Happily Ever Aftermath: A Romantic Comedy (The Aftermath Series Book 1), page 14
But I was sweaty too. We all went back to the greenroom.
Where we found our puppy on her feet and looking for us, the end of her leash trapped under the leg of a sofa.
“Baby!” Archer cried. He swooped down to cuddle her, and she licked his face in devotion. “I forgot! Martina couldn’t watch you while she was onstage! Guys, we need to figure something out for our Charlotte!”
As it turned out, Charlotte liked frisking in the huge locker-room shower with us, so I soaped her up and gave her a good rinse. She loved it.
“Now you’re as clean as we are, pupper,” Mal crooned as he dried her off. “Ready for your close-up, aren’t you, baby?”
There was a little too much wiggle in her excitement. “I wonder how long it’s been since she’s been out,” I asked, but of course none of us knew. So, once I was dressed, I leashed her up again and found her poop bags.
“Dude,” Archer said. “What are you doing in a red shirt?”
I looked down at myself. “Um . . .”
“You’re supposed to dress in all black. Look at Mal and me. Dressed like Aftermath, dude! How are you going to a meet-and-greet in a red T-shirt?”
I did my best to express contempt with eyebrows alone. “Char and I are going for a walk. I’ll find you up there.”
Charlotte was a very good dog. Somehow she understood the difference between a concrete wall under a roof and a concrete wall under open sky and didn’t begin peeing until we left the loading dock under the stadium.
A security guard glanced at the lanyard that held my backstage pass but went to one knee to have a long, happy conversation with my dog. If I wanted to stalk Sheree, I’d bring an adorable dog.
When we made our way back to the meet-and-greet area, the large security guard pursed his lips and tipped a heavily muscled skull at Charlotte.
“I don’t know that she can go in there,” he said. “I mean, people are allergic and stuff.”
Huh. I peered past him. Archer was toward the beginning of the long line that ended in Sheree, but he was chatting with his usual charm to a curly-blonde babe on the arm of an expensive business suit. Mal was sniggering in the corner with the percussion guy. Even Nicky was usefully employed, holding a stack of commemorative programs for Sheree to sign.
“Okay.” I shrugged. “If anyone asks, Charlotte and I are going back to the hotel.”
“Wish I could say the same, man,” the security guard said with unexpected humor. At my look of surprise, he nodded in acknowledgment. “Fist.”
“Fist?”
“My name. I’m Fist. You’re the lead guitarist for Aftermath.”
“Ian,” I said, my hand getting lost in his when we shook. “Tired of working the door?” I guessed.
“Checking passes, which have already been checked ten times already. But if something happens, I’m on the case.”
I had no doubt. Fist looked like a mountain had learned to walk.
Back at the hotel, I fed Charlotte, and she looked at me hopefully. She’d been in a greenroom all afternoon and evening. Just a baby, but a baby with a lot of energy. “Want to go for a walk, pup?”
She did. I did too. I had plenty of energy, and Charlotte was made of nothing but gray fur and elastic. We took ourselves out to the warm Miami night. In fact, I went so far that I ended up having to carry the puppy back while she drooled on my shoulder, but that was okay too.
A good day. Now all I needed was a long sleep in a silent hotel room. Still. Cool. Dark.
Next to the woman who made sleep possible.
Would she go for it again?
16
THINGS ARE COMING TOGETHER
NICKY
The second Miami concert was as fantastic as the first one, and it wasn’t just my uninformed opinion. I was assigned to help in the VIP suite again, and the journalist from Keep the Beat nodded in appreciation when “Oriza Eh” was moved in the set to the end of the first act.
“Smart,” he said. “She’s leaving the stage as a total winner. They’ll have twenty minutes to bask in the glow.”
Was he talking about Sheree and her band basking, or the audience? It was unclear, but I didn’t want to point out my ignorance by asking. He’d already asked for ten minutes with Aftermath after the concert, and this time I’d gotten a side office where my guys could meet with the press. Dickie’s Sounds of the Southeast episode had dropped that afternoon, and press attention had grown.
