Page 18 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Well? Looks like your fiancé agrees. Not that he bothered asking you." Bobby doesn't hide the look of disgust on his face.
"He's just late for his meeting," I counter, feeling the need to defend him despite the fact that I wholeheartedly agree. I'm his fiancée. Not his employee. He can't just order me away on a tour bus for two months with my ex-whatever.Not that he knows he was ever anything to you at all, that annoying voice in my head says.
"Well,I'masking, Beth." His voice is honey and gravel, still rough with anger at Harrison, but softer now that we're alone. I wish it was all gravel, because the honey makes my thoughts go fuzzy and my traitorous body buzz. "Two months on the road. Come on tour with me. Write the story. Get Harrison the contract he so desperately wants." His fingers resume drumming on the table as his eyes burrow beneath my skin. "What do you say?”
NOW
August 2024
Your sad eyes tell me you’re lying
When you say you’re almost happy
What other lies would I find beneath that hair so red?
—An excerpt from "Almost There," written and performed by Robert Beckett
"What's this really about, Robert?" I ask, politely waving Ella over to order. "Whatever entrée takes the least time to make, please. Two of them."
Bobby narrows his eyes at me, but he doesn't argue. "This is about me needing someone I trust to write this article."
"That’s bullshit, and we both know it. You could find a hundred people to write the article. Did you already know I was engaged to Harrison when you met with him?" The Bobby I knew would never be so calculated, but I don't know this man.
"What? No!" He leans back as if I just slapped him. "You think I’m stalking you? Do you know how hard it's been for me tonotlook you up all these years? To not hire a damn private investigator to tell me everything about your life? This isexactlywhat I said it was. I met with Harrison, and there you were, staring at me like a ghost from a picture on his desk."
I examine his words, his posture, trying to decide if I believe him.
"Once I saw that picture, I needed to talk to you. Because, If I’m being honest—"
"Please," I breathe, needing the truth. I squeeze my hands together to keep them from shaking.
"I don’t like him," Bobby says flatly. "He's not right for you, Beth. Not even close."
My mouth opens and closes as if forming words, but I don’t know how to respond. "That's not for you to decide. You don’t even know Harrison. Orme,for that matter." I look away, unable to hold eye contact as I say it.
"Look, I can’t get out of doing this article. Not unless I want to do months' worth of talk show appearances and interviews, and I don’t have time for that shit. Marissa said if I agree to an all-access, in-depth snapshot into my life, she’ll keep the appearances to a minimum. Harrison wants to represent me, and you’re the best writer I know. Please, let’s do each other this favor."
“Marissa's still your manager?” I ask, and he nods.
I chew on my lip, considering his offer. Harrison signing Bobby as a client would be incredible for his career, and Ihavebeen thinking about going back to writing. What better way to make my comeback than an exclusive feature in the biggest music publication out there?
"If I agree, what are the terms? Where will I stay?"
"All access, Beth," he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. His biceps bunch, and despite the ridiculous blue polo he's wearing, he’s annoyingly attractive. My cheeks heat. "That means you’ll stay on the bus with me."
"Nope." I press my palms on the table, the blush creeping all the way down my throat. "We're done."
"It’s the only way we’ll have time to do the article. You’ll be by yourself most of the time. You can write. Or plan your wedding. I have studio hours booked in every city we go to, songwriting sessions whenever I'm not recording, and then my shows at night. You’ll have your own space. Complete privacy."
I rub my forehead where my headache is starting to thrum again. "I don’t get it Bobby. I haven’t seen you in six years. Why do you think me writing this article will be different from anyone else writing it? Hire Harrison, or don’t. But leave me out of it."I stand. I can eat at home.
"Beth. I haven’t told you the best part. Half the proceeds from the sale of this edition will be donated. It's already been negotiated. Childhood cancer research."
I freeze, slowly sitting back down. "Youactuallyexpect me to believe this wasn’t pre-planned?" He has to know that if anything could get me to say yes, it’s this. Raising money and awareness for childhood cancer. He looks at me with sad eyes, knowing where my mind has gone.
"I started my own charity two years ago, and the contract withRolling Stonewas signed before I met with Harrison. I can show you the paperwork. It had nothing to do with you.”
I think of Michael, and how he should be alive right now. How maybe he would be, if science had caught up with his horrific, nasty disease. "I want my own space," I say, pausing. "And if at any point it gets to be too…" I don’t know how to phrase what I’m thinking. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit out loud that being around him already feels like digging a shard of glass into an open wound.
