by Roxy Reid
If I ever go outside. I’ve been in the lobby for a half hour, my camera with the best zoom hidden in my big purse. I’m starting to worry I missed him.
The elevator dings, and Finn steps out. He looks broad and strong and angry in his beat up leather jacket and his day old scruff, and my stomach flips.
How well do I really know this man?
I never thought of this assignment as being dangerous, but if Finn’s really got a secret to hide …
Finn would never hurt me, at least not physically. Whoever he’s going to meet though …
Why the hell am I doing this?
$20,000. That’s why I’m doing this.
I rise and follow Finn out of the lobby at a discrete distance.
I have a moment of thinking he’ll call a cab, and I’ll get to say Follow that car! like in an old fashioned movie, but Finn sticks to the sidewalk, ducking his head against the wind.
There aren’t very many people on the sidewalk, or maybe it’s that the sidewalks are wider than they are in New York. Either way, I’m feeling too exposed as I follow him, and when he stops, I duck into a doorway. The homeless man already sitting there gives me an odd look.
“Sorry,” I apologize, feeling like I need to explain. “I’m tailing my ex-boyfriend. Not because I’m a stalker or hung up on him. He’s a rockstar, and I’m trying to get dirt on him for this story.”
The homeless man cranes his neck to look up and down the sidewalk, “The white guy in the leather jacket walking like he’s mad?”
“That’s him.”
“Hmm. Nice ass.” He settles back into his doorway, “He went left at the streetlight.”
I thank him and speed-walk to catch up with Finn.
But when I turn left, I don’t see Finn. I look right, in case the man got the directions wrong, but I don’t see Finn there either.
“Shit.” My first real lead, and I lose Finn.
I’m reluctantly thinking maybe I should head back to the hotel, when I hear two teenagers giggling up ahead, as they peer into an upscale restaurant.
“It’s him, it’s really him.”
“But what would Finn Ryan be doing in Chicago?”
“Wait, isn’t his concert here this week? I wanted to go so bad but my mom said not on a school night.”
Thank God for eagle-eyed teenage girls.
My pulse is pounding as I stroll up to the restaurant, pretending to read the expensive menu posted on the door.
I can just make out Finn, in the far back corner of the restaurant. His back is to me. The man sitting across from him is probably in his late thirties. He’s square jawed, in a suit, with a nondescript haircut. He should be attractive, but his eyes are cold, like a shark.
Shit, he’s looking at me.
I scoot to the side, thinking through my options. I can go to the coffee shop across the street and hope my zoom lens is good enough. That will get me the photos I need, but it won’t tell me what’s going on.
The other option is to go into the restaurant. I’d be relying on the camera on my phone—my real camera would be too obvious—and Finn might see me.
But I also might hear what’s going on.
I step inside. As soon as I’m inside, I’m hit with that luxuriously textured quiet of clinking glasses and soft murmurs that rich people restaurants have.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” the hostess asks from behind her mahogany pulpit.
A quick glance at the restaurant tells me my best hope is the bar. It’s slightly lower than the restaurant area, and bordered with large tropical plants. It will definitely let me get the closest without Finn seeing me.
“I’m meeting someone in your bar,” I say with a smile, and stride past her confidently, trying to channel Bridget.
I find the bar table closest to Finn and Shark-Eyes and settle myself squarely behind a giant tropical bush. I pull out my phone and slide it across the table, trying to find an angle that will work between the bush’s big leaves.
I’m not having any luck. I wonder if I can get away with moving to another table, or if that will arouse the hostess’s suspicions, when I hear Finn’s voice clear as day.
“I know this is last minute, so I’m willing to be generous with compensation.”
“You’re not hearing me, Ryan. I have money. What I don’t have, what you took from me, is my reputation. People don’t want to work with me anymore.”
“Well Zane, believe it or not, that might have more to do with you than it does with me.”
Shark eyes—Zane—laughs softly. His laugh is like his eyes. Cold and small.
“No see, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been myself for the last twenty years, and people worked with me. Begged for me even. And then you kicked me to the curb and had the nerve to say it was because of my behavior, not the overly soft and sensitive people you choose to surround yourself with.
“And hey, I’ll give it to you. Throwing me under the bus like that was a great P.R. move. Made you look like the bad boy hero. I might even admire you for it. Except that suddenly, if I’m too much of an ass to work with Finn Ryan, no one else wants to work with me. Because they all want to look as good as you.”
Finn’s voice is tense when he says, “That’s not my fault.”
“No, but you could be the solution.”
Their waiter arrives, and Zane orders baked salmon slathered in miso peanut butter for both of them, even though Finn’s allergic to peanuts, then sends the waiter away before Finn can correct the order.
The pettiness of it makes my skin crawl. This has to be that producer Finn hates, Zane Wright.
But why is Finn talking to him? And why is he trying to hire him?
“Why do you think I have the solution?” Finn asks.
“I want you to apologize, publicly, for breaking our partnership. Blame it on your own fickle artistic nature. Whatever. The point is, you talk about how wrong you were, and how much you need me. It gives all my other clients the cover they need to come back to me.”