Who, me? Feeling proud? Don’t be silly. I was just the little intern who got coffee for Bruce and held programs for Sheree to sign. I didn’t know a thing about marketing or business or promotions.
Go ahead. Keep underestimating me.
I did not let my grin show.
Aftermath made it to the VIP suite before Sheree finished her encores. The three of them smelled like soap and handsome male, all dressed in their signature colors. Archer, blinding as the sun in his beauty, was holding Charlotte’s leash. She was prancing at his side, carrying his now-tattered boot in her mouth.
“Our girl can come with us, right?” he asked me, looking to Fist at the door.
Fist looked at him impassively, and Bruce left his schmooze with an uninterested-looking TV field reporter to come forward to ruin Archer’s happiness.
I grabbed Archer’s lean, muscled arm and tugged him away. “I’ve got you guys an office to meet with the press. Come this way.”
Fist tipped me a wink as I left, and I showed the guys into the office. No view of the stage, but also no objections to having a dog. Archer unclipped her leash immediately, and she flopped to the floor to chew contentedly.
“She had to be leashed to the sofa again during the concert,” he said. “Nicky, can you take her when we’re onstage?”
There was nothing I wanted to do more than make that man happy, but I foresaw problems. “If I’m on merch duty, sure. I’m happy to have her. But when Bianca puts me in the VIP suite . . . well, you saw. Fist and allergies and people who are afraid of—yes, look at you, such a baby. Look at those eyes!”
I indulged myself in a little Charlotte cuddle but got to my feet again when the thunder of applause made it clear that Sheree had said her final good night.
“Okay, two journalists want some time with you, and they both want to be back in time to see Sheree come into the VIP suite, so I’m going to keep you guys on a schedule, and then you can join the meet-and-greet once you’re done here. Good?”
“Two interviews,” Mal said happily. “This tour is awesome.”
Sure, I thought as I went to get the Keep the Beat guy. It’s the tour that’s earning you press attention. Sure it is. Don’t worry about who I’m emailing, the contacts I’m forming, the momentum I’m going to build for you guys. Keep underestimating me.
Both journalists had their interviews, and when Sheree needed an extra ten minutes to meet with the president of her Miami fan club, one of the TV news crews filled the empty time with a quick Aftermath interview, mostly about “The Salesman” and the kinds of jobs Archer had before his career as a rock god. Everyone left smiling.
Once they were released from their interviews, I knew what was expected of me. I collected more commemorative programs for Bruce so Sheree could sign them for the high-dollar ticket buyers. And I kept an eye on Archer, who easily joined the meet-and-greet lineup. Mal and Ian were in the hall with Fist, the dog, and Gavin and Freddy from Sheree’s band. It was managed chaos once Sheree arrived, and I was glad to be helping her.
Until a curly-haired blonde appeared and attached herself to Archer. Like a leech. Give the man room to breathe, darling. He’s a singer. He needs oxygen more than he needs your man-made tits crushing his chest.
I leaned down to grab another armful of programs. When I stood, Archer and the blonde were in the hallway, talking to Mal and Ian.
Then Archer and the blonde were gone.
Maybe she was his sister. Maybe she was a nun trying out spandex clothing in order to better understand her parishioners. Maybe she was dying, and Archer was her last wish.
She was a ho. Going after my man.
Getting my man.
Gone.
Well, shit.
I kept my smile professional and tried not to mind. He was a rock star on tour. Groupies were going to want to sleep with him. It didn’t mean true love. It just meant . . .
Ugh. Paternity suits and sexually transmitted diseases and women of low character who didn’t understand the soul of an artist. The tramp.
The question, I decided, was: Did I want to talk to Archer when we all got back to the bus? The drive to Alabama was long enough that I could gently introduce to him the dangers of casual sex with sluts in some dark corner of a rapidly emptying stadium. It would be awkward. But what kind of a friend would I be if I said nothing?
What chance would I stand with him if he didn’t realize my calmness, my understanding, my—my—high moral fiber?
