“That came yesterday,” San says from my bedroom door. “I’m not even the one paying those bills, and I get tired of seeing ‘em.”
A rueful grin shapes one corner of my mouth, but I don’t bother responding. I tighten my ponytail and tug at the cut off T-shirt that is standard issue at The Note. It doesn’t quite reach the waistband of my jeans, exposing a few inches of my midriff.
“Can you still take me to work?” I ask, tucking the red-splattered notice under my jewelry box and turn to face San. “Or should I catch the bus?”
San plops on the edge of my bed, falling back and running his palms over the soft quilt Aunt Ruthie made for me.
“I can take you.” San laces his hands behind his head, grinning with some secret assured to make me grin back. “You may have to grab the bus home if that’s okay.”
“Big date?”
I hope so. San’s date drought has sadly coincided with my arrival. I don’t want him to put his life on hold for me, but I know in many ways he has.
“Something like that, yeah. With Ginny.” He gives me a searching look like he’s not sure how I’ll respond.
“That’s great.” I sit on the bed and lie back beside him until our heads touch. “I like her.”
“She likes you too.” San’s chuckle rumbles against my shoulder. “Once she believed we aren’t sleeping together, and that the idea of screwing you makes me physically ill.”
I grab a pillow and press it over his face. His muffled laugh makes me grin and slide the pillow under my own head as I settle back down on the bed.
“You didn’t have to go that far to convince her.” I tilt my head until I can see his profile. “Physically ill?”
“It took that for her to get the picture.” San flips to the side, propping himself up on one elbow and resting his head in his hand. “She got me an interview with Spotted.”
“That new celebrity video blog thing?”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be the next TMZ.”
“Like we need another one of those.”
San laughs and rolls his eyes. We have different views of privacy. I believe celebrities actually deserve some.
“Does this mean you’re giving up on singing?” I sit up to search his eyes properly.
We’ve been on the same path since elementary school, even if the last few years I fell several paces behind. The thought that our paths might be forking in different directions scares me a little.
San sits up too, bumping my shoulder with his and leaning his head into mine. He probably already knew this fear before I did. That may be why I’m hearing all of this for the first time.
“I just think I prefer to be on the other side of the camera.” San shrugs. “Well, actually still in front. I’d be an in-studio correspondent, not a car chaser. It’ll still be in the biz, just a different angle. I don’t want it like you do.”
I can’t even deny it. The desire to perform, to entertain, burns so hot inside me I can’t imagine life without the potential to do it. It’s always been that way for me.
“Besides, some people have it, and some people don’t.” San tugs my ponytail. “You, my friend, have gobs of it. People like you and Rhyson got everybody else’s share.”
I stiffen at the name of the man I’ve spent the last week trying to delete from my memory.
“I saw him today at Grady’s.” San’s eyes rest on me, but I don’t look up from the strings I’m pulling on my jeans.
“Really?” My neutral voice.
“Yeah, we go six months at Grady’s without seeing the guy and then run into him twice in a week. I guess they’re close.”
His voice holds a question. The look he levels at me, speculating.
I roll my eyes, debating whether to ignore the bait on that hook or give him the intel he obviously suspects I have.
“I’m telling you this friend to friend,” I say. “Not friend to slimy, Spotted correspondent.”
“I resent that. I can’t believe you’d—”
I cut him off with the look that reminds him I know he traded his goldfish, Hammer, in seventh grade to get elected class president. He is just as ambitious as I am, even if his ambitions are being redirected.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes with a self-aware grin. “Friend to friend.”
“Grady’s Rhyson’s uncle.” We stare at each other with saucer eyes. “Can you believe that? I work for Grady. We take lessons from Grady, and we had no idea his nephew is one of the biggest rock stars in the world.”
“What the ever-living fuck?” San’s mouth hangs open a little before he snaps it shut.
“Apparently, Grady and Rhyson’s father are twin brothers,” I add.
My voice has dropped to a whisper, and I stop myself from looking over my shoulder. This feels wrong. I’m not divulging huge secrets or anything, but I’m pretty sure Rhyson isn’t the forthcoming type. For whatever reason, he was with me. He drove me around when he didn’t have to and told me things he probably shouldn’t tell some random girl he met at his uncle’s house. He had no reason to trust me. I hate to think I’m betraying that trust, even in the smallest way.
“San, just don’t mention this to anyone, okay?”
San frowns and sucks his teeth.
“I’m not working for Spotted yet, Kai, and even if I were, I wouldn’t do that.” San walks over to my dresser and picks up my hairbrush, bringing some order to his pillow-rumpled hair and meeting my eyes in the mirror. “He asked about you today, by the way.”
My heart thump-thumps in my chest, and a small heat wave overtakes my body.
“Did he?” As casual as I can, I bend to tie my left Converse. “What’d he say?”
“Just asked how you were doing.” San turns to face me, wearing my least favorite knowing grin. “Did you expect more after you friend zoned him so hard?”
Why do I tell San my secrets? He only rubs them in at the worst times.
“Let’s go.” I head to the door, shutting down this train of thought with a stern look over my shoulder. “I can’t be late.”
“I think you like him.”
“Whatever.” I’m not going there with him. “So what are you and Ginny up to?”
San presses his lips into a smile before surrendering to my subject change.
“She’s taking me to this party to meet the producers of Spotted. Get me some face time with the powers that be. Basically a cocktail interview. You know half the business in this town takes place at parties.”
“Must be why I’m having such a hard time breaking into the business.”
I drag my feet through our small apartment, grabbing keys and my bag along the way. I really don’t feel like working tonight. For just a second, I consider calling in, but then that red-splattered medical bill pricks my memory. I climb into the front seat and start mentally preparing myself for the long, uneventful night ahead.
THIS NIGHT HAS BEEN ANYTHING BUT uneventful. Bull, the owner, pulled me to the side as soon as I got to work. One of the cooks was late, and he needed me to cover. If I could rewind to my interview for this job, I would never have mentioned my kitchen experience. That kitchen gets so hot and busy. By the time the cook showed up, my perky ponytail was limp, my armpits were soaked, and I had sweated off what little makeup I started the night with.
From there, it only got worse. A volleyball team rushed in, a flock of teenage girls giggling and taking forever to order. A group of truckers rambled in, boisterous and loud, and of course, having trouble keeping their hands to themselves. I swear, if I swat one more paw away from my butt, somebody’s meeting the unfriendly end of my box cutter.
Some nights zoom because things are so busy. Others drag because the place is dead and I’m bored out of my mind. This is some hybrid night, where we’re slammed against the wall busy, but time still seems to be crawling. I glance at the clock over the entrance to the kitchen one more time. I’m sure that big hand has only moved five minutes in the last hour.