Page 57 of Fireworks Flame
Mia’s lips curl at the compliment. “Roughly translated:Give me twenty dollars.” She turns toward me, and one pierced eyebrow lifts as she takes in my outfit. “Each.”
“I heard Bears in Captivity goes old-school with some power ballads,” Phoebe says, referring to tonight’s band. She grabs my hand and skirts around Mia’s table, giving her a saucy wink as we scurry past. “Don’t forget to save me a dance.”
“Oh.” I breathe the word out as we descend the stairs. “I can’t believe you just did that. We’re in so much trouble.”
“Mac and I come to these shows all the time,” Phoebe says, “and we’ve never paid once.”
My eyes widen. “So, justI’min trouble?”
Phoebe glances back at me with an evil grin. “Correct-ola.”
I laugh but turn sideways just in case Mia decides to hurl a throwing star at my back. Downstairs, the lights are all on, including the bulbs that line the walls. The band is setting up on the small wooden stage that’s raised a few feet off the floor. The back wall is lined with boxes, but the rest of the basement is impressively empty. Someone, likely Deiss, has painted theentire basement a bold fuchsia color. It’s an odd choice but surprisingly perfect. It offsets the gray concrete floor well and is toned down by the collection of black-and-white music posters that pepper the wall to the right of the stage. No wonder he’s been able to give such helpful advice on my projects. He’s got a good eye for design.
The room is mostly empty, but the clicking of our heels causes the few people present to look up. Phoebe waves at the band, but I focus on the group standing in the middle of the room. It’s Deiss and Mac, who I expected to see, but Simone’s with them, too, standing next to a man I’ve never met. Notably absent: Zoe.
She texted earlier to set up a time on Monday to meet about the project she’s working on, but I haven’t seen her since she left with Deiss last night.
I expected to. At least I expected to hear her voice. I sat in my room for hours after I got home, staring at the sky blue walls and missing Cat Stevens, trying to convince myself I wasn’t desperate for Deiss to return alone. But when I finally heard the creaking of the front door, I could’ve wept with relief at the sound of only one set of footsteps.
“This is her. She did it,” Mac says, bounding toward me and throwing an arm around my shoulders. He propels me forward, beaming down at me. “These guys like your flyer!”
I smile back at him uncertainly before peeking at Deiss for confirmation, but Deiss’s eyes seem to be caught somewhere between my neck and my waist. I inhale sharply. My stomach does an aerial swoop. Even if it is just the novelty of seeing me in Phoebe’s clothes, it’s intoxicating to discover that Deiss is capable of seeing me as a woman.
“They do?” I ask, still looking at Deiss.
When my words cause him to look up, I smirk knowinglyto distract from the blush I feel blooming on my cheeks. He laughs at my smugness, looking only the slightest bit sheepish at having been caught ogling me.
“Drop the false humility,” he says, as if that’s the thing that’s brought him to laughter. “You know how good it is. Even Mia said so.”
“Did she?” I ask, excitement over her approval outweighing my triumph over my temporary release from the friend zone.
“Well,” he says, “notout loud.”
“We love it, though.” The stranger takes a step forward, tipping the flat hat on his head like he thinks he’s Tommy Shelby. He has two crooked teeth that appear when he smiles. “I’m Max, the band’s manager.”
“Olivia Bakersfield,” I say. “I should’ve asked before I attached the picture to the band name, but I just wanted to make sure the flyer stood out.”
“Clearly, it worked,” Deiss says, gesturing above us. “Booker keeps texting to tell me how many people are up there waiting. This is going to be a full house.”
“Olivia’s right, though,” Max says. “It’s not best practice to attach an unapproved logo to an established name. But in this case, it’s worked out. It’s an original, right?”
“It is,” I say.
“It is?” He cocks a skeptical eyebrow.
“She just answered you,” the drummer says, coming over from the stage. The rest of the group trails after him.
“What made you think to put a hot dog in one of the bears’ mouths?” A cute guy with shaggy blond hair and a guitar dangling from his side leans forward with a grin, propping his forearm on Max’s shoulder.
I shrug. “It felt right.”
His grin widens. “Fair enough. But you have to tell us if thebears are dancing or fighting, because there may or may not be money riding on your answer.”
“I wish I could answer that,” I say, “but I can’t. I tried to make it a little of both, so the viewer would see what they wanted to see.”
“Did you hear that, Brad?” He reaches over to shove the drummer. “You’ve got hidden anger inside you. You should try to see a world that’s full of dancing, like me.”
“I’ll write that down in my goals diary,” Brad says wryly before focusing on me. “My anger issues aside, what do you say? Do you want to work with us?”
