Bec Linder's Blog

Here’s the first chapter of my upcoming book, Hurricane Move, about Andrew and Rushani.

The day the Saving Graces won the Grammy for Album of the Year was one of the worst days of Rushani’s life, right up there with the day Andrew was admitted to the hospital and the day of her sister’s birth. If forced to choose, she would probably rank the Grammys at number two, and Andrew’s hospitalization at number one. Her sister came in a distant third, because that had worked out fine in the end, although it had been quite traumatic at the time.

But the Grammys were an unmitigated disaster, at least for her, emotionally. It had nothing to do with the award itself. The band deserved it; she was thrilled; she was like a proud parent who had just been told that her child was the best and smartest kid in the class. They had all been walking on air for the past two months, ever since the nominations were announced. “We aren’t going to win,” James kept cautioning everyone, prudent the way he always was, determined to keep expectations realistic, but Rushani thought they had a damn good chance, and she was proud beyond measure: her band, her boys.

She shouldn’t even have been in L.A. for the awards ceremony. She was just the tour manager. It wasn’t her job to run industry events. It was Hakeem’s job, but while Hakeem was very good at marketing and strategic decisions and making phone calls, he was, to put it bluntly, fairly terrible at on-the-ground operations. “I’m an ideas guy,” he liked to say, which was true, and which always made Rushani roll her eyes. But she couldn’t fault him for it too much. He was responsible for much of the band’s success, and she knew he would walk through fire to do what was best for the guys.

But making sure everyone was wearing the right clothes and was in the right place at the right time was sort of outside of his wheelhouse, and it was exactly inside of Rushani’s wheelhouse. So when James called Rushani and begged her to come out and run the show, she had given in without making James prostrate himself too much. She needed to be in L.A. soon anyway to make the final arrangements for the Asian leg of the tour. And she had a hard time saying no to James. They had been through a lot together, and he was like a brother to her, someone she could always count on in a crisis.

And she wanted to see Andrew again.

That was the part she was less willing to admit to herself. Having a soft spot for James was one thing. Being secretly in love with Andrew was something else entirely. It was like comparing a housecat to a leopard. One of them was small, fuzzy, and harmless. The other would drag you into a tree and feast on your carcass for the next week.

Especially when the leopard in question was Andrew.

So she closed up her apartment in New York and put a hold on her mail—she wouldn’t be back for three months—and flew out to L.A. O’Connor came to meet her at the airport, wearing oversized mirrored sunglasses and a shit-eating grin. He squealed up to the curb in his outrageous convertible and said, “Hop on in, baby. I’ll take you for a ride.”

Typical O’Connor. He liked to act like he didn’t take anything seriously, but Rushani had been there during the months of Andrew’s slow decline, and she had seen exactly how seriously O’Connor took that situation. “Does Leah know you say these things to random women?” she asked. She tossed her suitcase in the back seat and got in the car.

“Leah thinks that everything I do is charming,” he said, and pulled back into traffic, cutting off a dark-windowed SUV whose driver promptly leaned on the horn. O’Connor didn’t take any notice. “And anyway, you’re not random.”

“No,” she said. “I suppose not. God, there was a baby in the row behind me that screamed the entire way from New York. I need a nap.”

“My sympathies, but you don’t have time,” he said. “We have wardrobe fittings in an hour, and James said he wants you to be there.”

“I don’t know a thing about clothes,” Rushani said. She smelled like airplane. Her sinuses were drier than the Atacama. She was in no mood to watch the band try on pants.

“Leah’s going to be there a little later,” O’Connor said. “You can catch up.”

He was trying to bribe her, and it was working. Leah was O’Connor’s girlfriend, a musician herself, who had filled in on bass during their tour last summer, after Kerrigan quit. That was how Leah and O’Connor met, and Rushani knew there had been all sorts of illicit sneaking around in hotel rooms and the back of the bus, but she was willing to overlook it. She liked Leah. They weren’t close, but they got along well, and Rushani was looking forward to hearing about what Leah had been up to over the last few months. She said, “I hope you’re going to ply me with wine.”

“Red, white, and rosé,” O’Connor said. “Don’t worry, sugarplum. We’ll take good care of you.”

“Sugarplum?” Rushani asked. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“There’s a good chance I might win a Grammy tomorrow night,” he said. “It’s put a little spring in my step.”

Rushani laughed, and leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Maybe she could catch a little nap on the way.

Wardrobe fittings were at the theater, in a crowded room in the basement that was filled with overflowing costume racks. The others were already there, James and Nathan and Andrew, sitting in an alternately nervous and grouchy line along one wall while the wardrobe lady lectured them about French seams. They all looked up when Rushani followed O’Connor into the room.

James reacted first. “Rushani!” he exclaimed, and hopped up to give her a hug. “You came!”

