Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(24)

“Stay strong!” she says, waving me off.

After I step outside, I stop and peek through the plate-glass window.

“Miss?” Mr. Muscles says in his deep, deep voice. “The car is coming around the corner.”

“Just a sec,” I say, resisting his big hand on my elbow. Becky is bending down, placing the check on the table.

First, the young woman leans down to inspect it. Then she sits up again quickly, astonishment on her face. She claps a hand over her mouth and stares at Becky.

And that’s all I need to see. It’s done. The rest is just an awkward thank you and Becky’s insistence that she fill in the name on the check and go right to the bank to deposit the money.

I let Mr. Muscles steer me into the back of the waiting car. He climbs into the front, and the driver accelerates towards a meeting that I almost certainly won’t enjoy.





Delilah





Brett and I are seated across a conference room table from one another. And it’s awkward. Actually, he looks perfectly comfortable. But this is his turf. One year into our three-year relationship, he merged his fledgling record label with part of a bigger company—MetroPlex. He’s a partner here.

I’m what they call talent in this industry.

If only I had a talent for choosing men. While Brett arranges a folder on the table in front of him, I keep sneaking looks at him. He’s familiar in so many ways. He has a tan line in front of his ear, where a recent haircut has exposed a pale spot. And I was shopping with him on the day he bought that shirt on Rodeo Drive.

But after a mere couple months’ absence, he also seems strange to me now. I can’t imagine kissing him, although I used to do that pretty often. We didn’t have a cuddly sex life, though. We fought often and had lots of make-up sex.

That didn’t bother me. I’ve always been a prickly girl, so holding hands at the dinner table wasn’t something I’d expected.

And I’d needed someone steady in my life. I was willing to put up with a lot just to belong to someone.

But he wasn’t worth the tears. He didn’t love me. I think I knew it from the start. I was a trophy for him, a success of his own making. Brett loves success more than he loves people.

He cheated. A lot. And I turned a blind eye because I wanted to believe that we were a team.

There’s no Brett in team.

Should have gotten out before he torpedoed my self-esteem…

It rhymes, but I don’t hear a single.

“You look good, Delilah,” Brett says, leaning back in his chair.

“Thank you,” I say woodenly. But inside I’m simmering with irritation. I glance toward the open conference room door. “Who are we waiting on?”

“Nobody, unfortunately,” he says with a little shake of his head. “It turns out that Parker can’t make it tonight after all. Last-minute emergency at home.”

“He can’t make it?” I repeat, as my internal simmer becomes a boil. “After we rescheduled for this weird hour for him?”

“I know, right?” Brett gives a well-acted shrug. “Vice presidents can do as they please.”

Don’t react, I remind myself. But this was a setup from start to finish. Originally, the meeting had been scheduled for the perfectly normal hour of three p.m. But at the last minute, Brett had moved it to seven o’clock, ruining my Friday-evening plans.

Becky’s reaction had confirmed what I already suspected. “What a shit!” she’d fumed, stomping around my hotel suite. “He did this to ruin your Twitter date. Brett doesn’t want to see any photos of you with another man!”

This struck me as a little nutty, even for a manipulative bastard like Brett. Up until tonight, I was never sure how closely he’d been following the finer points of my publicity schedule.

Brett doesn’t love me. I know that in my gut. But he really hates to lose at anything.

Honestly, the date doesn’t really matter. But the incident gives me a very bad feeling. If Brett would wreck an unimportant Twitter date, what else will he do to get back at me?

So here I sit, trying not to fidget in an ergonomic leather chair, wondering how I’ll ever be free of him.

Across from me, Brett looks as smug as ever. “So let’s just get started. Have you given any thought to my three-album suggestion? If that’s the arrangement we decide on, the third one could be a gimme—a concert album, or a holiday thing. Maybe even a ‘best of’ record. I’d be willing to stipulate that in the contract.”

I take another slow breath and will myself not to climb over the shiny table and choke him. “A three-album contract isn’t really in my travel plans,” I say with practiced coolness.

Neither is a one-album contract or a two-album contract. But my instinct for self-preservation forbids me to admit it. There’s no way I’d sign anything for Brett Ferris again. Not even an autograph.

“Fair enough,” he says easily. “Then my natural inclination on a two-album deal would be a deadline in eighteen to twenty-four months.”

And here’s my opening. Finally. “It’s a little hard to talk dates for album number three when you haven’t released number two yet.”

He nods slowly, as if I’ve said something deeply interesting. But we both know this is the sticking point. I’m here today to make sure he releases my finished songs, and he’s here to convince me to sign over more of them.