Page 84 of Selling Out
I frown. “No clue.” I try to look over my shoulder at the tear. “This one’s useless now, though. Better see it through.”
Her brows go up. “Can I?”
“Of course. It’s pretty satisfying, actually.”
She hesitates for a second, then grabs the front of my shirt and pulls.
And suddenly I’m half-naked.
Mia plays with the fabric in her hand. “Okay, thatiskind of fun.” Her gaze drops to my body. She stands up suddenly. “I should probably go now.”
I smile. “I have other shirts, you know. A lot of them.”
“Yeah, and I’ll rip those too. They’re like tissue paper.”
I sigh and stand up. “Fine. I’ll walk you out.” I step right behind her, wrap my arms around her, and waddle with her toward the door.
She turns toward me when we reach the stairs. “I think you should ask Fusion again.”
“So they can say no? It gets depressing, Mia. Always hearing no, always having them take my songs but never do anything with them.”
“This isyourcareer, Austin. It’syourname people see next to these songs. You should make it what you want it to be. Don’t give up on that.”
I search her face and nod. She’s right. I know she is. And after all I’ve done for the label, all the money I’ve brought in, it’s time they showed up for me in the ways I care about.
I kiss her again. I don’t know how to stop. She kisses me back, but something’s off, so I pull away.
She’s got her hands clasped behind her back.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Trying to keep my hands to myself.”
I chuckle and bring my lips right next to hers. “I wish you wouldn’t,” I whisper.
The door opens, and our heads turn.
Paul stands at the bottom of the stairs, stock-still.
Mia steps away and starts down the stairs, her movements uneven and harried in a way that makes me want to smile. “Like I was saying,” she says way too loudly, “keep icing that cheek. And your hand.” She slips past Paul with an awkward smile, then disappears.
Paul watches her leave, then shifts his gaze back to me. “Looks like we need to have a little chat.”
“Yeah,” I say. “We do.”
28
MIA
“This city is ridiculous,”Gemma says as we dangle our feet over the River Seine next to one of Paris’s many bridges.
I sigh and look around as a couple of riverboats pass us by. It’s still pretty early in the morning, so they’ve got plenty of extra seats. That’s one thing I’ve discovered in Europe—the early bird truly does get the worm. And my worm today is a delicious, warm croissant from a bakery we passed walking here.
There’s no concert tonight. We have a day in-between shows due to a scheduling conflict with the venue, which means a free day in the city. I’m hoping that’ll involve Austin at some point, but he had a meeting with Paul this morning. Given the way Paul looked when he found us in the bus last night, this meeting could be bad news. Or it could mean they’re discussing what original song Austin will perform tomorrow. I’m crossing my fingers for the latter.
“So, how does it feel?” Gemma asks, pulling off a buttery flake from her croissant.
“How does what feel?”
