Page 55 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
The silence that followed stretched so long I was tempted to turn my head, just to check if they were still there or if they’d evaporated into the tension.
Then Ryder’s voice, sudden, like a needle skidding across vinyl: “Wait… is that—? That’s Lev Mirov! No way. You listen to Lev Mirov?”
Tess didn’t answer at once. She reached for the bottle of red she’d staged hours earlier, uncorked it with a crisp pop, and poured herself a glass. She took a slow sip, letting the wine roll across her lips and throat like a secret worth savoring. Only then did she turn, leaning back against the counter, her gaze steady on him as though preparing to deliver a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
“Do I listen to the greatest jazz musician of all time? Which is to say, the greatest musician of alltime…” She let the words hang, rich with intention. “…the answer is yes.”
“I’ve never met anyone who listened to Lev Mirov,” he admitted, his voice a mix of surprise and something that edged dangerously close to admiration.
“Neither have I,” Tess shot back. Then, as if a thought had just dropped on her from nowhere, she gave him a slow once-over, the corners of her mouth curling with the faintest trace of disdain. “Actually, it’s strange that…” She stopped. “Forget it.”
He drew his chin back a fraction, stung. “What do you mean by that?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly. Which means you were implying something.”
“You musicians are all messed up,” she said, draining her glass in one swallow and topping it off again.
“You were about to say it’s strange that someone like me, who writes commercial hits, would be a fan of Lev Mirov.”
“Those were your words…”
Ryder sighed, tilting his head, a flicker in his eyes—half amused, half wounded. “Well, for your information, I’m working on a new record. And it’s going to be heavily Mirov-inspired.”
“Good for you,” Tess replied, her tone so glacialit could have sprouted icicles from the ceiling.
Ryder stared at her, motionless, like he was contemplating a twenty-foot statue uncovered in the middle of a jungle: incomprehensible, magnetic, maybe dangerous.
Then she struck him right in the chest. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’ve got an appointment at the Tropical Jazz Club.”
I’d only find out later that it was the legendary spot where Lev Mirov himself played.
In that instant, Ryder would’ve needed a heavy-duty crane to lift his jaw off the floor.
29
The door clicked shut behind Ryder, clean as a curtain call. What lingered was the scent of his aftershave—a trail of broken guitars and bad decisions. On the table, a single Rimbaud feather drifted down, slow as a curtain after the final applause.
“I can’t believe it,” I breathed, my heart doing a quick sprint on the treadmill. “You were phenomenal!”
Tess didn’t smile. She didn’t step out of character—because the character was her, sewn on so seamlessly you couldn’t find the stitching. She finished her wine with the composure of someone signing billion-dollar contracts, swirled the glass like she was stirring fate itself, and only then did she glance at me.
“Maybe I could’ve handled the eye contact better,” she said, precise as a surgeon. “And when I handed him Rimbaud, I might’ve let my fingers brush his hand for just a fraction longer. A quarter-second, tops. But whatever… it’s a long climb to the Contessa’s level.”
I leaned against the doorway, adrenaline still ringing in my ears. “Are you kidding? I saw the whole thing as a neutral observer—as much as I tried to look disinterested—and let me repeat: you were brilliant. It felt likehewas the one trying to winyourapproval.”
Tess set down her glass. A micro-tilt of her head—the very same gesture she’d just used to topple the emotional balance of a man who lived off stadium crowds. “Lose the ‘felt like.’”
I mentally replayed her recent disasters: at the Spice, with the “warm-up guys”; her failed attempt on the bald bouncer who—plot twist—ended up crushing on me; and the hot waiter who would’ve gladly nailed railroad ties with convicts rather than spend another shift with Tess in orbit. And yet this same woman, serial disaster in heels, had just kept Zane Ryder—a wild stallion if there ever was one—on a leash. Improbable? Yes. But I’d seen it with my own eyes.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this wasn’t some generic seduction guide—it was a precision screwdriver, built to unscrew tortured artists one bolt at a time. What I’d filed under “probable publishing scam” was starting to take the stubborn shape of effectiveness.
Or maybe it worked simply because Tessbelieved. There’s always a little magic in blind faith. And as I cleared the glasses, I caught myself wondering if the real con was my own skepticism: tidy, logical… and totally incapable of explaining what I’d just witnessed.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” Tess said, with that fortune-teller tone that always outran my neurons. “This was just my business card. And not just any business card: it had to be therightimpression. Note the word ‘right,’ Bea—not ‘good.’ A good impression is for résumés and job interviews. Here, I’m building a theater. Still, yes: Mission One, accomplished. Not in glory yet, alas. A few rough edges to polish before we reach stylistic perfection.”
“What’s next?” I asked, already itching to pull out pen, paper, and a tactical map.
