Page 84 of Perfect Pitch

He groans. “Six.”

“And you’re not predicting it’s going to be flushed down the crapper why?”

A glint hits Kane’s eyes. “Because I didn’t say it was for me. I asked Tony”—Kane names the long-time admin of the Hudson principals—“to say it’s a meeting with Beckett.”

“Genius. They’re not about to piss off one of their higher-paying clients.”

His lips quirk. “You’ll learn; it’s all about how you manage the bosses.”

Before I can reply, Beckett pops his head in. His face is haggard—like he’s received the most devastating news on the planet. I open my mouth to ask if everything’s okay, but he snaps out, “Are you two ready?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns and strides for the exit.

Kane hurries after him, leaving me a moment to snatch my suit jacket off the back of the chair and follow them both out the door.

* * *

“New York City traffic is a damn menace,” I snarl.

Kane doesn’t turn from watching out the window. “You wanted to drive.”

“That’s because I don’t have much practice in the limo.” What on earth possessed Beckett to want to take this car today, I have no idea. Because of the maneuverability, we more often than not drive blacked-out SUVs around the city.

“This beast is like painting a target on us.”

“Which is why it’s a good idea for you to know how to handle it,” comes Beckett’s bland response from the back seat where Chin is across from him.

Kane and I flick a look at one another. Everything is off this morning, especially with our principal. Any other day we’d be in this car, he’d be driving us bat shit crazy raising and lowering the window between the seats, fucking with the television in the back, asking us to stop at a coffee shop and parallel park the monstrous beast I’m trying not to get T-boned in.

Instead, he’s quiet.

Quiet and Beckett Miller are never a good combination. It’s a sure sign everything’s about to go to hell.

Just as I’m about to pull up to Rockefeller Center, Beckett curses, “Fucking hell, not today.” In the rearview, he quickly slides on sunglasses to protect his eyes from the flashes that still manage to pop through the blackened window like flashes of lightning.

“Mr. Miller, please don’t exit the vehicle until we secure the space,” Kane calls out. He’s frantically typing—my guess, telling his bosses he will be late to the meeting.

Yeah, we’re never going to get the eyes inside of Beckett’s place we desperately need while affording the mega star the privacy he wants.

“Right. I know the drill.” I roll my lips inward at his evident sarcasm. He should, after years of this shit.

Kane nods before wedging himself out of the vehicle. I hear shouts, screams, cheering. Taking a few deep breaths, I slide out of the vehicle and approach the door to prepare for the moment Beckett flings his door open.

Beckett, for once, adheres to the protocols Kane has laid out for him.

Once we’re safely inside and at the door, Beckett thanks Kane. “Thanks, man.”

“Just doin’ the job, sir,” Kane replies.

Beckett’s exasperation is evident. “For all that’s holy, Kane. Didn’t I say it clearly enough the first twenty times? It’s Becks. If you can’t manage that, then Beckett. I mean, you know everything about my life.”

“No offense... Beckett. But there’s some things I don’t want to know about your life. I mean, really? Of all the things you could be addicted to... decades music?”

Beckett seems to grow two inches when he declares haughtily, “Some of the best lyricists in the world rocked it out in the ’80s and ’90s, man.”

I’m reminded of Austyn’s declaration and have to suppress my laughter. I’m beginning to appreciate the decades—at least the ’90s—more and more as of late, but I don’t dare share that with my boss or I’ll never be allowed to listen to anything else.

Kane’s head shakes back and forth tragically like Beckett’s ruined his image of rock stars. Beckett claps a hand on his shoulder before informing us both, “I’ll probably be a few hours. And no, I won’t leave the building.”

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