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Someone calls to Gary and he tells them he’ll be right there.
“I’ll let you go,” I say. “I know you’re slammed. Thanks for everything. Again, sorry.”
“I’ll call you after I get back from Hawaii,” Gary says. “Let’s never speak of the incident in Seth’s trailer again.”
“What incident?”
“Good boy.” With that, Gary walks away and returns to his monitors, while I stand aside with Fish and wait for Margaret, who’s standing nearby, to end her phone call. Finally, when she does, I beeline to her with Fish in tow.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say to Margaret. “Can you tell me where Amy’s been assigned?”
Margaret looks confused. “Amy doesn’t work here. She left the production when you did.” When I look at Margaret blankly, she adds, “I offered Amy a permanent position, but she said she’d decided to take another job—her ‘dream job,’ she called it.”
I’m stupefied. “Did Amy identify this ‘dream job’?”
“No.” Margaret tilts her head. “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you about it.”
I grimace. “We had an argument. You’re sure Amy doesn’t work here, in any capacity?”
“I’d know if she did.”
Fish nudges my arm. “We gotta go, or we’ll be late for the taping.”
“Taping?” Margaret asks.
“We’re contractually obligated to appear in the finale of Sing Your Heart Out,” Fish explains.
“Fun,” Margaret says. “Colin, when you see Amy, tell her if her dream job doesn’t pan out, I’ll snap her up in a heartbeat.”
“I’ll tell her, if I ever find her.”
Fish and I say goodbye to Margaret and begin jogging back to Fish’s car in the parking lot.
“Where the hell is Amy working?” I grumble as we reach Fish’s car. “What could her ‘dream job’ possibly be, if not working on a big-budget Hollywood movie in Hawaii for three months?”
Fish unlocks his car and we both slip inside.
“And why didn’t Amy tell me about her new job?” I demand, feeling deflated. “Where has she been staying? Why is she ghosting me? Fish, I’m losing it.”
Fish looks sympathetic but says nothing. When he starts his car, I sigh, pull out my phone, and call Reed Rivers’ righthand man—a guy named Owen who always knows what’s what at River Records.
“Hi, Colin.”
“Hey, O,” I reply. “I’m short on time. Remember Amy O’Brien—my buddy’s sister who got assigned to Caleb during the RCR tour?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know if she recently signed on for another tour?”
“I’d have to check.”
“Could you do that now?”
“Hang on.” A few minutes later Owen returns. “Her name isn’t listed on any current or upcoming crew roster.”
“Fuck.” I pause. “Can you give me the number for that Nate guy who works sound?”
“Hang on.” There’s a short pause, and then, “I just texted you Nate’s contact info.”
“Got it. Thanks, O. You’re the best.”
I hang up with Owen and send a text to Nate:
Me: Hey, Nate. This is Colin Beretta. I have an important question. Here’s a selfie to prove it’s me.
I snap a selfie and send it. I don’t have time for Nate to wonder if someone is pranking him, and I’ve learned from past experience a selfie is the quickest route to side-stepping that entire conversation. Luckily, Nate replies instantly:
Nate: Hey, Colin! Great to hear from you! What’s up?
Me: Remember Amy O’Brien, C-Bomb’s PA during RCR’s tour?
Nate: Yeah.
Me: Who from the tour would have invited her to crash at their place in LA?
Nate: Lots of people. Everyone loved Amy.
Me: Top pick?
Nate: Maybe our tour manager, Melanie? She was especially fond of Amy.
Me: What’s Melanie’s number?
Nate texts me the number and I immediately call it. But the woman doesn’t answer, so I leave a voicemail, just as Fish is parking his car in the VIP parking area for Sing Your Heart Out. Before I exit Fish’s car, however, I tap out another text to Nate. Something I wish I could say to the fucker in person—preferably, while pressing my forearm into his bobbing Adam’s apple. But such is life. It’s filled with disappointments.
Me: BTW, I heard you called Amy “a six, at best” during the RCR tour. Just so you know, she’s my girlfriend now. And that woman is a stone-cold, perfect TEN, motherfucker.
Thirty-One
Colin
“Five minutes!” the production manager of Sing Your Heart Out calls out. And all of us in the greenroom, a group that includes Fish, me, and a British popstar named Phoebe, acknowledge her announcement.
The fourth “guest mentor” of this season’s singing competition, Kendrick Cook, isn’t here in this greenroom with us because he’s currently onstage playing drums behind Savage and Laila’s duet. But the minute I get the chance, I’m going to ask Kendrick if he knows Amy’s whereabouts—and God help me, if it turns out she went straight from my bed to his, I’ll never forgive myself.
My phone in my pocket rings with an incoming call from Melanie—the tour manager I called earlier—and I gasp and quickly answer.
“Melanie! Thanks for calling me back.”
