“I just need to speak to him.” My voice cracked in all the right places, and I could tell by the surrender on her face that it had worked. The thing was, the tears were real, and now that they’d started, it was hard to choke them back. This time when Grace hugged me, I leaned into it.
I heard his laugh before I saw him. Grace and I were striding toward the back of the house when a delighted baritone chuckle drifted in from the lobby. It was like a baby’s laugh, but slowed down by two hundred percent. There was nothing cynical about it; he was just completely tickled by something.
I steeled myself, then pushed confidently through the double doors—and walked straight into Flynn Bissette.
“Whoa!” he cried out in surprise.
I rebounded off his large frame, but he reached out and caught me before I could fall on my ass.
“Are you all right?” he asked, setting me upright.
“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m good.” I brushed hair out of my face, tugged down the hem of my dress.
“You were flying like a bat out of hell. Where were you going?”
Flynn was even taller than he seemed on TV; I barely went up to his chest.
“Actually, I was coming to see you.”
He squinted down at me, and then recognition sparked in his eyes. “Ellie Dante.” He stretched out a big hand, and I shook it. “How’s your dad?”
“I mean, considering they cut his chest open and stapled it back together, not bad?”
Flynn laughed, that baritone chuckle again. “You’re all right, kid. He’s lucky to have you. Is the prognosis good?”
I’d heard that Flynn was friendly and “normal” in person, but I hadn’t really believed it.
“He’s going to be okay.”
“Glad to hear it.” He pushed his circular eyeglasses up on his considerable nose. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for him to appear on the show. But don’t worry. More opportunities will come. They always do.”
I opened my mouth to reply. To say that there wouldn’t be any more opportunities, not for us. To tell him this was it. That it was now or never.
Flynn gave me a compassionate smile—he was probably used to people turning speechless in his presence—and then he started to move past me down the aisle. Grace followed.
“Wait!” I yelled. My voice echoed in the auditorium, sounding equal parts desperate and confident. Perfect.
Flynn stopped, glanced down at his watch, then up at me. “What’s up?”
I looked out at the stage. Flynn raised his eyebrows impatiently, then started to turn away.
“I want to do it.” I spat out the words.
Flynn frowned. “You want to do what?”
“The Truck Drop,” I said, my voice tremulous. “I want you to let me take his place on the show.”
Flynn pressed his lips together and scrubbed a finger across them as if stalling for time. As if calculating how to let down an emotionally distressed teenage girl without causing a scene.
Finally, he asked, “Why?”
I hadn’t expected the question, and I scrambled to answer it. “Because we need this show, Mr. Bissette. We—”
“No,” Flynn said, cutting me off. “Not why do you want to. Why should I let you?”
I blinked. He’d caught me off guard again.
He took a step toward me. “I know you’re in a tough spot. But this is a multimillion-dollar production. I don’t know you, and I don’t know your magic.”
“You know the Truck Drop.”
“That’s not yours,” he said, wagging a finger. “You may have tweaked it, added a twist. But it doesn’t belong to you; it belongs to your father. He earned his place on this show. Whereas I’ve never seen you do anything, let alone something that impressed me. And don’t take this wrong way, but I’m hard to impress.”
The room seemed to tilt, and I had to grab one of the seats to keep myself upright. I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.
It was now or never.
“Reach into your back pocket,” I said.
Flynn frowned.
“Go ahead.”
Slowly, with suspicion darkening his features, Flynn reached into his back pocket. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a playing card. A blue Rider Back. He glanced up at me, bewildered.
“Turn it over,” I said.
He did—and stared at it for a long moment. Then his face started to change, his mouth widening into a grin. He shook his head and laughed, not a chuckle, but a basso profundo guffaw.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, and held the card up so Grace could see it: