Page 16 of Perfect Composition
“Louie,” David assumes correctly, naming the doorman who also happens to be a silent partner in the club located just between Fort Washington and Manhattan.
“Yes. But also his brother. And since I had lunch with Simon just before the Toronto show—” I’m name-dropping Marco’s brother, the famed Broadway actor who is often paired with Evangeline Brogan.
David interrupts me. “Youhad lunch with Simon Houde? Christ, I’d have loved to have been there for that. What did you two talk about?”
My mind blanks. I drag my gaze to Carys for help. She shakes her head imperceptibly, chastising me without words about having to keep secrets from her husband. Blithely, she says, “I’m certain Simon is just a fan of Becks, David. And with these shows in New York being the last few he’s doing for a while…”
David’s suspicion recedes. “Right. Carry on.”
I clear my throat. “As I was saying, Simon indicated Marco was bringing in a few guest DJs over the next several weeks. Apparently, his regular guy in the booth got married. So, he thought this would be a good promo opportunity.”
Carys’s expression is wistful. “It sounds like a lot of fun.”
David runs his hand over her hair. “We could try to go if you want.”
She shakes her head. “Ben’s been fussy when we leave him lately, even with people we know. Besides, I supposedly turned this part of my job over to Ward. It would have just been a nice night to have gone out—just the two of us.”
“Right. You, me, and a few hundred others all scrambling for VIP passes at the eleventh hour.”
Carys has the good grace to look chagrined. “Well, yes. But at least we know Marco, and it wouldn’t have been an issue to have been issued one. Plus, we would have heard some potentially magical talent. You know Marco has a great ear.”
And even though I’m being taunted by an enormous challenge issued to me by an eighty-eight-key mistress, I hear my own voice. “Well, it’s not as if I won’t drop by. If there’s anything impressive, I’ll be sure to report in.”
“You just want to avoid working,” Carys teases me.
“You’d be right.” I lean forward, displaying the well-muscled body I’ve kept honed all these years.
“Music doesn’t get made that way!”
Shoving myself out of the chair, I make it to Carys’s office door before I respond. “Neither does lack of inspiration. But we’ll see which happens first in this case. I’ll drop by if I see anything of interest for you at Redemption.”
Before either she or David can respond, I slip out of her office.
With years of practice, I ignore the paparazzi that follow me with each and every step I take on my way back to my Upper East Side penthouse, knowing my security team will ward off any true threats. I love New York, but I miss the freedom of open spaces where I could walk for miles and never see another soul. Never speak to another soul. Unless I ran into her. Then, it wouldn’t be long before speaking—hell, thinking—was the last thing on either of our minds.
My pulse thrumming, I nod brusquely at the doorman, who races to open the door. Striding toward my private elevator, I touch the biometric pad and enter the code I had installed a few years ago after a crazed fan somehow managed to bribe the then doorman for the code and leave herself waiting naked in my elevator. It didn’t take long to handle her, but it truly made me realize I couldn’t walk around the city any longer without protection.
I don’t begrudge a single dollar I shelled out to Hudson Investigations to help me keep that hot little disaster out of the papers. In fact, I ended up putting them on permanent retainer. I whirl around and meet the eyes of one of their security experts, Kane McCullough, who nods and steps back as I enter the elevator, knowing his counterpart has been prowling my penthouse upstairs for the hour I’ve been outside of it.
I almost miss the days where I had nothing more than a couple of pairs of torn Levis and stained tees to my name. Instead, I have my clothes custom-tailored in London and Rome twice a year. I buy shoes and boots that are where the leather is specifically fit for my size 14 foot. And, most importantly, I no longer worry about where my next meal is coming from.
Or what I’ll have to endure to get it.
Shrugging away the memories isn’t as easy as sliding off my jacket, but I won’t allow them into the nearly 10,000 square feet of space that overlooks Central Park. I tip my chin up at the other bodyguard from Hudson, who swaps spots with me and quietly descends in the elevator.
And when he does, one thought goes through my head as I take in my home as I make my way over to the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Mine.
And no one can take it away. Nothing can. Even if the words and notes stopped flowing so smoothly, I’d still have this. I have friends. And in the off-the-rocker chance I ever fell in love with someone—I snort derisively at the thought—there’s enough socked away that no one in the next six generations should feel any pain.
At least not the kind I did.
With that mental reassurance, I make my way to the most sacred place in my home—my music room. And I struggle with telling a story that for the first time I won’t sing.
Even if it’s about me.
PAIGE
