a dickhead on late-night television, how is that different?”

  “I called you a Cleffy-winning dickhead. You called me a girl. You reduced me to hair.”

  Bran looked around, seeing nothing but an unfamiliar blur of grey. He was sick of this game and now she was mad at him for playing along? “Well, I’m sorry I’m not as good at faking this as you are. It’s not me.”

  “But it’s me? I’m fake?”

  “I di
dn’t say that.”

  “But you did. You did on a fucking radio show.”

  “A radio show that has nothing to do with us. Not really.” Months ago—months ago—he’d gotten an inside tip, a heads-up that this would happen. When saving-the-day Benj had stared him down as the elevator door slid into motion, he’d expected a don’t-fuck-with-my-girl threat. Instead he’d gotten a different warning through the closing gap: You should know, she won’t compromise. Nelle’s best friend had told him that. And he should have listened. “Why does it have to be your way or nothing—why can’t you compromise?”

  Her sigh in his ear coincided with a gust of wet wind, and Bran braced himself against the coming storm. “This was your premise, Bran, I’m just executing it because you can’t. Or you won’t. You won’t do anything. You won’t even be Bran Kelly the talented fucking musician. You’re too busy acting like some mercurial suffering artist who won’t just pick up the guitar and work it out.”

  That hit landed and Bran pushed back. “Is that it? You need me to be Bran Kelly so you can have a rock star to chase you?”

  “That’s not—”

  “To satisfy your ego? I can’t be the perfect version of me you’ve cultivated in your head. He doesn’t exist.” Bran’s hand fisted. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? You’re twisting me up—my hands are tied. I can’t give everyone what they want. My dad sold the house, Nelle.”

  He was expecting her to understand, like she had so many times before, but her voice came through the line flat and uninterested. “Oh yeah? That sounds hard. Really hard, Bran. And when things are hard you can’t be expected to do anything about them, huh? If it isn’t easy, you give up. Because you’re scared shitless to try.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? Really? Has it been unfair for you growing up a handsome, famous man in America? My father was a surgeon in Greece and he left it behind to be a shop clerk because my mother wanted to raise me somewhere I’d have more opportunities than she did. They sacrificed and I strived and you tried to tear that down.”