by Karen Cimms
“Get your camera,” she whispered.
When he heard the click of Joey’s Olympus, Billy glanced up and winked before continuing to serenade his rapt little audience.
“He plays for her all the time,” Kate explained back in the kitchen as she set the bagels on the platter. “It’s sweet. She just watches and listens. He’ll get up with her in the middle of the night and play if she’s fussy. Sometimes it’s the only thing that calms her down. She’s definitely Daddy’s little girl.”
“It’s good,” Joey said. “It’s almost like a lullaby like that. What else does he play for her?”
“Some of his own stuff. Some Metallica, Guns N’ Roses. He just slows the tempo way down. Depends if we want her to go to sleep or not. Sometimes just silly little songs he makes up.”
Joey stood outside the kitchen and listened. “He should record them.”
She laughed.
“Seriously. He should record them—as lullabies.”
“He can’t.” She dumped stale coffee into the sink and filled the pot with fresh water. “They’re not his.”
“He can get permission. He’d have to pay royalties, but that would come out of what he makes. It’s genius, if I must say so myself.”
“Well, you must, because it’s crazy. Billy’s music is loud. It’s distorted riffs and angry, angst-filled lyrics. What part of that says lullaby to you?”
“The other stuff. Like what he’s playing in there. I bet he could convince a record company to put out an album of baby rock.”
“Who’d buy it? Baby stoners?”
He huffed. “No, their parents. Let me talk to Christa.”
He was serious. “No way. Billy doesn’t have anything to do with her, you know that. Besides, I don’t trust her.”
“I can at least put it out there, see what she thinks.”
“And if she thinks it’s a good idea, she’ll take it and run with it.”
“She wouldn’t do that. And if she can help his career, why are you standing in the way?”
“Since when do you care about his career?”
“I care for your sake. I’m just saying what he’s doing is good. I bet other parents would pay for something like that. Parents who can’t pick up a guitar and play their little ones to sleep.”
Billy was good, and maybe it was a good idea. And he sure as hell deserved a break.
“Let me talk with Christa. If she can help him, wouldn’t you be okay with it?”
“I’m more worried about what Christa would want in return.”
“Oh, she’s not so bad. I like her. She’s funny, and she’s got a great sense of style. She gets a bad rap because she’s so aggressive, but isn’t that what you want in that business? Think about it. If she were a guy, no one would bat an eye at what she’s done to promote her clients. She’s a woman succeeding in a man’s world, and that’s what makes her scary.”
It wasn’t Christa’s success that scared Kate, but she wasn’t about to tell Joey that.
“She’s a shrewd businesswoman. I guarantee, all she’d want is her cut.” He folded his arms and gave Kate a look that made her feel like she was being selfish.
“Just let me see what she thinks. Then we’ll suggest it to him. There’s no harm in that, right?”
She nodded, trying to ignore the giant red flag waving in the back of her mind.
“Right.”
Chapter Forty-Three
It was one of the stupidest things he’d ever heard. Rock lullabies. Yet here he was, sitting on an uncomfortable leather sofa while Christa Dunphy made him wait.
Billy glanced at his watch. It was three minutes later than the last time he’d looked, thirty-three minutes since he’d arrived. He’d been on time, although he’d expected her to keep him waiting. And she did.
Not that it wasn’t interesting.
Christa was now the lead agent at Bennett-Friedman’s New York office, which encompassed an entire floor of an ultramodern building across from the park. A study in chrome and glass, the reception area appeared to have been lifted from the set of a futuristic movie. Even the receptionist, who looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Swedish Playboy, had an otherworldly look about her.
Not that he would’ve expected anything less, but he was surprised to see the apparent fringe benefits of signing with the agency so prominently displayed.
After he’d given his name to the legs at the front desk, she’d alerted Christa that he had arrived and offered him a single barrel bourbon, which surprisingly, he’d refused.
He glanced around the large waiting room. Other than the long, low sofa on which he sat, there were two zebra-print side chairs. Both had been occupied when he entered, or he would have chosen one of those. They didn’t look much more comfortable, but at least they weren’t as low to the ground. He felt like a praying mantis. The slope of the sofa was so steep that his knees jutted out and his legs splayed open. When he looked up, the receptionist smiled. It seemed he wasn’t the only one having a problem keeping his knees together.
“Are you sure there isn’t something I can interest you in?” She uncrossed her long, bare legs, giving him a direct shot of her pantyless crotch before crossing them again.
Damn if his jeans didn’t get a little tighter. He dragged his eyes up to her face.
“Positive, but thank you.”
He shifted uncomfortably. It had been six weeks. The last thing he needed was a beaver shot burned into his brain. Wait. Six weeks?
“What’s today’s date? The twenty-first, right?”
The way she nodded and smiled, you would’ve thought he’d asked for her phone number.
He grinned. Six weeks. Tomorrow Rhiannon would be six weeks old. Hot damn. He’d pick up a bottle of wine, and tonight, as soon as Kate put the baby to bed—
“Ms. Dunphy will see you now.”
