The Happy Ever After Playlist - Abby Jimenez Page 0,16
in my mouth.
“That a boy. Also, they’re adding pyrotechnics and fog to your concerts.”
“What?”
“I hope you like confetti. I’ll let them know you’re on board and you’re thrilled. Hey! Pick a fucking lane—”
The call ended.
I let out a long breath. I sang on stage with nothing but a spotlight, a stool, and a microphone. I didn’t do props and theatrics, and I sure as hell didn’t sing some pop shit I didn’t write.
Ernie had warned me about this. I’d known when I signed my record deal that this day might come, and I’d find myself compromising my vision for my work. But now it felt like more than that. It felt like I was selling my damn soul.
I tossed my phone on the bed and got up and took a shower. Then I made black coffee in the little coffee maker and went out to the balcony to drink it.
My room overlooked Marvel Stadium, where I’d play tomorrow. People walked around below like ants in the light drizzle, nothing but glass and wet concrete as far as the eye could see. No trees. Just the smell of damp asphalt.
This hotel was a nice one. All the amenities. Not that I was picky about where I stayed. I could sleep on a couch with my arm over my face. It was just a nice change—and one that came with having a big record label that had assigned me a personal tour manager. Per diems for room service, top-of-the-line recording studios, hefty advances, first-class flights—that I usually gave away, but it was a frill nonetheless.
I blew a resigned breath through my nose. Ernie was right. It was a give-and-take. I’d been an independent musician for so long, I just wasn’t used to being told what to do and how.
I’d have to get used to it.
Sloan still hadn’t texted.
I leaned on the railing and checked my phone again, wondering if it had chirped and I’d missed it. I double-checked that my last text had gone through. It was marked read.
She’d never taken this long to respond before.
When a text came through from Lola with a picture of her licking her nipple, I was doubly annoyed. She had a new number. Again. I’d already blocked the last two. I was probably going to have to change my number since blocking hers wasn’t making any fucking difference.
I deleted the picture, irritated, and decided to go to the gym.
I didn’t have anything on my schedule. I’d actually been looking forward to today, when I’d be free to bother Sloan as I saw fit. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d maybe not be available for that—or interested in it.
Between this, the Lola text, and the call with Ernie, my morning was a wash. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to sparring with Sloan every day until it looked like she might stop accepting my challenges. She was funny. I enjoyed talking to her. I also liked hearing what Tucker was doing, though it occurred to me I’d be checking in on him a hell of a lot less if he were still with Monique.
I was tying my running shoes when my cell phone pinged. I tipped the screen toward me and smiled.
Sloan: Don’t think you’re getting two questions just because you missed yesterday.
I kicked off my shoes and got back onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard with a grin.
Jason: Do you have time for a phone call?
The dots started to bounce. Damn, I loved those dots.
Sloan: Sure.
I hit the phone icon and pressed my cell to my ear. “So you’re going to rob me of a question because I was a gentleman and didn’t call you at one in the morning to ask it?” I teased when she picked up.
“Seems to me that a gentleman who really wanted to get to know me better would have found time for a text with his question during reasonable hours.”
“I was very busy yesterday.”
“Sounds like you just weren’t properly motivated yesterday. A text only takes a second. Now I have no choice but to penalize you.”
Her tone was playful, but she wasn’t going to cut me any slack. And was she maybe, just possibly, a little mad at me for not being more attentive yesterday? The thought made me smile to myself. “What can I do to make it up to you? Give me your address and I’ll send you flowers. What’s your favorite kind?”