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Gabriella
It’s six in the evening on Thursday. I’m backstage, taking some candid photos of Nicky for her social media. She’s in a good mood today, the storms of yesterday forgotten. She’s already wearing her first outfit, a skin-tight golden catsuit, and she looks glorious, radiant, and bursting with pre-concert energy.
I take another picture. Nicky, the veteran of a million candids, holds her pose and smiles automatically. When I’m done, she walks over to the window and stares at the view of the sparkling blue ocean. “I’m never going to get used to how early I go on here,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s still daylight outside. Back in my club days, I’d rarely go on before midnight. I wouldn’t get home before four.”
“Do you miss it?” Performing in a casino is a far cry from the underground music scene. The audience is older. More homogeneous, less diverse. The concert is deliberately held earlier—after dinner, but still early enough that the concertgoers can hit the slot machines on their way out.
“Not even a little.”
That’s not what I thought she’d say. I look over at her, surprised. “You don’t?”
“Half the promoters would steal from me,” she replies. “And that wasn’t the worst of it. Steve Sinclair, who ran a bunch of clubs in Queens, would only book you if you blew him off. Every night, I would get groped. Pawed. And I had to tolerate it, because I needed the money for rent.” She doesn’t sound angry, just matter of fact. “It’s a dirty business. The struggle is constant and exhausting.”
I’ve never had to get down on my knees and suck someone’s dick because I needed to eat. I grew up rich. Nobody harassed me. The biggest problem on my plate right now—the debt I owe to Sammy—can be taken care of with one phone call to my parents. When Nicky talks about her past, I feel every bit of my privilege, and it is chastening.
“Here, I have a steady paycheck. Reasonable hours. I’m thirty-seven, Gabby. I don’t want to be partying all night long. If I drink more than one cocktail, I wake up feeling like ass. It’s not Oscar keeping me in line; it’s the hangovers. Some people live for touring, but me, I’m a homebody. I hate tour buses. I like to wake up in the same bed every morning. This stint is exactly what I needed. It’s doing wonders for my creativity.”
Ooh. I like the sound of that. Nicky hasn’t released a new solo album in five years, just collaborations and remixes. “You have new material?”
“That’s just between you and me,” she warns. “No announcements. No coy hints. But yes, once I’m done here, I’m going into the studio. Fernando and I discussed it last night.”
I was here pretty late last night. I’d calmed her down, taken the phone out of her hands before she could post something cutting in response to Jorge’s latest passive-aggressive jab. Fernando must have visited even later. Good for Nicky.
She gives me a serious look. “I was in talks to do a stint in Vegas,” she says. “I talked to Anna about coming to work for me, but she’s going to Miami. We’ve only worked together a couple of days, but I like you. I would have made the same offer to you. But…”
The dreaded but. “You won’t be touring,” I say out loud. “You don’t need full-time PR help when you’re recording.”
She nods. “I’m sorry.”
With a mental sigh, I strike Nicky’s name off my imaginary client roster and try not to feel too dispirited. I lost my seed money, I don’t have a financial cushion, and my dreams of starting my own agency feel further away than they ever have. I know other people have it worse but knowing that’s true doesn’t do anything to cheer me up.
Dominic offered to make phone calls on your behalf,my conscience reminds me. You could take him up on it.
I push away that tempting, insidious thought. I’ve had a helping hand all my life. The road just got bumpier, but I’m determined to do this on my own.
Nicky’sin the middle of a high-energy dance number when my phone rings. It’s Piper, which is strange. It’s eight in the evening on a Thursday, and Piper is a chef in Hell’s Kitchen. She should be in the middle of a dinner rush.
I pick it up immediately. “What’s wrong?” I demand.
“Six people stopped by for dinner all evening,” she says with a sigh. “Two tables. Small orders. No apps, no drinks. I made a hundred bucks all night. Tell me about Atlantic City, Gabby. I could use the distraction.”
A hundred bucks on a Thursday. Piper is an incredibly talented chef. If life were fair, all her tables would be booked months in advance. But when her aunt left her this restaurant, it came with a bunch of insane restrictions that have hamstrung her attempts to make it a flourishing business.
“You don’t want to contest the will?”
“With what money?” she asks bitterly. “No. Even if the trust that oversaw Aunt Vera’s estate were amenable to changes, my parents would oppose it. What’s the noise in the background?”
Wendy would represent Piper in a heartbeat, and she certainly wouldn’t charge her. But I’d be a hypocrite if I give Piper a lecture about letting her friends help her—I’m hardly a poster child for that message. I haven’t even told my friends about my gambling debt. “I’m backstage at Nicky’s concert.” I hold up the phone so Piper can listen to the music, and then retreat to Nicky’s dressing room and shut the door. Quiet washes over the space. “Atlantic City is surprisingly nice.” I hesitate, my natural tendency to be secretive warring with my desire to cheer Piper up. “Remember the guys I ran into at the bar? Carter and Dominic? They’re here.”
She squeals in excitement. “They are? How? Where? Why? Tell me everything.”
Achievement unlocked. I bite back my grin. “Nicky’s performing at the Grand River,” I tell her. “Dominic owns the place, and Carter works here.”
“And?” she prompts.
“And I made out with them last night,” I blurt out. “Both of them. I mean, we got interrupted, but things still got pretty hot.” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to sleep with them. As long as I’m here, I mean.”
“What happened to all guys are assholes?” she teases. “What was it you said? Let me see if I remember. Normal guys turn into jerks when they start dating me.”
