Opening Act (22 page)

And now…now she knew that there never
was
a possibility. She'd fooled herself.
Let
herself be fooled. Shay Dayton had showed her what a stupid naïf she really was. He'd just sent her the signals he'd figured she'd wanted, and she'd eaten them up with a spoon and asked for more, please. He'd gotten exactly what he'd wanted from her, and now he was heading off on the road to superstardom, leaving her behind, devastated, having closed the door on the only road open to
her
.

How many women, she wondered, had fallen into this same trap? How many had let a dazzling smile and lightning-blue eyes woo them into lowering their guards? How many had let a few lines implying respect and admiration trick them into believing they were respected and admired? God, Loni had even made the
first move
. She wasn't just a victim, she was a willing accomplice in her own victimization. And worst of all, she'd burned her bridges behind her. How could she possibly go back to Byron now and tell him she'd changed her mind? She didn't even
want
to. The things he'd said to her, she couldn't ever forget them—certainly never forgive.

Suddenly, the walls around her seemed to close in—to suffocate her. All the lives she'd lived in this single day; the futures she'd projected for herself one after another; the array of selves she'd tried on like gloves, admired, and set aside; all were gone now. She had nothing left. No allies, no mentors, no friends, no lovers—no choices and no confidence. She was utterly and completely alone.

A few hours earlier, Shay had entered the Mambo Room.

Pernita had said to meet her there at six thirty. He was deliberately twenty minutes late. In fact, he'd spent most of the past half hour in a bar two blocks away, having a drink to pass the time. He wasn't going to show up until he was damn good and ready.

But of course, Pernita didn't care. She caught sight of him as he entered and happily waved him over to where she was seated, at a tall table near the bar. As he made his way through the club toward her, he knew she wouldn't even mention his being late. Possibly she didn't even realize it. More likely,
though, she saw his lateness for what it was: a pathetic little stab at resistance to her power over him, a small piece of childish acting out. She'd ignore it, as it deserved to be ignored.

He felt his face redden with shame. He really was pathetic. He'd sold himself to this woman and her father. He knew it, they knew it, and whatever sulky little fits he occasionally threw against them were as ridiculous to them as they were to him.

“Hey, sugar,” Pernita said when he reached her. Since he didn't lean down to her, she craned her neck up to him and smacked him on the lips. “Do you know Rachael BlessingInnes?” she asked, gesturing to the imposing-looking young woman seated next to her, whose hair was pulled back into a tight chignon and whose black skirt and jacket looked like sheet metal.

“I don't believe I do,” Shay said, and he shook the amazon's hand. Her grip, surprisingly, was very loose. Maybe she just didn't think he was worth impressing.

“Rachael and I were at school together,” Pernita said. And this was the problem with her: he could never punish her by making her wait for him, because for her, waiting was never a chore. There was always someone there for her to talk to, someone she'd gone to school with, or flown to Brazil with, or went skiing in Gstaad with, or started a colony on Jupiter with, or who the hell even knew.

Shay couldn't think of anything to say to this, and Rachael had chosen the moment to take another sip of her murky green cocktail. Was she drinking absinthe? If anyone had friends who drank absinthe, it would be Pernita.

For a few moments there was an awkward silence. Then Rachael put down her drink and said, “Oh, there's my party. Got to run. Such a scream to see you again, angel lady.” She got up from her stool—and kept on going. Shay was astonished. She easily cleared six feet.

“We've really
got
to stay in touch this time,” said Pernita, air-kissing her, and since she was about seven inches shorter, there was plenty of air to kiss.

“I've got all your contact info,” Rachael said, grabbing her clutch. “I'll text you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it. Ciao, darling.”

Shay shimmied around Pernita, making his way to the stool Rachael had just vacated. He paused long enough to scope out the party Rachael had gone to meet. Yep, it was just as he'd figured: a group of three other people, one man, one woman, one who might have been either but in a way Shay could only call gladiatorial, and all of them were hung with couture, boasting cheekbones that could shelter small cars from the rain.

Shay slipped onto the stool and deliberately avoided making eye contact with Pernita. Instead he scanned the room for someone who could give him another drink. It was a bit early-ish to get hammered, but he was with Pernita, so he'd need it.

“Hel-
lo
,” Pernita said. “Why yes, I'm fine, thank you, sugar-pie. And you?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Just want to grab a server so I can order a bev.” At just that moment he locked eyes with a pert young blonde carrying a tray and signaled her over.

“You won't need to do that,” said Pernita, who noticed the blonde as well and made a small countermanding gesture to her. The blonde nodded and turned away.

Shay felt his face blister with anger. He put up with a lot of this presumed ownership crap, but this was too goddamn far. He was a grown man, for Christ's sake, and if he wanted to have a drink, he was going to have a goddamn drink. He extended his arm to its full length and tried to wave the server back.

“Excuse me,” he said tersely as he flailed in vain, “but I'll be the judge of what I need and when I need it.” It was as surly a tone as he'd ever allowed himself to take with her.

She actually laughed at him. Laughed, and her eyes twinkled as if his rebellion just amused and delighted her like it was the ferocious growling of an adorable puppy. She placed her hand on his arm and forced it down. “Just relax,” she said, a smile in her voice. “It's all taken care of.”

