Page 42 of Ring My Bell

I felt wanted.

Needed, even.

And it scared the hell out of me and excited me at the same time.

“It’s not going to fall apart.” I realized I’d just been staring at Mathis for a long moment, and his expression was starting to rumple in concern. “Not us, not working with Pepper… It’s all going to work.”

“How do you know?” He slipped his hands down to cup my ass and hold me close.

“Because,” I whispered against his ear, leaning in close, “it’s our fairy tale.”

Epilogue

MATHIS

BREMEN TOWN MUSIC FESTIVAL, ONE YEAR LATER

The venue was small—intimate, as Pepper kept calling it. Iggy almost bumped up against my precious baby every time we shared the stage. Rather than take the main stage, Pepper had arranged for our first official performance at the revamped festival to take place at the lodge, in the club room. It fit our ‘vibe,’ she insisted—rather, Gerald insisted, but I knew it was coming from Pepper, since that was one of her favorite words.

I was just so glad it wasn’t ‘brand.’

I was already seated at the piano when Iggy hurried on from stage right, smoothing his hands over that silky blue shirt of his I loved to feel under my hands. Later, I scolded myself. Don’t get a hard-on on stage. That’s not the kind of show we’re doing here…

Iggy’s smirk told me he knew exactly what I was thinking, though, and that he was entirely on board. “Nice hat.” He set his bottle of water beside mine on the floor by the bench. “Your boyfriend pick that out for you?”

“Yup.” I flicked the brim, popping it off my face to grin at him. “He’s got good taste. Said it fit the vibe.”

Iggy’s groan made me laugh. As much as I hated brand, he hated vibe. “Are you about ready, babe?”

“I’ve been waiting on you.”

Someone in the audience whistled, and a handful of awwwws rose up.

Iggy’s eyes widened and caught mine. Our mics had been hot.

Great. Gerald was either going to love it and insist on more banter when we performed, or we’d get chewed out by Janice the tech lady for not paying attention. Maybe both.

“Hey, folks.” Iggy turned away from me to face the audience. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”

Shaking my head, I looked down at the keys and my fingers resting, waiting. Everything felt unreal still. It had been a whirlwind year of small performances, building a name, building hype. Raymond’s hearing for mishandling Iggy’s money had brought a heap of attention our way. Gerald and Pepper deftly handled the media onslaught, directing attention away from Raymond’s claims about us and pushing focus on our upcoming singles and our relationship with PepperPot Studios.

We made sure Paige got press, too—they’d been hurt by Raymond just as much as we had. Their new steps out into the world with The Pumpkin Eaters (I don’t even begin to understand how punk band names work) were heralded as innovative and ‘revolutionizing the queer punk scene.’

They were also going to be our opening act at our first official non-festival show in New York in a few weeks. I had no idea how that was going to work, their punk music in front of our mish-mash of swing and modern pop, but I couldn’t wait to find out.

At Iggy’s subtle nod, we started our set. The music flowed between us, wrapping around us. I forgot, for a little bit, that we had an audience. When Iggy brought out his violin, the shy smile on his lips made my heart flip and race. He was amazing, and it wasn’t just me saying that. It was the early reviews; it was other musicians who’d sat in on our rehearsals at Pepper’s request (nothing like gossip in the industry to start building buzz).

On his cue, I joined him, unable to stop myself from smiling like a goof when he winked at me over the bridge of his violin. The tune, a bright and sprightly instrumental teetering between a jig and a polka, was a surprising crowd favorite when we’d test-played it a few times. I’d written it a few months before and called it New Beginnings on our set list.

As it wound down, my stomach gave a funny little flutter and lurch. We were about to wrap up our set with Ring My Bell, the song Iggy always said brought us together (even when I pointed out repeatedly it had very little to do with our actual meeting), but I needed to do something else first.

The notes faded, and Iggy sketched a little bow to the audience as I pushed my bench back. Glancing my way, he frowned, tipped his head to one side in a silent what’s going on.

“Hey, folks, I know we’re at the end of our set now, and you’re probably all excited to hit the open bar—” I paused for the expected whoop. Someone always whooped for an open bar. “But I wanted to take a minute and tell you about Iggy.”

Iggy’s eyes were wide, and his lips parted on a panicked no no no no.

“I promise it’s not about how you leave your socks beside the hamper,” I teased gently. “Or how you’re more than happy singing freaking Taylor Swift at me when you’re mad at me and want to piss me off.”

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