“And no one cares that it’s a lie,” Finn says.
“It’s not all a lie. You do need me.”
Finn doesn’t say anything.
“Go on, Finny. Tell me you need me.”
“Zane …”
“You’re being awfully stubborn for a man on his knees. But I guess if you don’t need me …” There are rustling sounds like he’s getting up to go, and I’m thinking good riddance, but then Finn speaks.
“I need you,” Finn’s voice is dead and bleak, and I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being.
“Say it again. But say my name this time.”
“I need you, Zane,” Finn says, and Zane laughs delightedly.
“That will make an excellent ringtone,” Zane says and plays a recording of it back at Finn.
It’s all I can do not to jump through the bushes and stab this man’s eyes out.
Why isn’t Finn standing up for himself? I hardly recognize the man I know in this passive martyr.
“Does that count as my public apology?” Finn asks.
“What? Ha. No. That was just for fun. If we’re doing this I want half a million, and an interview in the publication of my choosing where you recant every defamatory thing you said about me and talk about how irreplaceable I am. And then I want you to do it again when you give your speech at the album launch party. And, at the Grammys? I’m the one you thank first.”
“What makes you think this album will get a Grammy?”
“It’s you and me. When we work together, we’re brilliant. You know it too, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
Finn is silent.
I lean back, finally finding an angle where I can get a clear, discrete shot through the leaves. I snap away, catching the fury on Finn’s face and the smug satisfaction on Zane’s.
“Think it over,” Zane says. “Do whatever you need to do to get over your pride. Then call me tomorrow, and we’ll set up that interview.”
Za
ne stands up and leaves. “Enjoy your meal,” he calls over his shoulder.
I lean farther back, trying to get one last shot of the two of them, and my chair falls over backward with a bang.
I’m dimly aware of a sharp pain in the back of my head, while my chest goes light. I’m not sure I’m breathing.
“Miss? Miss, are you alright?” the bartender asks. He has very nice gold earring. Gold is such a pretty color to photograph.
“I’m fine,” I say. At least I think I say it. It’s possible I just think it.
I try to rise, and the bartender helps me up and into a chair, “Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Charlie De Luca,” I say quietly.
“I’m sorry, can you say that more loudly?”
Doesn’t the man know I’m under cover?
But he’s not going to leave, so I say a little louder, “Charlie De Luca.”
“What?”
“Charlie De Luca!”
He winces a little at the volume, “And your birthday?”
“Are you carding me?”
“I’m trying to confirm you don’t have a concussion. Birthday?”
“December 10, 1991,” a deep voice says.
The bartender and I both look up to see Finn glaring at me, his hands on his hips.
Ooops.
“Charlie,” he says, and his voice is foreboding. “What are you doing here?”
I’m scrambling to come up with a lie, when the bartender says, “She had a pretty bad fall.”
Finn’s face goes from irritation to concern, and he’s at my side so fast, I get dizzy. Or maybe it’s the sudden rush of inhaling his scent. That warm Finn-scent underneath lemon soap.
“Are you getting a headache?” Finn asks. “Ringing in your ear? Nausea?”
“What are you? A doctor?” I ask grumpily.
“I fell off a stage once,” Finn says. “Feeling any nausea?”
“No, Florence Nightingale.”
“One symptom of concussion can be irritability,” the bartender says.
“That’s also a symptom of hanging out with Finn,” I say, and a smile of relief flickers on Finn’s face. Butterflies swoop around my stomach at that smile. It’s like he was really worried about me or something.
“Did you get knocked out when you fell?” he asks.
“No,” I say, rubbing where the back of my head smacked the floor. “I think I just got the wind knocked out of me.”
“Ok. We should still watch for symptoms for the rest of the tour—they can emerge later—but I think you’re probably fine.” Finn looks over to the bartender, “Go get her some ice.”
The bartender scurries off to do as Finn says.
“Does it hurt a lot?” Finn asks sympathetically.
“Huh? Not really.”
“Then why are you still rubbing it?”
“If you rub it right away it doesn’t bruise as bad,” I say. I’m prepared for Finn to mock me for it, but instead he stands and comes to stand behind me.
I feel a rush of tingles up the back of my neck, because he’s hot and near and out of my sight.
Finn’s strong fingers replace mine, gentle and sure, making small circles in my hair, and my own arms fall away.
“Like this?” Finn asks.
“A little more pressure,” I say, and he complies.
It feels so good, it’s like I’m melting. You’re not supposed to let your enemy under your defenses like this.
The bartender comes back with a bag of ice, which he sets on the table. He looks at Finn over the top of my head, and there’s some sort of territorial male thing going on because Finn says, “I’ve got her. You can go.”
The bartender retreats reluctantly—he’s kind of cute, I notice belatedly—and Finn’s fingers resume their magic.
“How did you remember my birthday?” I ask.
“I’m good with birthdays,” Finn says.
“You’re horrible with birthdays. You forgot your own once.”
Finn doesn’t have a response for that.
