lingered near the steps, waiting to greet them. Claudia pushed through the throng and met him at the edge of the stage.
“You were amazing tonight,” she said. “The best you’ve ever played.” She reached up to grip his hand possessively.
He jumped down off the stage and grabbed her close to kiss her: He was wound up, flush with adrenaline and a little bit horny. She pressed herself against his sweat-drenched shirt and kissed him back, hard. “And did I mention how devastatingly cute you are up there?”
“I nominate you president of my fan club,” he murmured, happy to see that the old Claudia had returned.
“Does that come with special privileges?” She looped her fingers through the belt loop of his jeans and tugged him in toward her.
He bit his lip in mock consternation. “I could offer you an autographed fan photo?”
“I had something more personal in mind.” Her hands slipped down into the rear pockets of his jeans, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, locking their pelvises together. She muttered in his ear: “How soon can you get out of here?”
Jeremy glanced back up at the stage, where the rest of the band was untangling cords and bundling Ben’s drum set away. A rotund middle-aged guy in a faded Velvet Underground T-shirt and baseball hat was lingering a few feet away, watching Claudia and Jeremy hawkishly. “I’ve got to break down,” Jeremy said. “And maybe the guys will want to get a drink afterward. What do you think?”
Claudia leaned back and pulled her arm around him in order to check her watch. She grimaced. “I shouldn’t. It’s already way past my bedtime for a school night. I need to get up early and correct papers, anyway. But you should go.”
“You sure?”
She placed her hand on his chest, pushing him backward. “Go, celebrate. I’ll always be there tomorrow.”
Velvet Underground moved in closer, breaching their privacy. Jeremy released Claudia reluctantly. “You promise?”
“I promise.” She kissed him again and moved away, offering Velvet Underground an annoyed glance as she passed by him.
Velvet Underground immediately stepped forward into the breach, thrusting his hand so close to Jeremy’s sternum that he had no choice but to reach out and instinctively grab it, if only to prevent it from jabbing him in the chest. There was something scratchy and sharp in the man’s palm, and when Jeremy pulled his hand away he realized that he was holding a slightly worn business card. Julian Bragg it said. There was no title below it, no company name, no phone number, just an e-mail address.
“I’ve been wondering what the hell happened to you,” Julian began. His voice was raspy from too many late nights at loud clubs; bloodshot eyes peered out from below the brim of his faded baseball cap. Julian could use a shower and shave—the bristles growing in uneven patches across his chin were silver—but somehow despite all these handicaps he was a commanding presence in the room. It was something about the way he stood firmly upright, not in the least bit abashed by his graceless physical presence, and Jeremy thought, as he stared at this man, that bothering to look cool was something that only uncool people needed to do. “Jeremy fucking Munger. This Invisible Spot was completely screwed when you left; you were the real talent in that lot. What took you so goddamn long to start something new?”
Jeremy cleared his throat and glanced up at his bandmates, who had finished breaking down their instruments and were lugging them toward the green room. “Personal issues,” he said.
“Well, it’s about fucking time. Nothing more depressing than genius going to waste.”
Jeremy glanced at the card again, the name—Julian Bragg—ringing soft bells somewhere in the back of his hippocampus. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”
Julian peered down, looking at his own card as if he were double-checking what was written there. “Julian Bragg. Braggadocio Entertainment,” he repeated. “I do music-licensing deals. That’s where the money is these days, you know.”
Jeremy smiled, suddenly realizing why he’d recognized this guy’s name. “You license music for all the iPod ads.”
Julian winked and stepped backward, tugging his cap down. “Indeed I do. Also Nike, Volkswagen, those teenybopper shows on Fox. You want to start making real money, I’m your man. That “Super Special” song, it had laptop commercial written all over it. You have a rep yet?” Jeremy shook his head. “Well, now you do.”
“We haven’t finished the album yet,” Jeremy said. “We don’t even have a record