“I’m unavailable,” I said to Vance quickly but he ignored me and opened the door.
Damn it!
Monk walked in with Hector and a balding, middle-aged man who stil managed, even thin on the top, to look cool wearing jeans, a light blue col ared shirt and black boots.
“Stel a, beautiful, you’re on fire tonight,” Monk raved, clenching his hands together like a greedy, maniacal banker in a bad movie.
I stood and murmured my thanks, my eyes on the scout.
My eyes being on the scout had the added benefit of al owing me to avoid Hector, Vance, Monk and the Rock Chicks.
I took a pul from my beer, swal owed and asked, “And you are?”
“Dixon Jones. A&R. Black Fat Records,” he answered.
Oh.
Wow.
I’d heard of Black Fat Records even though they hadn’t been around very long. They were smal and they were choosy. They found good talent, they took good care of them and they had a kil er marketing department.
If I’d ever wanted The Gypsies to be signed, it would be with an outfit like Black Fat Records.
“Enjoying the show?” I asked like I didn’t care, which I didn’t. Not real y.
But then again, I did.
What the ef was wrong with me?
Dixon Jones smiled at me, it was genuine and it threw me.
“You write the new material?” he asked and this threw me too.
I shook my head. “That’s Buzz, my bass player. He writes the music. And Leo, my rhythm guitar. He writes the lyrics.”
“Those songs were tight. It’s good to see you branching out of covers,” Dixon commented and this threw me most of al .
“You catch a gig before?” I asked, doing my damnedest to stay outwardly calm.
“Anytime I’m in Denver, The Gypsies are playing, I come,” Dixon replied.
Oh my Lord!
“So why haven’t you ever met my girl here?” Monk pushed in and clapped Dixon on the back. It gave me the creepy-crawlies to be referred to as Monk’s girl, so much so, even though I tried to stop it, my lip curled.
Dixon looked down his nose at Monk and replied,
“Except when they’re playing The Pal adium. I usual y avoid The Pal adium.”
Monk got a little pale and stepped back.
I couldn’t help myself, I smirked at Dixon Jones. Al of a sudden, I liked him.
“Couldn’t miss tonight,” he said, lifting a copy of USA Today I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Rock ‘n’ rol in the face of certain danger. I figured it’d be good but shit. Gotta tel you, Stel a, you and your boys delivered beyond expectation. Your set list is inspired.”
Then Dixon snapped the paper open and turned a page to face me.
On the page was a grainy photo of me and Mace making out last night onstage. I didn’t look at the caption; I was too busy staring at the photo. I, of course, had never seen myself kissing Mace (or anyone) and I was weirdly fascinated.