My willingness to find myself with him in a dark corner of a rapidly emptying stadium?
Damn. I was just as much a slut as she was. The only difference was she had Archer.
For now.
I had him for the entire night. For the entire tour.
Advantage: Nicky.
I needed to buy a spandex dress.
I still wasn’t sure how I was going to handle it by the time I got back to the bus. I greeted Ken as if it had been more than two days in the hotel. Mal and Ian were in the front of the bus, Mal (as usual) at the kitchen banquette, where he could bang his hands on the table if he needed to, and Ian (as usual) in the swivel chair that let him hold his guitar comfortably to play endless scales.
Charlotte slithered off the banquette by Mal to wiggle delightedly to me, and I fell to my knees to greet her. “Hi, baby!”
“Okay, Ken,” Mal said. “We’re all here. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”
Ken leaned around his enclosure. “Where’s his royal blondness?” he asked. “He not coming?”
Mal waved a hand in dismissal. Was he avoiding catching my eye? “He’s meeting us in Montgomery in time for sound check.”
What?
“Picked up a road chickie, huh?” Ken shook his head. “You kids. So fucking young. Sorry for cursing, little missy.”
The big bus engine rumbled to life and we pulled out, from the artificial daylight in the subterranean garage to the darkness of night over the highway.
“Archer’s meeting us in Montgomery?” I repeated woodenly. He was spending the night with her?
“He’ll be there. Don’t worry.” Mal looked unhappy saying it.
“It doesn’t mean anything, Nicky.” Ian’s sympathy was hard to bear. “He just likes women.”
“Sure,” I said brightly. I kissed Charlotte’s fuzzy head and stood. “Of course. I’m going to get settled in. It was nice having a hotel room for a few nights, huh? ’Scuse me.”
More nervous drumming on the table. More guitar scales.
Blech. What a bad night.
I pulled myself together. Changed my work clothes for sweats and a T-shirt. Found my laptop and charger and joined Mal at the kitchen table.
And found reasons to smile in my emails. “That’s two—no, three journalists who want to meet with you guys in Montgomery.”
“No shit?” Mal was happy for a reason to smile back at me. “That’s awesome.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” Ian added. At least he knew why the press was suddenly interested in interviewing them.
“Aw,” I said modestly. “I’m sure it’s Dickie’s blog episode.”
“Sure,” Ian said, changing keys as he played endless scales. “And Dickie just happened to be wandering past. Stopped by to see if anyone had anything interesting for him to talk about.”
I looked back to my laptop to mask my smile.
Mal was confused. “He came for Sheree, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said staunchly. Ian smiled. I had another seven journalists to contact in Montgomery and eleven more potential contacts for the St. Louis concert after that. I got busy typing.
It was a tribute to the nocturnal nature of the music industry that the Lyre Records legal department sent me an email at 2:42 in the morning.
“Hey!” I said, delighted in the face of endless guitar scales. “Lyre Records signed the merchandise contract for you guys!”
Mal pulled out his earbuds. “What?”
“Yeah! Morey signed for you guys, and my adviser approved the project. We’re official!”
“Congratulations.” Ian’s half smile didn’t interrupt the notes flowing out of the guitar.
“What now?” Mal asked.
“Now I have to get competitive bids from five vendors, including the two that Lyre Records recommends.”
“Bids for what?” Mal was interested.
“I’m thinking hoodies. You guys like the idea? Sheree doesn’t have a hoodie in her merch, and I’ve watched plenty of people buy fifty-dollar Sheree sweatshirts for these skinny daughters who can’t handle the stadium air conditioning before the concert starts. I figure an Aftermath hoodie might be a good seller.”
“She’s getting fifty bucks for a sweatshirt?” Ian’s eyebrows went up thoughtfully. “That’s pretty good money. How much would you sell a hoodie for?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what kind of a deal I can get on manufacturing. And I only have a few weeks to get them in, which lets out China entirely. Fortunately, I have contacts at some manufactories in Delaware.”
