Page 65 of Against the Clock

“You kinda came out of nowhere there, buddy,” I tell him.

He doesn’t smile. “I was standing behind you the whole time.”

“Of course,” I say.

Kelsey’s cheeks suck in like she’s trying not to laugh, and I twist my lips to the side, following the usher through the main hall and into one of the side rooms.

“Oh my gosh,” Kelsey murmurs, standing stock still as she takes in the sight before us.

“My agent really outdid himself,” I say, pleased as all hell.

Candles are everywhere, casting a soft, warm glow along the rows of white-clad chairs and on a raised dais underneath a stunning stained-glass window. A string quartet sits on stage, and a couple of them glance up at us as we enter, then return to tuning their instruments.

“The Masonic Temple has long been a fixture in the Philadelphia skyline,” the usher says. “The Masons are an integral part of Philadelphia’s history, and the city of brotherly love wouldn’t be the same without them. Your… agent had nothing to do with this building, and it spits on the history of the very floor under your feet to make light of our contributions.” With that, the usher turns abruptly, stalking out the door.

“Was that part of the initiation ceremony?” Kelsey asks drily. “Survive the angry usher?”

I laugh, then quickly close my mouth, the sound too loud in the hushed space. “Yes.” I nod. “You are now a Freemason.”

“Where’s my hat?”

“I’ll find you one.”

We walk together, arm in arm, down the candlelit aisle to the front-row seats. The only seats, because my agent was able to swing this for the two of us.

“How did you do this?” Kelsey asks.

“I know some people. Or, you know, my agent knows people.”

“How?”

“He got some kind of deal with the events company that throws these things.”

Her eyebrows pinch together, her lips turning down in a frown. For the first time, I wonder if maybe getting my agent to organize these dates was a bad idea.

“It’s beautiful,” she says slowly, but whatever else she’s about to add is cut off by a woman in black stepping onto the stage.

“Thank you so much for coming out tonight. We don’t normally do Monday night concerts, but we couldn’t say no to the opportunity to work with you, Mr. Harrison.”

“Er,” I say, my concern growing.

But the woman simply continues on, oblivious to my reaction. Or maybe she simply can’t see it, considering how dim the candlelight is.

“We are so thrilled to have you both here for our concert tonight, featuring music from our most popular performance, a tribute to the Eagles.”

Next to me, Kelsey goes still, too still, not just the patient kind of waiting-for-the-concert-to-start polite stillness.

“I didn’t know you liked the Eagles,” she says, her voice pitched low. “My dad loves the Eagles.”

“Everyone likes the Eagles,” the woman on stage says, glaring at Kelsey. “They’re an American institution.”

“Like the Masons,” I whisper to Kelsey knowingly. She pinches my arm and I swallow a laugh.

The woman nods to the string quartet and points to someone in the back of the room. After a second, the cellist begins playing, and the three others join in for the strangest arrangement of “Hotel California” ever to make its way to my ears.

The woman jumps offstage, causing Kelsey to grab my arm in alarm.

“I thought she was going to fall into the candles,” she murmurs.

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