Page 128 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Wanted to see me?”
Now this guy… I could work with.
He was cleanly shaven, decently dressed and most certainly did NOT give off the pig aura of the bartender.
“Huh,” he snorted. “What can I help you with, missy?”
I clicked my tongue, readjusted my top. I didn’t need that kind of showiness for this guy. He was all business.
So was I.
“My name’s Scarlett Blake, actually. Not Missy.”
He coughed a laugh, raking big hands through thin, blonde hairs. “Alright, Ms. Blake. I hear ya. What can I do for you?”
I rolled my shoulders back, and pulled out two hard drives: one with Ryden’s covers, and one with all the hidden recordings I took of him and Emory’s duets.
“You’re going to want this. It will make you big money, Mr…”
“Acton,” he replied. “Blaise Acton.”
“Well,” I continued, “Blaise Acton, like I said, watch these in your little office. Because one day, the man on this tape will put you behind a bigger table, in a much larger chair.”
Before he could say anything, I turned toward the door, slapping a one on the bar. “My number’s on the back of that bill. Don’t give it to the barkeep, Mr. Acton. He was seconds away from serving me some brown scotch.”
I walked out the door hoping he’d get fired.
I walked out the door knowing Ryden was getting hired.Damn, I thought.
I’m good at this.
Then another thought –
Maybe one day, I could be Ryden’s manager…
Maybe… One day.
***
“I…” Ryden was lost for words. It put the biggest smile on my face.
“I don’t know what to say, Scar.” He looked up at me. “Th – Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” In a second, I was wrapped in his arms rocking back and forth. He hoisted me higher, as high as his nineteen-year-old self could lift, and spun me.
“I can’t believe you did this for me,” he cried. “Wha – What did you even do? How did you convince him?”
In just two days, Blaise Acton called Sinead’s phone (I’d moved all my stuff into the basement apartment Ryden and I moved into after he sold his mom’s house, grabbed Sinead’s phone on the way out because as if she’d ever miss that thing in La La Land), and told me he wanted Ryden to perform on Saturday night.
“That Emory girl… bring her too. I’d like to put her up on that stage if the crowd’s receptive to him.”
That’s what he said.
That was my homerun.
“… and I told Mr. Acton that the creepy bartender was going to serve me alcohol.” I laughed, swiping the laptop from Ryden’s lap. “Look at all these comments, they love you! Should I post about you performing? Your first show, Ry! Do you think they’re going to come? They have to come!”
I shut the laptop, unable to contain my excitement. “You can quit the estate work, the magic shop! They never paid you what you were worth, and now – now Ry, you can demand it!”
But Ryden’s eyes never left mine. Not when I responded to every single fan with the address and time of Ryden’s first show, not when I pulled the laptop back and stared at the ceiling with wonder – wonder at how I pulled this off – how our dreamscame true – and not when I turned to face him.
