Open Road Summer(40)

“He can’t,” I say authoritatively, stepping forward.

The photographer looks me up and down, almost amused. “And you are . . . ?”

I ignore her, flattening my voice into a Lissa impression. “Shirtless or otherwise nude photos are prohibited per Mr. Finch’s contractual obligations with Muddy Water Records.”

Her eyes shoot to Matt, who lies seamlessly. “Exactly.”

“Very well,” the photographer says, looking exasperated. “Change into the formalwear and we’ll move outside for the shots with both of you.”

As the crew packs up, Matt comes toward me. Without heels on, I’m jarringly shorter, and it feels like he’s looking directly down at me. His smoky-mountain eyes find mine, and I glance away.

“Thanks for that,” he says quietly. “I owe you one.”

My memory flashes to us dancing last night, and I douse the image out like the fire it is. I step back because even our proximity now could be suspicious, undermining the rumor of him and Dee together. And also, honestly, because he smells like Ivory soap, and I’m too tired to pretend I don’t like it. “No big deal.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Matt!” a voice calls, bailing me out. “You ready?”

When he’s out of sight, I exhale, putting my hands on my hips as I pace like a crazy person. Get it together, O’Neill. You’re better than this.

I take a few minutes to collect myself before wandering outside. Dee’s already out there, in a deep-blue homecoming gown that will certainly sell out the day the magazine is released.

In one glance, I recognize Dee’s empty-stomach crankiness, and it’s a three-alarm situation. With slouched shoulders and mouth twitching into a frown, Dee is letting her trademark perkiness falter. I dig around in my purse until my hand finds a small package of airplane peanuts from our flight here. An assistant flutters about the bleachers, testing the lighting arrangement while Dee stands with her arms crossed.

“Here.” I hand her the package.

She lets out an enormous sigh and dumps half a handful of peanuts into her palm. With her mouth full, she says, “Thanks. I was about ready to eat my own arm off.”

“That dress is couture,” the stylist calls nervously before I can answer. The poor woman’s eyes display sheer horror, like she’s watching peanut salt fall onto the dress in slow motion.

“Oh no,” Dee says sarcastically. “Well, good thing I didn’t eat it.”

I snort with restrained laughter. Grumpy Dee, rare as she is, sasses everyone in her path.. She holds a peanut out in front of her and makes a production of moving her mouth toward it.

“I’ve been here for hours, and they haven’t offered me anything but water,” she grumbles.

“Well, starlets are supposed to be used to starvation, I guess.”

The makeup artist appears, and she doesn’t even bother to hide her annoyance. “I need to touch up your lipstick now and make sure there’s nothing in your teeth.”

“That’s what Photoshop is for,” I snap, and the girl returns the glare before examining Dee’s teeth as if she’s competing in a dog show.

From below us, Matt emerges in a fitted khaki suit, complete with a trendy tie that brings out the color of Dee’s dress. It’s too sophisticated for homecoming, but he looks great. At least, he looks great until a prop assistant ducks in, sliding a sash over his chest. It reads: KING. She positions a plastic crown on his head. I can’t help it. I cover my mouth with my hand, but the laughter will not be squelched.

He climbs up the bleachers while Dee receives her sash and crown.

“Are they kidding with this?” He gestures at his new accessories.

Dee shrugs, dusting peanut salt off her hands. The stylist looks like she’s watching a horror movie.

“Let’s just get it over with,” Dee says, “so we can go home.”

Home is our tour bus, which is waiting for us in Tucson, along with the band’s buses and two semis full of stage equipment. Beside me, Matt flashes his best fake celebrity smile.

“Charming,” I tell him.

“Hey,” he says, mouth still stretched into an uncomfortable-looking smile. “Anything that’ll get me out of here.”

While Peach and I look on from down below, the photographers pose Matt and Dee. They stand at the edge of the bleachers in their regalia, pretending to wave at adoring fans.

“Can we get a kiss?” the photographer yells.

“No!” they yell back in unison, smiles still plastered on their faces.

Still, they clasp hands in solidarity, sharing a different secret than the rest of the world suspects. I know instantly that this’ll be the shot—the one they use in the magazine. In this moment, Dee and Matt’s connection is real. The look between them—the locked eyes and knowing expressions—is nothing more than a good friendship and mutual admiration between artists. I know better than anyone. But their display of affection is convincing, and I have to glance away. It’s the same reason my dad can’t have dinner with any friends who might order a beer. It’s too damn hard to watch someone else get what you want.

And that’s when my mind repeats Matt’s sentiment exactly: get me out of here.





Chapter Eleven