Page 19 of Over the Edge

“Yes. Reverb sent back the changes for your contract renewal,” he says with a serious edge that puts me on high alert. “You might want to sit down for this.”

We’ve been expecting them to present a preliminary contract to start negotiations, I’ve not known what to expect from it. I guess Vincent has the answers.

I claim a spot at the foot of the bed. “Okay. I’m sitting.”

“They want you to go public as Lyla as part of the new contract. They think that you’re losing public interest and they have the numbers on their side,” he explains.

“That’s against everything we’ve been working for,” I say, my voice going thin.

I get it. I do. They see all the money they could be getting out of not only my future record but my past ones as well. This was always a possibility, but I thought I was going to have this album as one last chance to prove I don’t need to go public. What I’ve built isn’t perfect, but it keeps everything in the balance.

Growing up seeing Avery and Drew in the spotlight I was apprehensive of people, sure. But I made it my mission to make people like me for me, or at least remember me as more than the sibling of someone who they put posters up of in their room. I want to have a genuine connection with the people in my life. People knowing who I am the moment I walk into a room? I don’t think I can do it. Even without people knowing my identity, I’ve struggled so much with reviews and commentaries. If they know who I am, they’ll have even more they could tear into. There’s no way that some people won’t be disappointed. I bet they’re expecting someone…more.

“I know, but—” Vincent’s voice cuts short, and I look down at the phone thinking the call got cut short.

No. The call is still going.

Just not through my speaker.

8

Garrett

“As Lyla West, without a face or presence, you aren’t able to connect with your fan base in the same way other musicians do. People want more than talent; they want to know you—” The male voice stops coming through the Bluetooth connection as quickly as it started and is replaced by Alina’s jazz preset station. The abrupt switch is dizzying.

My head thuds back against the firm headrest as shock crushes a breath from my lungs.

This is Evelyn who says every damn thing that pops into her head. Evelyn who wears her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see.Andshe’s Lyla West? Fuck.

I’ve just heard proof of this, but I’m struggling to see how that could be true.

I’ve known of Lyla West the same as anyone who’s interacted with any pop culture for the last five years does. Her first album made her interesting, someone worth talking about. When her second album came out she made her name as a force to bereckoned with. My favorite is her third, even if it is her least popular. It always felt the most familiar.

Evelyn’s not someone who I can see keeping that big of a secret and with Drew’s relationship with music over the last few years, I can’t fathom her doing something that would make him uncomfortable. I guess if he also doesn’t know, that might just make sense, be the one reason she’d be able to keep a secret this large.

A blur of movement streaks across the house windows and then Evelyn stops to peer out at me. Her doe eyes are wide but unwavering. She's speaking into the phone but I can’t read the words falling from her lips.

I think for a moment she’ll hang up and vanish like a ghost. But this is Evelyn. Even if I’ve just learned that she’s also someone else entirely, she barrels things with an unmatched intensity that makes me feel like I’m a pin about to be struck down by a bowling ball. So, I’m not surprised when a few moments pass then she flings open the door and marches toward me.

But then her eyes flicker with hesitation. She just stands there next to the car with her phone clutched at her side. She’s wearing the outfit I sent her. Denim hugs her hips, and a thin band of skin exposed between the gap below the hem of her shirt has me desperate to know how my fingers would feel running over it.

Soft. I think she’d feel so fucking soft. For a moment I forget everything else that’s happening. There’s just her.

Evelyn.

Evelyn, who is also Lyla.

Fuck.

I make an effort to relax back in my seat. There’s no point in showing my hand before I know the rules of the game.

In truth, there are very few things that I appreciate about my job, but reading people has always managed to make the list. It’sthe same reason I hate texting; you lose the nuance of humanity. You can’t see someone disguise their sweaty palms over an email or hear the tremor of anxiety that lets you know you can push a negotiation further. It’s a skill learned from necessity as a child, knowing when I’ve overstayed my welcome at the shops around town or when Lana’s face would pinch and she’d start reminding me how I destroyed her life with the simple act of being born, as if I asked to be born in the first place.

Everyone has a tell. Evelyn’s is a smile that takes an extra few seconds to reach her eyes. It’s a brave face, a convincing one for anyone who doesn’t know what her genuine smile looks like. I don’t know when I started noticing it, but one thing is for sure. Right now, she’s doing her best not to show how shaken she is.

Evelyn hovers by the door, her hand floating inches from the handle. An unasked question weighs heavy in the air.

“Get in.” I reach over and open the door for her. “We’re going somewhere with plenty of alcohol, and you look like you need a drink.”

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