But I’m not supposed to have chemistry with my best friend.
That’s the problem.
“What the hell just happened here?” I whisper to Ally, befuddled.
Her mouth opens, and her eyes go wide, and she blurts out, “I have an appointment. I need to go.”
She takes off, leaving in her wake a trail of chemistry and coconut and confusion.
Chapter 8
Miller
“Don’t just stand here!” Miles gestures wildly to the door. “Go after her.”
But my feet stay planted as my brain tries to process the new side of Ally. “But she said she had an appointment.”
Campbell guffaws. “She’s your best friend, and she just took off like her ass was on fire. Follow her.”
Jackson gestures to the door too. “Listen to your elder and listen to the younger people who know best. Go!”
I’m not even sure what to say, or if Ally’s upset, but I do what they tell me, bolting from the studio, scanning the hall for the woman in the blonde wig. Or maybe I should be looking for Ally’s brunette hair with that bright purple streak. Maybe she’s yanked off the wig, tossed it in the trash can, darted down an alley, and started climbing up the walls, parkour-style. Or maybe I’ve seen too many movies.
Either way, I rush to the lobby of Platinum Sky and ask the receptionist where Ally went. The kind lady with huge glasses and a happy-to-help grin points to the elevator. “She went thataway.”
And now we’re both living in a comic book panel.
I step into the elevator, stab the G button, and will the lift to move faster. Maybe Ally thinks I’m upset with her?
When I reach the ground floor, I blast by security and out to the street to find Ally standing against the building in the brisk December air, bent at the waist, breathing heavily.
Concern threads through me. I reach for her elbow, and she flinches when I touch her. “Are you okay?”
She waves her hand in front of her, still hunched over. “Needed to get some air.” Her voice comes out soft and a little squeaky.
“Are you sure?”
She nods then lifts her face, the blue eyes I know so well peeking out at me from underneath her vampy wig like Charlize Theron in Atomic Blonde. “Are you mad at me?” she asks in that sweet soprano.
I laugh and shake my head. “No. Why the hell would I be mad at you?”
Her eyes are nervous. “I was worried you’d think I tricked you.”
I rub my hand on her back, and she straightens. “Even if you had sent in an audition tape in full costume with a prosthetic nose and colored contacts and who knows what else, I wouldn’t be mad. In fact, I’d probably think that was awesome. What you did was totally ballsy.”
A hint of a smile appears. “Yeah?”
“Also, for the record, you can pull tricks on me any time because it will literally never bother me.”
She laughs lightly and takes a deep breath, then swallows and meets my eyes. “Sorry I took off. Everything hit me when we finished singing, and I needed to breathe.”
I narrow my eyes and study her, as if I’m conducting a full appraisal. “Chest moving up and down. Air coming in and out. Check. Your oxygen intake system seems functional now.”
“Did you hate it?” Her voice rises as she asks the question, laced with nerves.
I scoff, surprised she’d even think that. “No. I thought you were incredible. I was just kind of shocked that it was you. And I was shocked that we actually sounded decent together.”
That smile of hers widens, occupying as much real estate as it possibly can on her face. “You thought we sounded good together?”
“We had chemistry out the wazoo. Hell, we had it out the kazoo. But what did you think?”
“Of our ’zoos?”
I nod, laughing.
She shakes her head, her sunshine-blonde hair moving perfectly in tandem with her. She shrugs then nods.
“Yes, no, maybe?” I ask, trying to translate her sign language.
“It was hard for me to focus on anything but staying in character. I didn’t think you’d even want to listen if it was just me.”
My brow creases. “Just you?”
She stares me down. “You’ve made it clear you thought we sounded terrible together.”
“It wasn’t unfounded. You’ve heard the way we sang ‘Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.’”
“That’s why I wanted to show you I could sing in another style. I wanted to show you what I’m capable of. That’s why I had to audition as someone else—for you to take me seriously.”
Understanding flicks on like a light bulb. It blares so brightly, I nearly squint. Ally doesn’t want to sing with me for kicks. She needs this gig.
My heart goes heavy as concrete in my chest. I want to help her, but I don’t want to lose her. I don’t know how to have both Ally the friend and Ally the bandmate. The first band I played with after the Heartbreakers broke up was a disaster. I started Candid Bandits with my best buddy from college on guitar and me on keyboards. Craig and I knocked out three good tunes before we started butting heads on everything. And I mean every-damn-thing: the style, the practice schedule, the distro plans. We could never get on the same page. I kept making suggestions, but eventually, he let loose and said I was a know-it-all. “You think you know everything because you were in a band before. So what? Things are different now.”
And they were different two weeks later, when he quit and ditched our friendship too.
From Craig to Tiffany, the writing is on the wall. I don’t play well with friends.
“Ally,” I say softly. “Of course I take you seriously, but do you really think we should form a duo together?”
Her expression falls, morphing from adrenaline-fueled excitement to fresh disappointment. “You don’t? I thought you liked how I sang as Honey.”
