Run, Rose, Run(40)

“Those look hot on you,” Rhonda said.

“Could I use the phone?” AnnieLee asked. If she didn’t call him right now, she’d lose her nerve.

Rhonda looked pointedly at the basket. AnnieLee sliced open the cellophane with her room key, reached in to grab a sleeve of extremely delicious-looking ginger cookies, and held them out to Rhonda.

“Now can I use it?” AnnieLee asked.

Rhonda smiled and lifted the phone onto the counter where AnnieLee could reach it. Then she opened the cookies. “Dial nine to get out,” she said, breaking off a piece of a cookie and popping it in her mouth. “Do you know how much that champagne is worth?”

“Of course not,” AnnieLee said. She’d never tasted real champagne in her life, let alone tried to buy herself any.

“Five hundred dollars. I googled it.”

“So can I give you the bottle instead of the rent money?”

Rhonda snorted again. “Not when Two-Buck Chuck’ll get me just as drunk on a Saturday night.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” AnnieLee said, sliding an envelope of cash toward the motel manager. She wasn’t stone broke, not anymore, but handing over a solid three figures still wasn’t what she’d call enjoyable.

Someday, though, she was going to have enough money to blow her nose on twenties if she wanted to.

I’m on my way, I start today

I’m gonna be all right



AnnieLee held the handset to her cheek and tapped her fingers on the counter as the phone rang. Sound tough, she reminded herself.

“Shumer,” said a brusque voice.

“Mr. Shumer, this is AnnieLee Keyes.”

Immediately the voice warmed. “Please, call me Mikey, AnnieLee. It’s great to hear from you.”

“What’s with the loot in the lobby?”

“A small token of my esteem,” he said smoothly. “And, apparently, the only way to get you to return my calls. I want to meet with you, AnnieLee. I’ve seen you play—you’re incredible—and I happen to think I could be extremely beneficial to your career.”

AnnieLee was surprised by how earnest he sounded. “You came to one of my shows? Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

After a beat, he said, “I saw a video, actually, taken by one of my people.”

“Oh. I don’t know if that really counts,” she said.

Mikey Shumer laughed. “Well, it’s obvious that a cell phone video doesn’t do you justice. That’s why I want to meet you in the flesh, just as soon as you’re willing. I’d like to talk about what I can do for you.”

AnnieLee gazed out the streaked lobby window. The sun was already beating down on the asphalt, and the air shimmered in the heat. She could hear the shouts of kids splashing in the pool—kids who were visiting the country music capital with their parents, and for whom sleeping in this cruddy motel was a wonderful adventure.

Aside from her night at Ruthanna’s, this cruddy motel was the nicest place AnnieLee had stayed in years.

She curled a strand of hair around her finger as she considered Mikey’s request. Ruthanna wanted her to take things slow—AnnieLee knew that. Ruthanna said she should build a strong local fan base and a big catalog of songs. “Go out too soon, and you risk being a one-hit wonder,” she’d said. “You’ve got to be a little bit patient.”

But this morning, with a big cup of cheap, industrial coffee running through her veins and an expensive pair of sunglasses turning the world a new, warmer color, AnnieLee didn’t feel patient.

“Where are you?” she asked Mikey Shumer. “I’ll call a cab.”

“Please, don’t do that,” he said. “I’ll send a car.”





Chapter

37



You’re even prettier than I thought you’d be,” Mikey Shumer said, looking at AnnieLee appraisingly. “The photo editors are going to love you.”

Then AnnieLee stood very still as Mikey Shumer walked around her, scrutinizing her as carefully as a truck he was thinking about buying. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their meeting would begin. But then again, everything about this morning—from Mikey’s extravagant gifts, to the Jaguar he’d sent to pick her up, to the sleek steel-and-glass conference room in which she now found herself—had surprised her.

“Is that actually important?” she asked. She didn’t know what photo editors had to do with country music.

“When they’re putting together glossy spreads to accompany all those glowing AnnieLee Keyes profiles, you’ll make their job incredibly easy,” Mikey said, brushing what might have been a speck of lint from her shoulder. “Unlike a certain diva I know, who looks like an alley cat until she’s been in hair and makeup for three hours, and then she still needs a week’s worth of Photoshop.” He came back around to the front and gave a satisfied nod. “Hair: great. Face: great. Height: well, nothing to be done about that but teach you how to walk in heels. Have a seat.”

AnnieLee sank into one of the sleek ergonomic chairs surrounding the gleaming conference table, gazing at Mikey Shumer as frankly and appraisingly as he had at her. He was clean-shaven, with blond hair swept back from his wide forehead. He had broad shoulders and well-tanned skin, and his eyes were a bright, sharp green. He was so slick she could smell it—the kind of guy who could sell mud to a hog. But Mikey Shumer hardly looked like the monster Ruthanna had said he was.