Page 42 of August Lane
“Questionable choices.”
“Fair. But what else?”
She stared at the tiny icons, then focused on the names attached to them. “They’re all white. More famous than him.”
“Why do you think that is?” He stuffed the phone into his pocket. “None are better singers. Half of them don’t even record anymore. Just a bunch of no ones with silly hats and lots of airplay. And the more of them that cover Luke’s song, the deeper they bury the guy who wrote it. Pretty soon, no one will remember it was him.”
She forced a shrug. “Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t. Not when everyone’s claiming that today’s a new, more inclusive day. He should be the face of his own music. Every artist deserves that.”
He couldn’t know. No one knew. But it still felt like a well-placed dagger. “You’re right,” August said, focusing on the billboard again. There was a streak of bird shit on Jojo’s hat. It made her smile. “Too bad he won’t be singing it.”
Four hours later, August could tell by the rapid cop knock on her apartment door that Luke knew what she’d done. She ignored him. Telling David that Luke planned to pitch new music had been risky, but she didn’t regret it. Luke was a Band-Aid picker who would have inched toward breaking the news until the very last second, then claimed it was too late to change the set list. August ripped her bandages off as soon as possible, sometimes before the wound had time to heal. With the show less than two months away, it was better to face the fallout now.
“Open the door!” Luke pounded again. She touched the doorknob,took a deep breath, and yanked it open. His eyes seemed darker than usual, like his pupils were devouring the irises. Her body reacted instantly, a hot quickening she tried to ignore. She was always that way with beautiful men. Hungry for poison. Ready to wreck herself for a taste.
“What did you do?” Luke shouldered his way inside before she could answer. She closed the door and immediately regretted it. He was big and warm, while her apartment, with its sputtering window air conditioner, was uncomfortably small.
“Hi, August,” she said in a singsong voice. “May I come in? Why, sure, Luke. But keep your dirty shoes off my carpet.” She gave his feet a pointed look. He shuffled, wavering, and she knew it took all his strength not to comply. Even when he was mad, the man was polite to his core.
“Don’t change the subject.” He was stubborn for thirty seconds before muttering “Goddammit” and bending down to yank at his laces. August watched him take his shoes off with a tight throat. This would be easier if he weren’t still himself.
“I know you’re mad—”
“You think!” He straightened and pulled out his phone. “David accused me of sabotage. He thinks I’m working with Charlotte on some elaborate revenge scheme.” He showed her his screen. Instead of reading the texts, she stared at his bare fingers. She’d never thought of him as the type of husband who wouldn’t wear a ring.
August forced herself to focus on his phone. Besides threatening legal action, David accused Luke of lying about having new material.There are better ways to impress a pretty girl. Signed divorce papers would be a start.
August laughed, which made Luke’s eye twitch. “None of this is funny.”
She pointed to the text. “That’s a little funny.”
“This is serious. David never wanted to hire me. He’s itching to replace my duet with one of the other openers.”
“No, he isn’t. He was curious when I told him you were working on something new. I could tell.” She waved away the phone. “All of that is because I wouldn’t give him any details.”
“Because there aren’t any. You can’t bullshit a man like this, August.”
“You did. You should have heard him going on about you getting credit foryoursong. ‘Jojo wants to uplift Black voices.’ Made my teeth ache.”
He studied her long enough to make her squirm. “Is that why you did this? To get back at Jojo?”
Of course he’d think that. Easier to brush off a petty revenge plot instead of taking responsibility for his actions. “This isn’t about her.”
Luke shook his head. “I don’t understand you. Why would you try to get me fired? I thought you wanted this.”
His words felt like a jab to the throat. He’d been gone for nearly half their lives. He didn’t know her anymore. “I think I want it more than you,” she said.
He blinked. “What does that mean?”
“You’re terrified.” She let her worst suspicions bubble to the surface. “Is it because you know people will see the real you? They’re already writing think pieces about Luke Randall embracing his roots by working with Jojo. It’ll only get worse if you sing something I wrote.”
Luke’s eyes went dark again. “What the fuck are you asking me?”
Hurt lined his voice, a slight quaver that revealed his insecurities. It made her wonder if he’d ever talked about this before, how closely his popularity was tied to colorblindness. It made him indistinguishable from other voices on the radio. Jojo used to say that fitting in was how you got an invitation to the party, but taking risks kept them coming. Luke had sat in the corner, playing it safe for so long his career had gone to rot. “I’m asking if you’re brave enough to be honest this time.”
“So now I’m a coward because I busted my ass to make music some redneck DJ wouldn’t toss in the garbage? You don’t think I had enough doors slammed in my face?”
