Mike’s smile was all dangerous edges and as he moved closer, Ali felt her heart begin to race. Behind him, Tom’s smile suggested she was totally screwed, and not in a fun way. Not this time. The interlude in his office had been just that—when it came to choosing sides, Tom had made his decision three years ago and, to give credit where credit was due, regardless of any lingering heat between them, he stuck to it when it mattered.
From the hall where Mike had stopped her, she could see the backs of maybe two dozen well-coiffed heads. Heads belonging to the men and women who made the decisions—who recorded what, who got the promotion money, who’d be the new flavor of the month.
“Although,” he continued thoughtfully, “I’m not sure just what exactly you hope to accomplish.” A gesture toward the inner room. “Half of that lot thinks you and your little company that couldn’t quite is on the way out. Make a fuss, run about shouting something about sirens like a crazy woman, and the other half will come to agree with them.”
He had a point. A little screaming might save the band but ruin her.
“If you’re planning on warning the brothers, well, they clearly haven’t listened to you up to this point or you wouldn’t be here.”
Ali flashed him her brightest, falsest smile. “I’m here to witness your victory. Just ask Tom.”
A muscle jumped in the toned line of his jaw. “Tom’s judgment isn’t exactly sound where you’re concerned, Alysha, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“Thank you.” Her response was exactly as sincere as the statement that prompted it.
“Given the stakes, however, you will remain here only under certain conditions.”
Before she had time to ask what those conditions were, Tom grabbed her arms, dragged them behind her, and Mike snapped a pair of handcuffs over her wrists.
“Kinky,” she muttered, trying to get free.
“Just a precaution,” Mike purred. The soft wax pressed into her ear didn’t exactly take her by surprise.
“Very kinky.”
With Tom’s fingers digging into her jaw, angling her head toward his employer, Mike paused before sealing the second ear. “When the Noman brothers sing,” he told her quietly, “no one will hear them and they’ll be mine.”
Ali pasted the false smile back on. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to laugh maniacally?”
“If you like.”
“One question before…” Her gaze flickered to his fingers and then back to his face. “How did you convince that lot to stuff wax in their ears? Tell them a story about Ulysses?”
His answering smile was entirely sincere. “They’re industry executives. They don’t actually like music.”
The second piece of wax left her feeling as though she’d been cut off from the world. Ali fought the rising panic, kept her head high and her expression disdainful—a meltdown now would help no one. Not her. Not Brandon and Travis. Mike held her while Tom slid his own plugs in then kissed her forehead gently, patronizingly, as he handed her back to her ex.
Who seemed to be overcompensating for their tryst in his office.
His hands wrapped around her arms above the elbows, his grip just on the edge of bruising, Tom held her about a foot out from his body. She struggled, just enough to know she couldn’t get free, and then, together, they watched Mike make his way to the makeshift stage. Drummer, bass player, guitarist—they’d already taken their places back out of the light. They seemed to know what everyone else knew; they didn’t matter.
When Brandon and Travis came on stage, Mike gestured and Ali saw the members of the audience clap politely—part of Mike’s show, pre-arranged. Walking away, he plugged his own ears, then turned just behind the last row of chairs to face the band.
Although she could see both Travis and Brandon, the stage was angled in such a way that unless they turned specifically to face the hall, they wouldn’t see her. Tom’s grip kept her from moving into their line of sight.
By the middle of the first song, the brothers knew something was wrong; Ali could see it in the way they moved, their easy confidence replaced by the wariness of wild creatures sensing a trap. Trouble was, they’d sensed it a little late. She fought the urge to yell, Still think you don’t need me? and concentrated instead on figuring out a way to get the wax out of her ears. Companies like Vital Music Group had the luxury of long-term planning; companies like Bedford Entertainment survived by improvising.
It wasn’t a great metaphor but it was all she had.
First, Tom had to release her.
Ali stepped back, taking him by surprise. Reaching out with her cuffed hands, she cupped him through the fine wool of his dress pants. When he gave her a shake, she curled her fingers and gently squeezed. His grip tightened on her arms but she continued caressing him as he hardened. Let him think she wanted a replay of that morning in his office and, hopefully, let him remember what Mike’s reaction to a replay would be.
She was starting to think she needed another plan when he jerked back and all but threw her against the nearest wall. Face flushed, he moved to block her view of the stage and silently snarled at her to stay put.
Fine with her.
The paintings hung along the hall had been illuminated by small halogen lights. Glad she’d worn the three-inch heels, Ali gritted her teeth and pressed the side of her head against the brass casing over the closest light.
She could feel blisters rising where casing touched her cheek and the back of her ear but she could also feel the wax softening so she thought about the smell of cotton candy and the wail of a fiddle on a warm summer afternoon.
…about bodies moving together, heated and wanting, packed into the dark anonymity of a downtown club.
…about Brandon’s hands and Travis’s mouth.
…about everything NoMan could do for her bottom line, and she forced herself not to move away.
When Tom turned to check on her, Ali managed a grimace he took for a smile. Or he assumed she was grimacing about the situation, not the pain. As long as he left her to it, he could make any assumption he wanted.
Finally, she felt a tiny dribble of warn liquid roll out of her ear. Tears sliding down both cheeks, she moved her scorched face away from the brass and tossed her head, once, twice. The softened wax shifted. Slid. Dropped out.
Brandon’s voice slid in to fill the space, lifting the hair on the back of Ali’s neck, the howl of Travis’s fiddle coiling sleek and dangerous in her belly. Her body moved to the music as the familiar ache began to build.
They still couldn’t see her, but somehow they knew. Travis drew one final note from his bow and Brandon stopped singing. Hands wrapped around the microphone, he smiled and said, “That was our last song, ladies and gentlemen.”
She heard Mike growl, “Keep singing,” although with the wax in he couldn’t have heard himself.
“Not right now,” Brandon told him, and Ali wished Mike could hear the threat in the singer’s voice. It made every threat he’d ever uttered seem like posturing.
Tom grabbed her as she moved forward into the actual room, brought his face down to hers, and demanded to know what she’d done.
No point in answering since he couldn’t hear her. So, she showed him.
Still handcuffed, she darted her head forward, caught his right ear between her teeth and, holding on as he tried to shake her free, plunged her tongue into his ear and worked the wax plug out. He’d always been impressed by what she could do with her tongue.
On the stage, while the rest of the band watched in confusion, Travis played a new note and Brandon sang the counterpoint. The two sounds rose and wound about each other as the NoMan brothers directed their full attention on the action in the hall.
Releasing her, Tom straightened, listened for a moment, and pulled the plug from his other ear.