A woman I assume is his waiter appears around the corner holding two plates of salmon, “Would you like these over here?”
“NO,” I blurt indignantly. “He’s allergic to peanuts. That’s bully-salmon, and we don’t want it.”
Finn’s fingers still, and I realize I’ve given myself away, as the waitress apologizes and backs away.
Finn sits down opposite me and passes me the ice. It’s a poor replacement for his fingers, but I accept it.
“You were listening,” he says.
“I recognized your voice.”
“Why were you here in the first place?” Finn asks.
“A sudden craving for overpriced fish?”
Finn scowls.
I realize I have to give him the truth. Some of it. “I was going to get lunch when I saw you leave the lobby. After you’d told Bridget you had a headache and lied to her about the meeting, I was curious.”
His scowl deepens, “That’s none of your business.”
“What are you doing here?” I demand. “You hate Zane Wright. And that’s who that was, wasn’t it?”
Finn crosses his arms, his jaw set mulishly.
It’s his I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-a-damn-thing face, and suddenly he’s not the only one who’s furious.
Because I don’t want to give this story to Shaun. I don’t want to paint Finn as a man who gives in to jerks. I don’t want Finn to be a man who gives in to jerks. There’s more to this story, but if Finn won’t talk to me, there’s nothing I can do to help.
I realize with a jolt that I do want to help. I want to climb into Finn’s lap and soothe his hurts and fight off his bullies.
But as Finn said, it’s none of my business.
I shove away from the table and storm out of the restaurant.
“Charlie! Charlie, be careful!” Finn calls, hurrying after me.
Oh that’s rich. Him telling me to be careful. I’m not the one of us that’s self-destructing.
Finn grabs my arm, “Charlie! Wait.”
I whirl on him, “Why are you doing this, Finn? Practically everyone on your tour has told me they like working for you because you don’t hire people like Zane. And now you’re going back to him? This is bigger than you. It’s going to make all of your people miserable.”
“I’m not letting him anywhere near them. He’s not producing. He’s just helping me write some songs.”
“Why? You’re a good songwriter. You don’t need him,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, letting his hand fall from my arm. “I do.”
I want to smack Finn. Just smack that look of defeat right off his face.
Sure, I want to take him down a peg. That doesn’t mean anyone else gets to. Especially not someone like Zane.
“You don’t need him,” I say. “You wrote your first album by yourself, no Zane.”
“I didn’t write it by myself.”
“Then who’d you write it with?”
“You! I wrote it with you,” Finn closes his eyes and scrubs a hand through his hair.
“Finn,” I say cautiously, “what are you talking about?”
Finn spreads his arms, smiling, but it’s a tense, horrible smile. “I can’t write music by myself. I need someone to bounce ideas off of. Like I used to with you. And the only people I’ve ever written successfully with are you and Zane. And I’ve got an album to record as soon as we finish the tour and I don’t have any songs.”
I wrap my arms around myself as the pieces start clicking into place, “That’s what you were trying to talk to me about in New Orleans. Why you wanted me to forgive you.” My eyes narrow, “Is that why you hired me?”
Finn shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away, “Are you furious with me?”
I’m trying to use him for an exposé. Compared to that, trying to use me to help him write some songs doesn’t seem that bad.
It almost seems … vulnerable.
�
�Why didn’t you just ask me?” I say.
Finn looks up at me, and it’s like his eyes are burning into me, “Because you still hate me. So sue me if I don’t want to hand you my biggest failing on a silver platter.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say.
He snorts a laugh and turns away. He looks so alone, standing there with his back to me. When he finally turns back to me, his shoulders are squared, and his face is impassive, like he’s determined to bear up under some impossible weight.
“Come on Concussion Lady,” Finn says. “Let’s get you back to the hotel. I have to call Zane. And you should get some rest.”
“No,” I don’t plan to say it, but as soon as I do it’s like the world has straightened. Like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders.
“Charlie—”
“Don’t call Zane.”
“Don’t worry about this. I’m a grown-up, I’ll be fine—”
“I’ll help you,” I say.
Finn freezes.
“You’ll what?” he asks.
I adjust the strap on my purse nervously, “I’ll help you write your song or whatever. I’m stuck with you until the tour ends anyway.”
“Charlie, I …” Finn runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Do you not want my help?”
“No! Yes. Yes, I want your help.”
“Ok then.”
“Ok then.”
We stand there looking at each other, strangely nervous, and for some reason it makes me think of the first time he asked me out.
He brought up a photography exhibit, and I could tell where he was headed before he got to the question. I remember the sensation of standing on a precipice, knowing that any choice I made would change what we were forever.
It feels like that now. Except I’m not on the precipice. I already jumped, and now I’m free-falling.
“So,” I say, “how do we write a song?”
Five hours later we’re in his hotel room, pizza boxes and scrap paper strewn around us. His hotel room, I will say, is much nicer than mine. For starters, there’s a living room.
Finn’s sitting cross-legged at a keyboard with a notebook that’s full of unsatisfactory song ideas.