“You do?” Mal asked.
I bopped my finger lightly on his adorable nose. “You’re looking at the corporate services manager for Swan Soft Cleaners in Dover, Delaware—at least, when I’m not in college. I know some people.” It wasn’t often that I got to feel smug about having contacts in the clothing industry.
“Well, let’s get going!” Mal leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s talk color and style and images! What are you thinking?”
I had to talk them into the photo I wanted to use on the front. They didn’t think Archer nose to nose with Charlotte was rock ’n’ roll enough. I had to remind them that we were looking to sell hoodies to teenage girls who’d come to see Sheree.
“Put it on a black hoodie,” Ian said. “You’ll get the teenage boys too. Skateboarders. Guys who want to look like skateboarders.”
“Too girly!” Mal cried again.
Ian shut him down. “Handsome picture of Archer? What else do you think is going to sell? Put that mug and pup on a dishrag and it’ll sell.”
And that settled the argument. If Archer had wanted to get in on the discussion, he should have avoided picking up a floozy for meaningless sex.
“How about the back?” Mal asked. “Something more manly?”
“I was just thinking the word “aftermath.” Like it’s a motorcycle club?” I said.
Mal liked the motorcycle-club idea. “Yeah. That’s good!”
I needed two-thirds of Aftermath to approve the design by contract. I looked to Ian. “You do what you think is best,” he said firmly.
“Agreed,” Mal added.
“You realize you’ve just given me the right to sell candy-pink hair scrunchies with your names on them?”
Mal laughed, and Ian smirked. “Where were you a few days ago when I needed a candy-pink hair scrunchie? I’m damn near bald today. Do your worst, Nicky. You’re far and away the best manager we’ve ever had.”
“Amen to that,” Mal cheered.
The small bloom of warmth in my chest, I decided, was pride. It did a lot to erode the anger and pain at Archer’s absence.
Ken pulled over a little after four so we could take Charlotte for her good-night walk, and that was the signal for all of us to realize how tired we were. Charlotte took her boot and dragged it into Archer’s bunk. “That can be her den.” I sighed in resignation. “She’s going to be big enough to fill it alone in about five minutes.”
“Serves Archer right,” Mal said before he disappeared into his upper-level bunk.
Ian was standing in the back lounge. He looked at me, and I looked back.
“He’s not even here,” Ian said, gesturing to the daybed behind him. “Care to sleep in here?”
When we finally settled on the sofa together, I sighed. “I did have nightmares last night,” I admitted.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Ian asked. “I called you.”
“I did. I called you back. You didn’t answer.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I took Charlotte for a walk, and I forgot my phone.”
I couldn’t get my head around the concept. No female I knew would dare to walk late at night without a phone at the very least.
He finished his thought. “By the time I got back, I decided you were probably already asleep.”
“I probably was. Dreaming of being battered into a bloody mess by bonus Sheree CDs fired at me by cannons.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. It was so stupid. And I was so scared.”
He turned onto his side and rubbed a knuckle along my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I hate that you have these nightmares.”
“Me too. But now that the contract is signed and I can get started on the design and manufacturing, I think the pressure is going to ease.”
He was silent. “So when you don’t need me to ward off the nightmares anymore, how am I going to get to sleep?”
His tone said he was trying to make a joke, but the underlying pain was more obvious than he realized. “You didn’t sleep last night?”
He sighed and rolled to his back again. “A little while. Not long.”
“I’m really sorry.”
He turned to look at me. “Not your fault, Nicky.”
“Not my fault,” I agreed. “But it sure seems like we can help each other. At least for now.”
“I’ll settle for at least tonight. I don’t know what it is, but when you’re beside me, I can feel sleep right beyond my reach. Like, if I close my eyes, I could catch it.”
“Then close your eyes, Ian. Catch it. Go to sleep. When you do, your playing is nothing short of brilliant.”
I shouldn’t have said it because his body tensed up again. Not a tranquil thing, I thought to myself, to say to a musician on an important tour.