“It is not taken care of,” he said, still angry but being careful not to get any angrier. “I came in thirsty, I remain thirsty, and,” he added, gesturing at the empty place on the table before him, “there is nothing here to quench my thirst. So, no. Very much
not
taken care of.”

He was just tearing off the last syllables of this blistering complaint when the blonde reappeared, carrying a champagne bucket, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and two crystal flutes. “Ah,” said Pernita happily. “Here it is. I've had her keep it on ice while I waited for you.”

If there was a little hint of a spike in that “while I waited for you”—and Shay thought there was—there was no way he could address it. He was too busy feeling abashed by the sudden appearance of this extravagant bottle, whose cork the server had now freed from its wire cage and was laboriously pulling from the bottleneck.

“I don't understand,” Shay said, as the cork came free with a pop.

Pernita clapped her hands and told the server, “Well done!” Then she turned back to Shay and said, “Just a moment.”

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait for the server to dramatically fill the two flutes—first pouring a little, then letting the foam subside, then pouring a little more, and so on. Why was it always this way with Pernita? Did she actually
like
making a fool of him? He ought to be enjoying this moment, anticipating what she was about to tell him, because it was almost certainly good news. And yet there was something about the way she did it, the way she insisted on always keeping him partly in the dark, always just a little bit off-balance—like she got some kind of charge out of prompting him to react one way, then turning things upside down to make him regret it.

Well, he wasn't playing along anymore. He'd just sit tight and not say a word till Pernita finally revealed whatever it was she had up her sleeve.

Eventually the flutes were filled. The server plunged the bottle into the ice bucket and departed. Pernita handed him one flute, while taking the other herself.

“Here's to fashion,” she said, and she held her flute aloft.

Shay raised his as well, but there was no way he was uttering a syllable until he knew what the hell this was about.

“And to fashion photography,” she added teasingly.

Shay just stared at her.

“And,” she continued, “to the upcoming photo spread in
Details
featuring the hottest men's winter fashions as worn by rock music's hottest front men. Including,” and here she chinked her flute against his, “a certain Shay Dayton.”

His jaw dropped. “What?” he asked, forgetting to drink to the toast, though Pernita was now happily enjoying her first sip. “What—what are you even—what did you—”

“Daddy's friends with someone on the editorial board,” she said, clearly giddy at how gobsmacked she'd made him. “He called in a favor. Not that it took much calling. You
do
have quite a look, you know.”

“But…,” he said, setting the drink on the table. He didn't trust himself not to drop it, he was that shaken up. “But, that's a national rag! And I'm just a local boy. Nobody's even heard of me.”

She slid his flute closer to him, gently pressuring him to pick it back up and drink with her. “You're a nobody
now
,” she said. “But by the time the issue comes out in November, you'll have played a bunch of East Coast dates. You won't be a local boy anymore.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but…I mean, I still won't
be
anybody. We're just the opening act for Strafer Nation.”

“Which,” she reminded him, “is an amazing way to bring yourself to the world's attention. Strafer has legions of fans, and you now get a shot at them.
Details
will support that. Hell, it may even be a
better
way of fixing you in the national eye.”

His shoulders slumped. “I'm…speechless. Jesus.”

She lifted her glass. “Shall we toast Daddy?”

He shook his head in disbelief, then took his glass and raised it. “Yes. Of course. To Daddy. Sweet creeping Christ.”

“And to me,” she said, as she drew the flute to her lips. “It was my idea, you know.”

He stared at her, as though never having seen her before.

She laughed at him. “What, don't you remember? I'm an integral part of your team supreme.” She gave him a teasing look. “Don't tell me you didn't believe me.”

He took a deep breath, held it a moment before releasing it, and then chugged half the glass of champagne. When he set it back on the table, he couldn't suppress a belch.

“There'll be none of
that
in Manhattan's finest establishments,” she mock-scolded him.

“What?” he asked, suddenly wary again.

“Manhattan. You know, New York City.” He stared at her blankly, so she continued. “That's where the photo shoot is.” He opened his eyes wide, and she added the kicker, “We leave tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” He almost fell off the stool. “Are you freakin'
kidding
me?”

She shrugged. “Why is that a big deal? You've played your farewell gig, you don't have anything on the docket till the tour starts. Unless there's something holding you here you haven't told me about.”

She gave him a steely look, almost a challenge, and Shay realized at once that she was talking about Loni. Somehow, she'd recognized that there was a real danger in her and had moved to take Shay out of her path. He was almost certain that if Loni had never entered the picture, Pernita wouldn't have lifted a finger to get him this photo shoot.

And the crazy thing was, she was right. Shay
didn't
want to leave town until he'd squared things with Loni, at least enough so that there was an opening for them somehow, somewhere, to pick up where they'd left off.

But he couldn't do that from New York. He'd have to do it face-to-face. He'd have to do it
here
. He couldn't leave. But he also couldn't tell Pernita that. He hemmed and hawed for a bit, then he said, “My parents. You're asking me to just pack up and leave town for six months without even saying good-bye to them.” Even he could hear the phoniness of the outrage in his voice.