Page 73 of Serving the Maestro

Stephen kicked me as I started to respond. Probably a good thing because I was about to enthusiastically tell Joe Hook, Jr to kiss my ass.

The phone laying on the table between Hook and me lit up, ringing loud and shrill. Joe grabbed it. Without looking at us, he said, “I gotta take this.”

While he was on the phone, Stephen stood up and grabbed my arm. “We’ll give you a few minutes, Joe.”

Stephen couldn’t have been more obvious with his irritation if he’d pulled me along behind him by my ear. He let go once we were in the men’s restroom but shut the door and leaned against it, preventing escape—or interruption by others.

“What the hell crawled up your ass and died?” His eyes were hard and flat, but there was concern. “This is your big shot, what you’ve worked for, and it seems to me like you’re trying to blow it.”

“I’m not trying. But that guy is a douche—a class-act douche,” I said. Turning away from my friend, I paced the ivory and smoke tiles, Jazz’s face flashing through my mind.

“Yeah, he’s an asshole, but you’ve worked with bigger assholes, Trent. It’s part of the job. So what gives?”

I stopped at the far wall, bracing my hands against it, and lowered my head. I’d been playing that call from Cam through in my mind, over and over, all day. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got at myself. What was I thinking, staying here while Jazz was alone in New York City?

“Trent, talk to me,” Stephen said quietly.

Pushing away from the wall, I turned and faced Stephen. “Jazz’s best friend called me earlier.”

Something flickered in Stephen’s eyes. “Yeah? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know.” Looking away, I stared at the row of stalls, the doors glossy and black. “This stays between us. No matter what, okay?”

“Yeah, man. Sure.”

“Jazz and Cam were out a few days ago, a double date. The guy with Jazz was some high school friend.” The ugly rage began to brew inside, and I paused, counting to ten. “It looks like he slipped her some drugs, took her back to his place.”

Stephen said nothing.

Looking back at him, I said, “Cam wanted me to fly back to New York, and I told her I couldn’t. Because of a fucking musical score. I finally found a woman who makes me want things, and when she needed me, I said no.”

“You didn’t really say no, though, did you?”

Frowning, I shook my head. “As good as.”

“Bullshit.” He came over to me and gripped my shoulder. “Go home. Call a Lyft or whatever, pack, and get to the airport. Take the earliest flight you can and get to New York. Take care of your lady, man.”

“And what about Mr. Charm out there?”

Stephen smirked. “I’ll handle him. Besides, he’s the one who pointed out we can’t do much until the leading lady is ready. There’s no reason for you to be on hand throughout line rehearsals. You got a few days, easy. And you can work on the preliminary stuff anywhere. So go.”

I hesitated.

“Go.”

TWENTY-SIX

JAZZ

Eyes on the screen and earbuds in place with music blaring to block out distractions, I worked on the press release, giving it one more go-over before sending it to our PR company.

We’d only started farming out that job the previous year, although Cam and I still did most of the writing when it came to press releases. Cam had offered to handle this one for me, but the mundane task was exactly what I needed—simple but requiring focus and attention to detail.

A lot of attention to detail.

Halfway through my third time, a vibration on my table had me looking up.

CeCe, our receptionist, gave me an apologetic smile as I tugged out my earbuds.

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