Another knockout, a brunette this time, waited in front of the glass door that led to the inner sanctum. He glanced at his watch. Forty minutes. Definitely payback. The way the blonde smiled as he stood, her eyes climbing the length of him from his boots to the double black hoops in his ears, he knew he could walk out of here with her when he’d finished with Christa. He wouldn’t, but it was still a powerful feeling.
Christa rose to greet him. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it is.”
She gestured for him to sit while she floated over to a bar built into the wall. Ice clinked as she poured. She didn’t bother to ask what he wanted.
She handed him the glass, then clicked the rim with her’s.
“I understand congratulations are in order. Seems like you’ve fathered yourself a little muse.”
It had been awhile since he’d had whiskey this good. He let it sit on his tongue, enjoying the burn, savoring it before swallowing. “Thanks. Although I think the muse in this case would be Joey.”
She laughed. “Well, he certainly is excited. I have to say I am, too. Not that it’s something I’d normally be interested in, but Joey can be a little relentless, and,” she flashed him a wide grin, “I’m already familiar with your abilities.” She settled back into the buttery soft leather chair next to his, slowly drawing one leg over the other. Was she wearing panties?
“It’s good, Billy. I think there’s a market. I’ve put out a few feelers, and I have some record companies who might be willing to bite. Of course, I need to know where we stand before I go any further.” The lift of her eyebrows as she raised her glass to her lips filled in the blanks.
He should have expected this. He’d known she wouldn’t stick her neck out without some kind of commitment from him. And was that so bad? He’d been busting his ass and getting nowhere fast since they’d parted ways. The least he could do was hear her out. “You mean represent me again?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Did you think I was going to invest my time and energy as a favor to you or to Joey? The fact that I’m willing to work with you after what you pulled the last time
is a testament to my belief in your talent.”
She reached for a cigarette. “Since you’re pitching this to me, I assume you’re not working with another agent or producer, which leads me to believe the dissolution of our partnership wasn’t in your best interest. As for me,” she waved her hand to encompass the corner office and its expansive view of Central Park, “I’m doing just fine. To be honest, if I do take you on, I’ll probably hand you off to a junior agent.” She gave his arm a little squeeze. “But don’t worry, everything goes through me. If you live up to my expectations, who knows?” Smoke swirled around her head. “So, tell me. How’s it going?”
“I’m busy, but it could be better.”
“Busy with . . .?”
“I have a lot of studio work.”
“I see.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “You certainly don’t need me if you’re just looking to be a hired gun. But I guess that’s good. Keeps you close to home and your little family?”
“Yeah, it’s good. Not exactly where I’m planning to take my career, though.”
“No. I didn’t think so.” Her eyes flickered over him. “Why don’t I call Patrick in to join us? I had him do some legwork in case you’d want to come back into the fold. Let’s see what he’s come up with. Perhaps he can give you an idea of where we see you going if you come on board.”
Dozens of faces looked down at him from the wall over the bar. Famous faces. Faces of musicians he revered, emulated—in one or two cases, maybe even idolized. Christa’s clients.
He nodded.
“Excellent.” She picked up his glass and refilled it at the bar while they waited for Patrick.
Christa knew what he wanted, and she knew how to make it happen.
Over the protests of her throbbing arms and aching back, Kate stood at the window and bounced a wailing Rhiannon on one shoulder. The streetlights cast a milky blue light over the courtyard. Circles of dried leaves swirled across the pavement, starting and stopping with the wind as it blew off the river.
She’d been at it for hours. Hours. Since early afternoon, she’d put the baby down just three times: twice so she could go to the bathroom and a third time when she needed to walk away before she lost her mind. Rhiannon’s gasping howls had reached all the way to the kitchen, so after a few minutes, she’d gone back to get her. The crying had to be her fault. In trying to eat healthier, she’d probably given Rhiannon gas or something.
She paced the living room, singing and rubbing her daughter’s back until she heard Billy’s key turn in the lock.
“Finally.” She flew down the hallway. “Here. Take her.”
“Gimme a second.” He slipped off his jacket, then hung it on the rack. “What’s the matter?” he cooed to the beet-red, tear-streaked face.
If Rhiannon stopped crying for him, she swore she’d go right off the deep end. A tiny part of her was almost relieved when Rhiannon took one look at him and screamed even harder.
“What happened?” He was looking at her as if she’d been pinching his daughter all afternoon. “You’re not even dressed.” He wrinkled his nose at her stained T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. He, on the other hand, looked as if he’d just stepped off the cover of Rolling Stone.
She slumped against the wall, as if her body could no longer hold her upright. “She’s been screaming since you left, which was about seven hours ago. I haven’t eaten or showered. And I hope you’re not hungry, because I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”
“What’re you yelling at me for?” he asked calmly, which made her even angrier. Not because any of it was his fault, but because he was capable of being calm—not to mention showered and dressed. “And don’t worry about dinner. I’ve already eaten.”
There was a small explosion inside her head. “Great. Not because I’d want to eat or anything.” She stormed down the hall. “You’re on for the rest of the night.” She tossed the words over her shoulder. “I’m done!”
