my obstinacy. Which, fine. I didn’t really want to cooperate with them, but I would’ve. For her.
Cullen, Zack, and I brainstormed ways the podcast could help out, but aside from creating buzz, it’s not good for much. What good are thousands of new followers when they live in different countries and are only there for the singing?
Which brings me to my final option. One that I really don’t want to do, but it’s the only thing I have.
It’s time to be brave.
* * *
I knock on Phil’s door first thing the next morning.
“This looks familiar,” he says, and I sink into the chair across from him.
“I fucked up,” I say.
“So I heard.”
“I need to fix it.”
“I’m all ears.” Phil leans forward, his elbows on his desk as he peers over his bifocals.
I inhale heavily. Once I do this, I can’t go back. I wipe my hands on my jeans and inhale and exhale deeply again. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck.
“(Not) Warren, thanks to Vada’s blog, is bigger than anything around here. Bigger than Ben’s bluegrass shit anyway. No offense to him.”
“I agree with you.”
“Right.” I wipe my hands again. Fuck, it’s hot in here. I wouldn’t put it past Phil to be sweating me out on purpose. “Right.”
“Luke,” he says. “You look ready to hurl. Just say it.”
“If we want to make the money, and potentially beat my dad’s club on opening night, we’ll need a really big act. One that can bring in numbers.”
He nods, raising a brow.
“Like internet-famous numbers.”
He sinks back in his chair with a loud whoop, startling me. He laughs and leans forward again. “Man, she’s got her hooks in you.”
I swallow back the bile and nod.
“You sure?”
“I already told Cullen. He’s out covertly papering the internet as we speak. I’d appreciate it if you could help me find a way to keep Vada away from the internet for the next thirty-six-ish hours.”
“You have enough music to make a show out of it?”
This, I’ve thought about. “Plenty.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can still back out.”
“I’m doing it. One night, and one night only, Luke Greenly, son of British punk star and lead singer of the Bad Apples, Charlie Greenly, will perform his viral hit at the Loud Lizard.”
“You looked a little pale when you said that.” He hands me his trash bin just in time for me to puke my guts out in it. Twice.
He grimaces. “You gonna get a hold on that?”
“Better put a bucket on the stage,” I say, wiping my mouth.
“This is a good thing you’re doing, Luke. I won’t forget it.”
“You’d better not. I need you to market the shit out of it. But remember, don’t tell Vada. I already talked to Ben. He’s going to play it cool with her, so she won’t know. I can’t … I’m not ready for her to know.”
“She’s going to be there. She’ll find out eventually.”
“I know. I’m … I know.”
* * *
The Saturday of the show, I’m at the club before it opens. Early. Really early. To practice. The show will be in Liberty Square, but I needed a private place to practice my set.
My mother-loving set of all the ridiculous …
I’m cuing up when the door opens, cutting me off. The daylight filters in, and my breath catches.
“Dad,” I say. The mic in front of my face amplifies it. “Shouldn’t you be at your club? Opening night and all.”
He shakes his head. “I quit.”
“What?”
He shrugs, looking sheepish and much younger. “Not my scene, it turns out. I didn’t love how they were doing business. Not to mention, your mum threatened to cut me off, if you know what I mean, so I took my part and walked. They’re still opening tonight. I only owned a third, so it won’t sink them, but—”
“What are you doing here?”
“Your brother told me you were here, and I thought, well.” He runs his hand through his short blond hair. “I wasn’t always a lead singer, you know. I started off playing guitar. Thought maybe you could use some backup.”
My throat is suddenly thick. “Dad,” I say. “It’s only one show.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “So, I’d better take advantage of the occasion.”
“I thought you might be needing a second-rate drummer, as well?” My boss is standing in a dim corner, drumsticks in his hands.
My dad crosses the room. “Good to see you, Phil. It’s been years.”
“Likewise, Charlie. The pleasure is mine, believe me.”
I’m too overwhelmed to respond, but these two