“I loved it. But I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”
She stares at me as if I’m speaking Turkish. “How would you lose me as a friend by singing with me?”
“You know what happened with Craig?” I ask, reminding her, since I’m pretty sure Ally knows all my stories. She knows about the Tiffany debacle too. “That’s what worries me. My best bud from college is persona non grata. The drummer I dated slaughtered my Xbox. It seems easy to play or sing together with a friend, but then you have to agree on so many things that are more important than whether you want to see Love, Simon or Ready Player One.”
She whispers, “Love, Simon.”
I whisper back, “Ready Player One.” Then I sigh. “That’s my point. It’s like going into business with your bud. Everyone thinks it’s a good idea on the surface. But what happens when you disagree? Or you want to go in different directions?”
“How did you deal with it when it was your brothers?” she asks, with an earnestness that nearly breaks me.
Because they’re my brothers, I want to say. Because we’re family. That’s the difference—they’re stuck with me. She has the choice to ditch me anytime. “Because when I was a dick, they couldn’t disown me. I can’t bear the thought that you’d realize I’m really an asshole to work with. And I am. I’m a total asshole as a bandmate.”
She quirks up the corners of her lips, but it’s not a smile. It’s more like she’s trying to make sense of me. “And you don’t want me to be exposed to the butthead side of you?”
“Yes,” I say, pleading. “If we play together, something could happen to our friendship.”
She seems to fasten on a smile. “I get it.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach for her shoulder, squeezing it.
She side-eyes my hand. “Miller,” she says, in that voice women use when they’re going to put men in their place. “This isn’t an I’m sorry moment. We’re all good.”
“I feel bad though.”
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t need apology balloons or even an apology at all.”
I snort, when she mentions the lame-ass gift her e
x-boyfriend Tyler gave her last year when he was two hours late to see Matilda with her and Chloe, and they’d missed the show. Ally won’t tolerate hurting, disappointing, or just plain dismissing Chloe. “As if I would ever get you apology balloons.”
She smiles. “Good. Balloons are bad for wildlife. Besides, you didn’t do anything wrong. Also”—she purses her lips then casts a glance down the street—“I really do have to go.”
This time I don’t chase her down.
Because I lied.
I’m not an asshole. Please. I’m a cuddly teddy bear.
But I also know how business works.
It works best with family. It works best with acquaintances. I’m jonesing to play again in a band, but that’s because I miss working with other musicians. I miss being part of a business team.
But a business team isn’t a playground for friends. Or for lovers.
If you get too close to either, the next thing you know, your Xbox is splattered on Fifth Avenue.
I can buy a new Xbox fifty times over, but I can’t buy a new friendship.
Chapter 9
Ally
Macy: Give me the 411. Was he so blown away by Honey Lavender that he said, “Please, play sweet music with me now”?
Ally: Hardly. He’s freaking out. He thinks we can’t be friends and sing together.
Macy: Well, that may be true. Look what happened to the White Stripes.
Ally: Could you have picked a worse example than a husband and wife team that had all sorts of issues?
Macy: I’m just saying even the Righteous Brothers split up.
Ally: And one of them died of cocaine-related heart trouble. What else could go wrong?
Macy: You could be Sonny and Cher. Or worse—Ike and Tina.
Ally: I feel super uplifted right now.
Macy: Even Simon and Garfunkel can’t stick together. Those guys keep doing reunions then breaking up.
Ally: Why don’t you make a list and put it in an email?
Macy: Who has time for that? Taylor Swift and John Mayer, Katy Perry and John Mayer . . . wait. You’re fine, as long as you don’t sing a duet with John Mayer.
Ally: Duly noted. I’ll stay away from him.
Macy: Also, why are you bringing up couples who sang and then split? Are you and Miller a couple and you haven’t told me? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
Ally: We’re not a couple. And it’s totally fine if he doesn’t want to sing together. I auditioned, I put my best foot forward, and now I’m going to focus on the things I can control. Like weather and the national debt.
Macy: I’m sorry, honey. I know you wanted to pull this off. But, joking aside, when people go into business with their friends, it can blow up.
Ally: Maybe it was crazy to try to push our friendship into some other category.
Macy: I used to think that about Kirby.
Ally: I’m covering my ears when you talk about MY BROTHER who you fell for. Some friend. ☺
Macy: I couldn’t help falling for my bestie’s brother. He’s wonderful, and so are you. And Miller is just being cautious about the band thing. Don’t let it get you down.
Ally: I’m not even thinking about Miller’s band anymore. Not one bit. Not one stinking iota.
Chapter 10
Miller
Jackson is pacing the hall as I turn the corner past the receptionist’s desk.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to figure out what the hell to do with the spectacular mess my plans have become. Jackson’s face is lit up though, and he points to his phone. “Miller, man, you need to see this.”
“I do?” I ask half-heartedly.