To emphasize her point, she slammed the bathroom door, flipped on the noisy overhead exhaust fan, and burst into tears.
It was quiet when she stepped out of the bathroom an hour later. Soft jazz played on the stereo. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen smelled wonderful. When she peeked into the bassinet next to the bed, it was empty. Rhiannon’s door was closed.
She wasn’t sure whether to cry again or laugh like a hyena. Neither seemed a particularly appropriate response.
It was after nine, and since there was no reason to get dressed, she slipped a fresh nightgown over her head, braided her hair, and headed for the kitchen to eat a little crow. And if her nose was correct, it would be sautéed in onions and garlic.
A pot of water was simmering on the stove next to a skillet of sautéed vegetables. An open box of fettucine sat on the counter. The table was set. Next to each place was a wine glass. Billy stood at the kitchen window holding a tumbler of what she assumed was whiskey.
“Feeling better?” he asked when he noticed her standing in the doorway.
She nodded and mumbled an apology.
He turned up the heat on the stove. “Fettucine primavera okay?”
It sounded delicious, actually. “Yes. Thank you.” She pointed to the wine glass. “You know I’m not supposed to drink.”
“One glass won’t hurt. Besides, I’ll get up during the night if you want. We have formula—I checked. “
“It’s pretty quiet. I assumed you’d given her to the gypsies.”
He chuckled softly. “Not likely. I’m already in too deep. I think she was just exhausted. Finally wore herself out.” He pulled a bottle of white zinfandel from the refrigerator and filled Kate’s glass, drained his whiskey, and filled his wine glass as well.
“To better days,” he said, raising his glass.
“Amen.” She took a sip of her wine. “Speaking of which, how’d it go?”
Billy turned his back to her as he emptied the box of fettucine into the boiling water. “Um, okay. Good. Different.” He picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring the stiff strips.
“And? Does she think it’s a good project?”
“She does.” He unwrapped a stick of butter for the Alfredo sauce.
She waited. When he didn’t elaborate, she pushed again.
“What happens now? Do you have to find a producer? Do you record it on your own? I guess that’s possible. Can we afford that?”
“Um, no.”
“No, we can’t afford it?”
He shook his head.
“Billy!”
He gave the pasta another stir, then sat down across from her.
“Christa’s gonna find a producer—or more likely, her assistant will. I met with the both of them, actually.” He tossed back more than half of his wine. “They think it’s a great project. Very marketable. If that’s the case, and I can make some money, I can get back out there with the band. More concerts, you know? Doing what I really want.”
She twirled the stem of her wineglass. “Yeah, but the studio work—that’s good, too. You’re home more and it pays pretty well, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” He smiled nervously. “Of course.”
She gave him space as he finished his wine in one long swallow.
“But it’s not what you want, is it?”
His eyes met hers. “Not really.”
Needing a moment to process, she raised her glass and took a sip. You can do this, Kate. This is what he wants.
“What’s next then?”
Billy stared at the plate in front of him. He grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass and took another sip before he spoke. “I know we should’ve talked about this, but I also know I would’ve done it anyway. I’m sorry. And I hope you’re not disappointed or mad, but I’ve had to put my career on hold for a while now. I can’t keep doing that. I signed another contract with Christa today. She’s already got a record producer interested in the album. On top of that, Patrick, her assistant, has been putting out feelers to get Viper out on
the road as an opener. They’re talking concerts, Katie, like Bon Jovi, Van Halen, Metallica. Maybe not right away, and nothing’s definite, but it’s possible. I can’t do it on my own.”
He pushed away from the table so suddenly, the chair nearly tipped over. With his back to her, he stood at the stove, the spoon clenched in his fist.
“I’m losing ground here. I can’t do the nine-to-five thing. I’m not Mike Fucking Brady!”
She heard what he was saying. But what she also heard, the part he’d be the first to deny, was the tone in which he’d said it. He was defensive, almost daring her to argue. If she did, she knew he’d use it as an excuse to storm out. To prove he was right, that she didn’t know him or understand him.
Christa scared her. She didn’t trust her. And in spite of this new talk of an assistant, she still didn’t feel comfortable—but this wasn’t her decision to make.
She swallowed the wine, along with the lump in her throat. “I think it’s wonderful. Christa’s the best in the business, right? And you deserve the best. I’m on your side, Billy. I’m your biggest fan.”
He visibly relaxed, as if he’d been holding his breath since they’d begun talking.
“Really?” He turned. “You’re okay with this, with me going back on the road? What about days like today? What will you do when you need a break?”
“We’ll be okay. I’ve got a whole building full of substitute grandmas here to help if I need them.”
“Oh, babe. You don’t know how glad I am to hear you say this.” He pulled her to her feet and buried his face against her neck. “God, I love you.”
She squeezed him tightly. She knew what he wanted and what he needed. And she knew she loved him enough to risk everything so he could have it.
Chapter Forty-Four
“I can’t believe of all the places I could’ve taken you for your birthday, this is where you wanted to come—again.”