Page 17 of Ring My Bell

“We’re either going to be arrested, or Iggy and Paige are going to go down in history as having the most chutzpah of anyone in the west,” Gerald muttered beside me.

Apparently, Iggy’s magic worked. Within a few minutes, we were handed room cards, and two bellhops appeared to take our luggage up to the suites on the eighth floor. Gerald and Paige were shown to the suite next to ours. After the doors were closed and bellhops gone, we heard Paige’s whoop of delight from next door. Iggy laughed, dragging his suitcase up onto one of the beds and rummaging through his limited wardrobe.

“Why’d you pick this hotel?” I asked. “It’s spendy as hell. There’s a ton of cheaper and more discreet options around here.”

Iggy shrugged. “I figure Raymond owes us. And also.” Before I could turn away, he lifted his phone and snapped a quick picture of me. “Social media, baby. If we’re gonna be phoenixes—is that the plural?—if we’re gonna rise from the ashes, we have to be obvious about it.”

“I don’t have social media,” I said. “I hate it.”

“Of course you do. Lucky for me, I’m really good at it. Hence my tiny but enthusiastic fanbase.” He backed up to the window overlooking the scenic view and took some selfies. “Gonna let it slip I’m on an intimate engagement tour, testing out some new songs, and I’ll be making an appearance with friends at a festival in Colorado soon.” He was typing and talking, a blur of excitement. The knot in my stomach tightened. “Don’t look like that—this is what I’m good at, okay? You got us over the mountains without killing us. Let me put us on social media without being messy, mkay?”

I shook my head. “I’m going to change. If Raymond’s footing the bill tonight, I’m getting actual food and not gas station snacks. You coming down to eat?”

Iggy glanced up. I nearly choked on my tongue at the sweet smile he gave me. “I’m starving. Want to wait for me to get pretty, or should I meet you down there?” He paused to take another selfie, then grabbed my jacket and sunglasses, arranging them on the bed. “Hashtag mysterious, hashtag new friends, hashtag piano man. Wait, no, they’ll think you’re Billy Joel. Ah!” His little happy wiggle went straight to my pants. “Hashtag ring my bell.”

* * *

Him using that hashtag shouldn’t have made me feel all warm and fuzzy and positively glowing.

Hell, I shouldn’t have given two damns what hashtag he used, period. But I did. Especially because it was my song. As we headed down to the restaurant, he didn’t seem to notice my sudden quietness. Paige begged off so they could nap, and Gerald headed to the business center to, in his words, pull some strings.

“His parents are hella connected,” Iggy muttered as we left him in the glass-fronted center, already on his phone with who-knew-who. “He won’t tell me who he’s trying to get in touch with, just someone who can help us get some stage time at the festival.”

Beaming at me, he slipped his arm through mine, making me stumble over my own feet in surprise. “Two days ago, I was pretty sure I was going to have to move back in with my mom and live in her garage or something while she and her flavor of the week tried to force me on The Great American Talent Show or something. Now,” he did a shimmy-step and burst into song, “it’s a fairy tale!”

I winced. “Promise me you’ll never sing that again. Just… no.”

He mock-pouted. We’d reached the lobby, and he drew me to a halt. “No Taylor, got it. Anyone else off the hit parade?”

“Not a huge fan of Bieber.”

“Fair. I don’t do falsetto well, so if you had any planned, I’d rather not.”

I nodded, starting us moving again. We were almost at the piano.

Iggy’s eyes lit up. “Play it,” he whispered. “Play your version.”

“My… Oh. Oh! You mean the correct version?” I teased to cover the way my hands shook, the way I wanted to smile just being close. He gave me a nudge and let go of my arm, stepping back so I could take a seat at the bench.

I did a quick run of the keys, some light warmups. “It’s in tune.” I glanced up to see him with his phone out.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “If you don’t want me to…”

“It’s… Um. It’s fine.” I meant my words, surprising myself. “Just warn me before you post it.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

A few people on their way to dinner had stopped to see what I was doing, the desk clerk hovering nervously. There was probably someone official to play this, I thought, a local who came in on weekends or for special events to tickle the ivories. No one was here now, so it was all mine.

The music flowed out of me. It sounded trite, but it happened, the song coming effortlessly. I’d written it thinking I was in love with someone, but I discovered only the idea of them got me. The want to be in love rather than actual love. I’d wrote it swingy and jazzy, a bit of a wink to Sinatra and Martin and Davis. Now, though, I slowed it down without thinking about it. Making it something a bit more intense. Still had the same bones, but less hopeful, more of a plea.

It wasn’t me at twenty-two, twenty-three. It was me now, here, nothing to lose and virtually nothing to my name, lying my ass off in a hotel lobby in Nevada.

Wanting Iggy to like the song.

Wanting him to want me.

I brought it back around to the bridge one more time, then finally wound it down to a smattering of applause and a few catcalls. Someone called out for me to play “Freebird” and laughed. Pushing away from the piano, I looked at Iggy.

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