Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)(8)

“Sing ‘Hit the Road.’”

I turn to the counter where Tommy is goading us on, smirking from behind his big beard.

Campbell waves him off. “One tune is enough for a Friday afternoon.”

“Come in tonight and play a whole set, then,” he says, needling Campbell more.

I’d be game. I’d happily dive into that number with him, or any of our songs for that matter. I loved nothing more than playing with him, and later with Miles when he joined us. My heart winces with longing to have that again. That’s honestly what I miss most about performing. The companionship with my brothers. The camaraderie. I’m a social creature. I want to have a good time, make some music, and play with family.

But family isn’t an option. Even so, I’d like to find that kind of musical and business chemistry with another musician. Someone who’s invested, who wants to work hard at making music. Maybe I can have that same sort of we’re-a-team vibe with a new singer.

Campbell clamps a hand on my shoulder, smiling. “That was fun singing together.”

“It’s always fun,” I say, a little wistful, wishing coffee-shop improv was a regular item on our schedules.

“Truer words.” Campbell hitches his thumb toward the door. “And now I need to hit the road. I’m heading to a violin lesson with Kyle, then dinner with Samantha and Mackenzie.”

“Try not to have such a perfect life, will ya?”

“What can I say? I’m a happy clam.” He taps the computer. “Get moving on the next phase. You want to make sure they have stage presence. You need videos, especially from Honey Lavender. Damn, with a voice like that, I wonder if she looks like Jessica Rabbit.”

“Let’s hope so.” I shake my head. “Wait, I didn’t say that.”

He points at me. “You be good this time.”

As a former rocker, I had my fair share of women wanting to score, thanks to my mic and keyboard, and honestly, my teen idol face. I didn’t sleep around when I was sixteen. That would have been gross. But we still played when we were in college, and man, those were some fine years.

The years that came after were too, and the rock star mystique never hurt.

Trouble was, I once got involved with a drummer I played with when I went solo for a few years. She was a session musician, Tiffany Turner, and she was fiery on the drums. Fiery in bed. Fiery out of bed.

And fiery as fuck when we broke up. She stomped over to my apartment and tossed my laptop out the window. She tossed my TV and my Xbox too, sending them all crashing to an electronic graveyard of her making on East Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. All because I said, “I like you, but I don’t want to get serious.”

Eventually, I found a new drummer. But I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t mix business with pleasure.

That means it doesn’t matter if Honey Lavender is sexy or not. What matters most is whether she can sing well with me.

Screw asking for a video audition.

I’m ready to meet all of the top nine, because why waste time with a video when the kind of magic I’m looking for, the kind I just experienced with Campbell, is best discovered in person?

I write to the top picks, and then to Honey, asking if she can come in to do a song with me in person.





Chapter 5





Ally



Breathe.

Just breathe. Air comes in, air goes out.

But as I take a break from the world of night magic and rogue teen witches battling armies of spirit clones to check my email, I seem to have forgotten the basic mechanics of respiration—because of this email.

I close my eyes, will my jackrabbiting pulse to settle, and finally take a breath. I open my eyes and reread the email from my best friend. The subject line is Blown away.



Thought your song was fantastic! Can you meet me on Monday at ten forty-five to sing?



Then there’s an address for a studio Miller likes to use.

Mine.

He must have booked the time with one of my colleagues.

I fan my face and try to collect my thoughts as excitement zigzags through me.

He thought I was amazing. He thought I was great.

I’m so screwed.

There’s no way I can pull this off.

How am I going to walk into my studio, say surprise, and then knock out a song with my best guy friend as my newly created, sexier, smokier alter ego?

I mean, obviously, I knew this was a possibility. I’d hoped for this possibility.

I wanted him to pick me because he loves my voice, and if he’s calling me in, it means my vocal gymnastics worked.

The key is to keep blowing him away as Honey, and Honey has some naughty in her. She has a dose of sultry, a dash of cinnamon, and a whole lot of spice.

I can’t walk in there looking like Ally Zimmerman, the a cappella queen. I need to jettison the whole look and character I mastered when I was half of the family-centric brother-and-sister duo. No ponytails, no collared polo shirts, and no bouncy Keds shoes.

I won’t be the soprano princess with a voice like a bell, the kind of woman who lights YouTube on fire singing “Amazing Grace” mashed up with “The Four Seasons.” Or “Only Fools Fall in Love” mingled with “Hallelujah.” The Zimmerman duo has nothing in common vocally with Miller’s pop-rock style of big anthems and powerful songs designed to be played in arenas.