Page 5 of The Duet

“You’ve been through a lot as well.”

Way to pierce through my armor of cool. I glance away at the opposite wall, where Joan’s favorite guitar—a Gibson Les Paul—hangs like the most valuable piece of art in a museum, unsure how to answer her.

“You can hear it in your voice, especially in this song,” Cleo continues. “Maybe that’s because it’s a duet.”

“Maybe.” A grin on my lips, I look at Cleo, who has made herself comfortable on the stool next to me. I quite like her. Maybe I can be her mentor or something like that, not that she needs one. “I take it you know the melody?”

“I know this song as if I wrote it myself.” Ostentatiously, Cleo lets the sheet of paper with the lyrics flutter to the floor. “Shall we?” She turns to me and looks deep into my eyes.

For the first time in a long while, I feel my own cheeks flush with unexpected heat.

Chapter 4

Cleo

I’m singing the hell out of this song, and I know it. It’s the one thing I do best and it’s the most delicious treat to do so with Lana Lynch by my side. I can’t believe I was so nervous before coming here. Thousands of people pay good money to see me do exactly this. But in this room, it’s just Lana and me. And Lana knows a thing or two about singing as well. Her voice is so sultry and low, like a melodious bass note that hits you in the right spot over and over again—a sound I became addicted to a long time ago.

“Maybe we should sing it a cappella on tour as well,” I blurt out after we’ve sung “I Should Have Kissed You” a couple of times and we’ve already found an unmistakable groove—as though we were meant for nothing else but to sing this song together.

“I’m not sure about that,” Lana says, taking what I just said very seriously. “I was thinking about making it the final song of the night and I’m not sure I should do that without the band.”

“Oh no, of course not. I was just babbling. Speaking without thinking. I do that sometimes.”

“I value your input. And you’re right. It sounds good without musical accompaniment, but we should at least try it with the band as well, because we’re definitely doing this. If you’re up for it. You can’t go off partying with your bandmates as soon as your set ends.”

“And miss even a minute of your show? Not a chance.” Lana probably doesn’t have a clue how much her band means to me. Clearly, she’s not one for chitchat, what with the way she shoved a mic into my hands when I’d barely walked in the door. She behaves like a woman who is quickly running out of time. Hm, that sounds like a good song lyric, but I can hardly write it down now. Not when I’m bantering with Lana Lynch.

“It’s pretty much the same show every night.”

“But still.” I flash her a stage smile.

“We’ll talk again in a few weeks.”

“Seriously, Lana, it’s such an honor for me to sing with you. I’ve been a fan of The Lady Kings for as long as I’ve been aware that music exists. I’ve been listening to your songs for as long as I can remember. The Lady Kings are one of the main reasons The Other Women even exist. The Lady Kings are what we aspire to be when we grow up, if you know what I mean.” I don’t add that we could have gone on our own headline tour instead of reducing our status to their opening act. It doesn’t matter. As far as dreams go, it doesn’t get much bigger than to open for The Lady Kings.

“Thank you.” Lana barely smiles—even at her age, she’s still too cool for that. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Given the amount of bullshit spouted in this business, I appreciate it,” Lana says.

“We’re looking forward to the tour so much.”

“So are we, even though we’re a bit rusty. It’s been a while and two months is a long time to be away from home.”

“That’s not how I think about it. This tour is one big gift for us. But I get that it’s different for you.”

“Hm.” Lana seems to have had enough of the small talk already.

“Is it okay if we snap a quick pic for Insta? Our manager insisted.” And Jess will go crazy, although she might also be jealous. But she’ll get plenty of chances for selfies with Lana Lynch—in that respect, two months is a long time.

“It’s part of the deal these days, I guess,” Lana says on a sigh. “Billie’s into all that social media stuff. Someone at the record company manages my accounts.” She gives a dismissive wave of the hand. “Personally, I fail to see the point.”

I barely stop myself from saying, “You’re not that old.” I know Lana’s fifty-four. My mother, who turned sixty recently, is all over social media. Then again, my mother isn’t an iconic rock star with millions of followers.

I pull my phone from my back pocket. “Ready?”

Lana nods.

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