Page 22 of Filthy Sweet

Owen laughs. “Brutal.”

I tap my ear. “This is all I got. If it ever starts to fail me, I’m in trouble.”

He scrunches his nose, which is distractingly cute. “I still don’t think I get what you actually do. I know it’s called artist relations, but you’re a businessperson, right?”

I grunt. “Unfortunately, it involves way too much business. But basically, it means I make the artists happy, serve as the go-between with the label, guide their careers. I’m more hands-on than a lot of A&R reps, a little more like an agent.” I lean back on the bar and turn to him, much preferring our conversation about the seals. “So all the way from California to Alaska, huh?”

Owen grins. “Over ten-thousand miles a year.”

“That’s a lot for a seal.”

“There are dragonflies that migrate just as far.”

“No shit?”

“It takes them many generations, though. No single dragonfly makes the journey, but their great-great-great-grandkids will get back to where they started one day.”

“You should tell Mare that one. She writes all her best songs after watching nature documentaries.”

Owen beams. “That’s so cool.”

Jordan, the booking agent for one of the largest venues in town, approaches us. She’s dressed casually in an old Mudhoney concert shirt, but the look in her eyes tells me she intends to talk business and to corner some dates with my bands.

“Fox. Didn’t think you’d be here.” Her eyes dart to Owen. “How’s your night?”

“Fine,” I answer. “But you’ll have to excuse us.”

“Oh?”

I place my hand on Owen’s shoulder. “I promised my date I’d show him around the theater. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Owen blushes but manages to hold his smile. “That’s right, babe.”

I scoop up our drinks. “Right this way.”

* * *

OWEN

Two cocktails later, I’m up by the sound booth with Fox. There’s a couch on the ledge, looking down on the stage, which gives us a bird’s-eye view of the concert. It’s a private spot, and he led me here to get a break from all the industry people, although getting seen by the industry people was our excuse for the fake-date in the first place.

So maybe this part of the night is something different?

Music crashes through the space, guitars and drum rolling furiously. Fox has his boots kicked up on a huge light and an easy smile on his face.

I think he might be having fun. Or maybe I’m just drunk. It’s hard to tell.

But either way, this definitely feels like a date-date.

“What do you think of the band?” he asks.

I lean back, trying to relax in the couch like he is. “I guess they’re good. I mean, they’re obviously great musicians.”

He nods, his gaze cast to the distance. “Yeah. That’s the problem. You shouldn’t be sitting here thinking about how technically skilled they are. You should be lost in the song.”

I nod. “Do you still play guitar?”

“Not really,” Fox answers quickly.

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