Page 45 of If Not for My Baby
“No, thank you.” When the man abandons us for guests more interested in his fish cones, I detangle from Grayson. “I should grab my phone from the bus.”
He pouts at me, shifting on his feet to the pounding music. “Bus is gone now, can’t stay parked on the residential street. Salvatore will bring it back in an hour or two so we can leave for Portland. You can get it then.”
“But Molly and Indy—”
“They’re fine,” he drawls, moving closer to slide a hand around my waist again. In this dress I can feel the distinct imprint of his fingers on my hip. I fight the urge to sprint in the opposite direction, stilettos be damned.
“I’m going to go get my phone,” I announce, pulling away.
“Fine,” he snips. “Catch you later.”
I hightail it out of the sunken den before he can sayanother word. When I was young, my mom made a real point to tell me if a man ever gave me an icky feeling to trust that instinct, and boy, do those red flags pop out like a circus tent when I’m left alone with Grayson. I think about telling Jen, but wonder what I’d even say. He makes me feel like there are bugs under my skin?
In the back of my mind, I know I could tell Halloran. I know he’d do something about it, too, though I’m not sure what. I imagine him whisperingyou’re safe with me, or something equally cheesy, and hate that my heart does a somersault. I don’t like that feeling much better than the one I get with Grayson: that relief when I imagine confiding in Halloran. Treating him as my teammate. How many times did my dad tell my mom he’d stay by her side if she kept me? How many times did we both hear the same shit from men who went on to break her heart?
OXYTOCIN,my brain screams at me.
I feel like Cinderella, running out of this absurd mansion party, hoisting my too-big silky dress up so I don’t trip right over it. Past ice-cream cones of fish and through clouds of fake laughter and cologne until the fresh summer air outside drowns out the car alarm–level annoyance of the music. I inhale night-blooming jasmine and lemongrass.
Unfortunately, Grayson is right. The tour bus is nowhere to be found. I inhale mightily. It’s going to be a long trek down these millionaires’ residential streets in my borrowed heels, but I don’t see any other way. I don’t want to be at this party without Indy and Molly, and I don’t want to wander that sleek hellscape looking for them. I’d borrowGrayson’s phone to call them but I’d rather not be in his vicinity again.
And, if I’m honest, I’m hoping what happened the other night in Atlantic City might again. As I clop down the garden path in my heels, I imagine pulling open the doors to the bus and finding Halloran in his recliner, book in hand once more. Perhaps he’d tell me how pretty I look. Perhaps he’d stand, towering over me again, drawing nearer…
“Clem?”
I spin, convinced I’ve hallucinated his voice. But there he is. Halloran, tucked away toward the driveway, standing among a group of handsome men. Indy pokes out from the circle.
“There you are!” she cheers.
But my eyes are stuck on him. Held as if frozen while his searing gaze—that scintillating fervor like I am all that exists on this planet—travels the length of my body, arms to hips to black silk pooling at my feet, and back up again. “You look breathtaking,” he says faintly.
I hear the words at full volume on a loop.Breathtaking. Breathtaking. Breathtaking.
Clearing his throat, Halloran adds, “Clem, this is Rhett, as well as Bill and Bruce from the label. Lads, meet Clementine. She’s in the band.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m standing before Rhett Barber. He’s as movie-star good-looking as you’d expect from a stadium country singer, with the aesthetic of all the Mumford and Sons combined.
“So nice to meet you,” I say to the guys. Then to Rhett, “My mom loves you.”
“Only your mom?” Rhett’s thick Tennessee accent peeks out. He turns to Halloran, playful frown on his face. “That’s my audience these days, isn’t it? Everybody’s mom.”
Halloran releases one of his hearty laughs and I swear it’s so exhilarating he glows in the dark. “Mums aren’t too bad. Less likely to break into your dressing room than the teens.”
“Or the elderly…” Rhett jokes knowingly. “Remember San Fran?”
Halloran chuckles at some shared memory. “We don’t speak of San Fran…I’ve no desire to conjure Satan tonight.”
Rhett cracks up, smacking Halloran’s shoulder, and Bill and Bruce laugh, too, eager to be in on the joke with their label’s biggest stars. But Rhett and Halloran have a swagger about them that no average mortal man can touch—one that follows deeply passionate creative types with powerhouse voices and fans in the millions. Bill and Bruce they aren’t.
The faint smell of tobacco stings my nose. I look down to see both Bruce and Halloran are smoking cigarettes.
“I can’t believe you smoke,” I say under my breath.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?”
Truthfully, I find it kind of hot. But I fear he could tell me he eats raw onions like apples and I’d have the same reaction, so I just shrug, noncommittal. Wind dancing in his loose hair, Halloran takes one long drag of the cigarette—sinfullyhot—before tossing it on the ground and snuffing it out with his boot. Smoke curls from his nostrils into the night air.
“I was looking for you earlier,” Indy says to me. “Where did you and Grayson go off to?”
