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~oOo~
As the final note faded out, silence overtook the small room. Marcella opened her eyes and saw four men staring at her, each face entirely expressionless. Dash sat beside her. They’d sung together, but now she was afraid to look at him, as if doing so might expose a weakness in her.
She flexed her fingers and rested on her trusty old Ovation acoustic. She owned six guitars, a couple of them really expensive and with better tone, but this one was and would always be her favorite.
Back in the days before she fronted a band and actually made a living at music, when she was slinging burgers and living on dreams, she’d saved up for months to buy this $500 guitar—bought mainly because it was so damn pretty, with its deep cobalt sunburst finish and inlaid-wood leaves. She rarely played this one on stage anymore, but she always brought it with her—and she always wrote with it.
Playing it for Wes Brown had been like holding her lucky charm and her woobie both.
She’d made eye contact with Wes, so she didn’t break it. He sat facing her, his fingers laced across his prodigious belly, and simply stared.
Jesus Christ, somebody say something.
Eventually, after approximately a decade, Wes very slowly nodded his head, one tip back, one tip forward. And said, “Okay. Yeah.”
The other three men with him, including Devante Mercer—who wasveryfine but had quickly shown himself to be far too Hollywood for her tastes—visibly relaxed at that single gesture and those two words, and they all added their approval to the chorus, nodding and smiling.
Marcella finally turned to Dash, who was grinning at her. She felt tension melt away, and she grinned back as he leaned in to touch foreheads.
“You two together?” Devante asked.
“No, no,” Dash answered. “Just friends. We’re better that way”
“But youhavefucked, right? You sing like you’re fuckin’ right there during the song.”
What an asshole. Marcella fought back the scowl her face wanted to throw at Mr. Hollywood over there. “Listen,” she said, and the men in the room all twitched.
Dash set his hand on her shoulder as if to hold her in place. He was going to get a slap for that later. “We’re singing blues. When a song is sexy, or about a couple in some way, we give the song its due.”
“Your chemistry is smokin’,” Wes said in his chasm-deep growl of a voice. “You should play to that in the video.” Shifting in his seat, he wiggled his fingers at one of the other men with him, who immediately stepped forward. “It’s a good song. Cyrus here’ll sit down with you and hammer out the details.”
“So, to be clear, you’ll fund the video?” Dash asked.
Wes looked at Marcella when he answered. “Cy’ll work it out with you. But yeah. I’ll want a producing credit, and I’ll put somebody on set to make sure I’ll like what you make, but if the terms work for you, I’ll help you out.”
With that, the great Wes Brown levered himself from the chair. Dash and Marcella stood as well.
“Thank you, sir,” Dash said, grabbing the man’s hand. “It’s a huge honor to have your support.”
Wes nodded and turned to Marcella. Before she could thank him as well, he got a look in his eyes she knew far too damn well. He took a couple steps and came up close, so he could lower his voice and ask, “You wanna party, baby?”
Fuck. Why did men have to be this way? Wes Brown was married. He was also past sixty, but she preferred older guys. But he wasmarried. Worse than all that was the implication he’d just dumped on her head: he’d offered a huge boon but hadn’t made it official yet. And now he was pushing up on her. Was the deal now contingent upon her answer?
The whole entire mess that was men could collectively suck her dick.
If she said that aloud, the deal would, no doubt, disappear, so Marcella shoved a smile onto her face and said, “I’ve got a kid at home. I need to get back to him.”
If that wasn’t good enough, so help her …
But after a beat, he nodded. “Gotta take care of the little ones. Alright. Y’all have a good night.” He walked out. Devante and the other guy followed him, leaving only Cyrus behind.
He sat down in the chair his boss had just vacated. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
~oOo~
“Can I have these?” Ajax held up a box of Ding Dongs.
Their weekend had been busy, with both of them going almost nonstop with various activities, including a family cookout at her dad’s, so neither of them had noticed the acute need for groceries until this morning, when Marcella had poured about five Cheerios and a pile of oat dust into Ajax’s cereal bowl. She’d ended up digging a prehistoric packet of instant oatmeal up from the back of the cupboard.