“I have this kick-ass editing software on my phone. I put a clip together in ten minutes.” He’s practically bouncing as he goes into the recording studio, looking back to make sure I’m following. I do and flop down in a wheeled chair between my brothers, rolling back into the wall with a thud.
Jackson brandishes his phone dramatically and hits play.
The first screen is a title card. Break it Down.
I arch a brow.
“Wait for it,” he assures me.
The screen reads, Go BTS for the making of a brand-new musical duo.
“BTS?”
“Behind the scenes,” he answers quickly. “I’ll spell it out next time. Keep watching.”
The next clip is a shot of Jackson strolling down the hall of the studio, talking to the camera, selfie-style.
“Ever wonder what goes into forming a band in the era of YouTube, Spotify, digital everything, and the new musical world order? I’m going to take you behind the scenes into the inner workings of . . .” He stops at the door of the studio, pauses, then stage-whispers, “Hashtag ZimmerHart.”
I raise my eyebrows. Is he joking? But then the camera zooms in on Ally and me, and my eyes are drawn to the screen. Damn, she is luscious as Honey.
Note to self: don’t think dirty thoughts about your best friend.
But hell, that body, that face, that wig. The way she looked. How she smelled.
I scoot back in the chair, like a slight change in position will shift matters away from my pants.
Enough, brain. Focus. Just fucking focus.
I wipe the filth from the gray matter and slap on blinders, zeroing in only on the tunes.
Except I didn’t realize we were that close when we sang.
Ally’s inches away from me, and the look on her face is seductive and sensual. Why the hell did I pick that tune to sing today? What was I thinking choosing a sexy song of desire?
I tug at my collar, my temperature ticking up a few degrees as I watch the small screen, wishing my brothers and Jackson were gone, wishing I was alone to enjoy this.
I mean, study this.
I want to study this video.
Understand it.
Because it’s like watching a foreign film without subtitles. I don’t know what’s going on, so I have to rely on the actions, and the actions make one thing clear—we’re setting the studio on fire. We’re giving off fumes of lust.
I blink, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.
It must be the song. Must be that it’s a great sexy duet, and we were both getting into the meaning and the lyrics.
That’s the way it should be.
Jackson touches the screen with a satisfied flourish, an expectant look in his dark eyes. “What do you think? This might be a crazy idea, but as soon as you two started singing, I knew I was witnessing something I could use for my scholarship application.”
I crease my brow. “What? How?”
“My submission for the media scholarship.”
Awareness slams into me like a truck. He’s mentioned needing to submit a short documentary for the scholarship he’s applying for.
“This would be your submission? Hashtag ZimmerHart?”
“You don’t have to keep that name.”
“But it’s a fun one,” Miles jumps in. “Also, you’d be helping your little brother, and I don’t mean me, because I’m beyond help.”
I laugh at Miles’s goofball side. “True. You’re a lost cause,” I say, smacking his shoulder.
Jackson looks at me, all puppy dog eyes. “If you don’t want me to shoot it, that’s cool, but I stitched this together hoping it would convince you. I was looking at the requirements for the scholarship, and the main thing is to submit your own documentary. I thought this would be an awesome thing to show a behind-the-scenes look into how your duo comes together.”
Campbell meets my gaze, tilting his forehead toward Jackson. “That’s a smart idea for a scholarship app, Miller.”
I heave a sigh. “Let’s be honest here. What are the chances this is going to work out with Ally? I’m not close with anyone I’ve played with except you two dweebs, and you have to like me.”
Campbell crinkles his nose. “Wait. You think we like you?”
“Fuck off,” I say.
Miles raises his eyebrows. “Don’t swear in front of
your little bro.”
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Guys.”
Miles taps his chest. “Hey, I meant me.”
Campbell rises from his chair and plants a hand on my shoulder. “It’s up to you, Miller. But I thought you were always the most optimistic. And now you’re worried it won’t work out if you sing with Ally when you haven’t even started? You and Ally are tight, and I can’t see anything splitting you up. Maybe do it temporarily?”
Miles snaps his fingers. “Try it for a month. Jam together, write some songs, make some videos. Do it DIY-style. Post them online. Let Jackson film it and see how it goes.” Miles claps his hands together like a coach. “And let’s get this dude the scholarship he deserves.”
The scales weigh heavily on one side. Jackson needs a scholarship. Ally needs a little extra money. I need . . . someone to sing with.
That someone isn’t going to be either of the guys I share blood with, so maybe they’re right. Maybe it needs to be Ally-turned-Honey.
Maybe a set time frame will keep this from exploding. As I noodle on the idea of a temporary arrangement, my heart rate slows to normal. Short-term is my middle name.
I mean, I’m excellent at striking temporary deals to sing with my best friend.
Miles smacks my knee. “Just talk to Ally. See if that would work for her.”
But the thing is, I don’t think I have to talk to Ally. She’s pretty much all in, and this is entirely up to me.
I just need to make sure I don’t fuck it up.
Taking a breath, I begin to formulate a plan.
Once Upon A Sure Thing Page 5