Page 76 of First Verse

We make it to our feet right as the main door opens. Anita flies into the room first and beelines for us, her corkscrew blond curls bouncing around her head. Even though she’s barely five feet tall, objectively cherubic in appearance, and has been nothing but sweet so far, Lily and I agree she’s absolutely terrifying.

“Ladies!” she gushes, her hands fluttering around us. “Look at you two! Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Aren’t they gorgeous, Mallory? I can’t wait to get you to my favorite stylist. He’s going to have the best time elevating your look.”

Feeling Lily tense beside me, I grab her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. Anita doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about our discomfort, muttering to herself as she catalogues us from feet to hair like she’s taking notes on everything we need to change about ourselves. Which she probably is.

I have a new appreciation for why Wilder always hated meetings with our publicist, whose focus was invariably on him while Eddie, Jax, and I were left mostly unscathed.

“They’re gorgeous,” agrees Mallory in a genuine but much more subdued tone as she approaches us. “Now give them some space, will you? Your crazy energy is the last thing they need right now, and I’d like a minute with our clients.”

Anita giggles, unoffended, and spins around. She squeaks when she spots Rye reentering the room. “Hello, there! And you are?” She barrels toward him and grabs his arm. “Is that a full bar? Oh my. I could use a drink, handsome. How about you?”

Rye throws us aPleaseHelpMelook as she tugs him toward the bar, but before either of us can react, Mallory captures our attention. “He’ll survive,” she says with a knowing smile. “I know Anita is intense, but I wouldn’t have recommended her unless she was the best—and the best fit for your style. You’ll get used to her. How are you feeling? Nervous?”

“A little,” Lily says. “This isn’t our usual crowd, that’s for sure.”

Mallory’s dark eyes sparkle. “I know, but remember they’re here for you,not the other way around.”

“Who isthey,exactly?” I ask. “We thought there’d be maybe a dozen people here.”

Mallory chuckles and shakes her head but not in a patronizing way. Whereas Anita is a shark wearing the skin of an angel, Mallorylookslike a shark but has the personality of a mellow, level-headed big sister. She also has a two-decade-long track record of managing successful pop artists and was recommended personally by Breaking Giants’ manager, Phil, who’s like a crotchety uncle to me.

“This is all Anita’s doing,” Mallory says, glancing toward the bar where the publicist is laughing hysterically at something Rye said. From the expression on his face, he didn’t intend whatever it was to land as a joke.

“Not gonna lie, ladies,” continues Mallory, “there are a lot of recognizable faces out there. Pretty much everyone who’s anyone in the Seattle music industry is here, plus a handful of players from Los Angeles and New York. Producers, artists, journalists…” She trails off as she takes in our expressions.

“I’m gonna throw up,” whispers Lily.

Despite my own queasiness, I pull her into a hug. “We’ve got this. It doesn’t matter who they are. We’re going to give them the exact same Glow we’d give a bunch of college kids at a house party. Okay?”

She nods against my shoulder. Behind her, Mallory mouths, “Sorry,” right as Anita’s high-pitched voice fills the suite.

“Just got the text, my gorgeous girls! It’s showtime!”

I sigh into Lily’s ear and mutter, “Guess we should’ve askedherfor the Wi-Fi.”

Like I hoped she would, she laughs.

CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE

evangeline

Lily and I stand hidden from view by a wall of curtains that leads directly to the temporary stage. A few seconds ago, the lights inside the tent dimmed and those rigged to scaffolding at each corner of the stage flared brightly.

The crowd is screaming.

Screaming.

Lily stares at the sky, fading white wisps on a canvas of deep blue. “What the fuck is happening right now?” she asks dazedly.

A hysterical giggle escapes me.

The stage lights lower and the noise from the crowd spikes even higher. From the cacophony comes a familiar whistle, piercing despite my earplugs. As soon as it tapers off, I hear another welcome sound: an obnoxious, warbling scream. Laughter mixes with the ongoing cheers.

“Jax and Eddie,” I tell Lily, who returns my giddy grin.

A woman positioned a few feet away waves for our attention and holds up one finger.One minute.We nod and look back at the stage as a shadowed figure enters from the other side and walks to the central mic. There’s a gentle hum of feedback before light rises on a man—not Cory Donovan, who we were told was introducing us.

This man is well over six feet tall and wears faded black jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a leather jacket. The chaotic waves of his hair gleam darkly beneath the spotlight. His hands in his pockets and his stance relaxed, he oozes confidence and charisma. Like he was born for the stage.

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