Page 83 of Songbird
“The building has its own security,” I add, “and we’re going straight from backstage to filming and out again, right?”
Pia nods. “I’ve timed it so we’re not here any longer than we have to be.”
John and I exchange a final look, silent agreement passing between us. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he says. “Just radio in.”
We exit the car, I check in my weapon at the studio security office, and a producer greets us at the entry door. Her headset and clipboard giving the impression of speed and efficiency,which is proved by the pace she sets as she walks us through the gray-painted corridors toward the green rooms. She talks fast, sharing the rundown of events and instructions on how to reach her if needed, sweeping past walls of autographed celebrity head shots and preoccupied crew members with staff IDs and bright pink wristbands. She stops when we reach the open door to a small but well-appointed dressing room.
“You can wait in here,” she says. “I’ll be back to collect you when it’s time to go on.”
“You know what I love about television producers?” Rosie asks as she and Pia step into the dressing room, our escort already halfway down the corridor in the other direction.
“No,” I say, closing the door behind us. “What?”
“They’re immune to stardom. Famous people walk in and out of this place every day, and after a while, these crews have seen so much they stop looking. It’s nice to feel ordinary for a change.”
Rosie opens the bar fridge to retrieve a bottle of water, and I check that the door is locked before moving farther inside. Pia drops onto the two-seat sofa and Rosie perches in the swivel chair in front of the brightly lit mirror, scanning her reflection to make sure her hair and makeup are still in place.
“I know I’ve already told you this,” Pia says, “but I’ll say it again in case anything is unclear. I’ve pre-approved all questions and vetoed anything about Chip. You can hint at what went wrong—perhaps an off-the-cuff comment about his particular interest inundiscovered talent—but don’t throw mud because we’ll have a hard time washing it off. The tour is a safe zone, as is talk about new music. Tell them you’re working on new material and you’re excited to collaborate with Zane, but no release details for now. Their legal team is well aware that what happened in New Orleans and the recent arrest of your attacker is under a gag order while the case is handled in the courts, sodon’t worry about them raising that subject on air. I’ve supplied a couple of cute anecdotes about the baby bird you rescued when it fell out of a tree on your property last year and the signed sheet music you donated to the performing arts high school in Philadelphia last fall.”
“Chip bad. Music good. Small talk painful.” Rosie nods sharply. “Got it.”
Pia shakes her head with a chuckle, then picks up her bag and gets to her feet. “Can I leave you two alone for now? I need to chat to the promotions team about coordinating our social media efforts.”
Rosie waves her hand. “Go. We’re fine. We’ll see you back here after the show?”
“Sounds great. Good luck. I’ll be right offstage if you need me.”
Pia disappears into the hallway outside, the door clicking shut behind her, and when Rosie and I are alone, I cross the room to be closer to her. I wonder how long it’ll be until this anxiety to always be near enough to touch her fades away. Is it the need to protect her or the desire to feel her that pulls me in—or both?
“You cannot mess up my lipstick today,” she says, stepping backward with a smile. “So stop looking at me like that!”
“Like what?” I ask innocently. “I was merely admiring your… ah…”
Rosie giggles and plants her hands on her hips. “My what?”
I pull up short, drinking in the woman before me, and answer her from my heart. “Your resilience. Your intelligence. Your determination and your kindness. I’m standing here looking at you and wondering how someone so perfect on the surface could possibly be more beautiful inside where it matters the most.”
Her blue eyes well up, and I slip my arms around her waist before brushing my lips against her forehead. “I’m not going to kiss you, Songbird, but I really, really want to.”
“Oh, Finn,” she says before she’s interrupted by a knock on the door. She glances around my shoulder at the mirror, weaving out of my embrace to pluck up a tissue and carefully dry her eyes. Her laugh is watery. “I told you not to ruin my make up!”
“Sorry,” I say with a grimace. “Should I tell the producer you need a few more minutes?”
“No. I think I’m okay.”
The knock sounds again at the same time my phone rings, and I pull it out of my back pocket to check the caller ID. It’s Drew, and the surprise at seeing his name on my screen rings in my ears like an alarm bell. I answer the call at the same time Rosie calls out, “Come in!”
“Drew,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m not sure. You know those social media comments you’ve been tracking? We got three more today and they’re still coming from LA.”
My heart skips a beat. “What?”
“Yep. Thismistr_ess_elyou’ve been tracking. It’s got to be someone else.”
My stomach drops at the way he says it.Mistress Linstead ofMister S L, the way it’s always sounded in my head. It’s like a key slipping into a lock with an audible snap.
Mistress L. Lauren.