She laughed, accepting his embrace. “You knew I was going to. I sent you my itinerary.”

“I’m making polite conversation,” he said. “Guys, look who’s here.”

Rushani shook hands with Nathan, their new bassist. He had only been with the band since September, and Rushani didn’t know him very well yet; she had spent most of that time on tour with Marcus Aurelius, who she worked for when she wasn’t with the Graces. He was a nice guy, quiet, very dry, and she liked him, but they weren’t on hugging terms quite yet.

And then there was Andrew, tall and lean, with his hair pulled up in that ridiculous bun that somehow made him look like a Viking god. He stood before her, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and they did a little awkward dance where she held out her hand and he held out his arms, and then he laughed and drew her into a warm embrace and said, “Rushani, I’m so glad you’re here.”

She closed her eyes for a second and breathed in the smell of him. They had been apart for months, but he smelled just the same.

She was fully aware of how pathetic she was.

Then the moment was over. He patted her on the back and pulled away. He said, “You’re going to get us through this ordeal in one piece, right?”

She felt a little dazed. It was from the nap, mostly likely. She had nodded off in the car for about five minutes and woken when O’Connor slammed on the brakes at a stoplight, a thin thread of drool trailing from one corner of her mouth. “I’ll do my best.”

She had been in love with Andrew for what felt like a geological epoch, but was actually less than two years. She didn’t fall head-over-heels at first sight, or any of that nonsense. They worked together; they got along well; they became friends. Her first year with the band, she was so intent on doing her job well and figuring out the increasingly complicated logistics of running a tour for a band on the verge of going nova. She didn’t have the time or energy to think about romance, or even sex; she had gotten laid a single time that year, a frantic one-nighter with a guy who hit on her at the grocery store, of all places.

Sometime during the second year, she and Andrew were up late in the front lounge of the bus, her working and him scribbling in his notebook, and she glanced up and noticed the glow of lamplight along one side of his face, and felt a shiver go through her body. He was a good-looking guy, and she had known that for a long time, but she hadn’t really been aware of it before, not in a way that meant anything to her.

But once she had noticed, she couldn’t put that genie back in its bottle. He was tall and slim and devastatingly attractive, even with the absurd hair, and he was also funny, thoughtful, kind, and interesting to talk to. He watched the news religiously and always had something relevant to say about national and world events. Nothing was going to happen, of course. She worked for him; it was a terrible idea, and besides, she didn’t have any evidence that he was interested in her. There were times when he would look at her a certain way, usually after a show, his mouth curled up at the corners and his dark eyes bright with amusement, that made her think maybe, maybe… But she didn’t pursue it. She was content, mostly, to wait and see what happened. It was nice to have a secret crush to nurture. She got a lot of emotional mileage out of it. He was a couple of years younger than she was, and he slept around and did more drugs than she was strictly comfortable with, and she was waiting for him to grow up a little. She liked to think that they were both waiting, that it was inevitable, and that some Andrew would decide it was time and would confess his true and undying love for her. A ridiculous fantasy from top to bottom, but it made her happy. And anyway she was too busy to spend much time thinking about romance.

She was so busy that she didn’t notice at first when Andrew’s mental health began to deteriorate. He was a little irritable, a little short-tempered, but that was to be expected; the band’s third album was busy blowing up, they’d had their second number one single in six months, and they were all somewhat stunned by the sudden onslaught of media attention. She gave him some space and focused on fielding interview requests and corralling incompetent venue personnel.

Things kept getting worse, though. The rest of them adjusted to the new status quo, but Andrew couldn’t, or didn’t want to, or didn’t try. He turned mean. He stopped sleeping, or else slept too much. He drank a lot. He harped on everyone, constantly, picking at their weakest points, saying the one unforgivable thing. It terrified Rushani that they were all so transparent to him, that it was so easy for him to pick up on everyone’s most secret shame. He was so unpleasant to be around that Kerrigan, their bassist at the time, finally quit in a fury after Andrew told him that his bass-playing was pathetic and he would never amount to anything. That had been a fun week.

Then, less than a month later, Andrew had attempted suicide. He landed in the hospital, the band canceled the rest of that tour and eventually their planned European tour, and Rushani went home to New York.

She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole ordeal. She would never forget walking into Andrew’s hotel room and finding him passed out on the bed, motionless, hardly breathing. She had a nightmare about it at least once a week, except in her dreams, he wasn’t breathing at all, and she couldn’t wake him. In her dreams, she was always too late.

But she hadn’t been too late. He had lived. He was, James told her, better. He was in therapy and on medication. Everyone seemed convinced that he was back to normal and ready to tour. She had her doubts, but it wasn’t her decision. She was just there to run the show.

The next twenty-four hours alternated between frantic rushing around and the slow tedium of waiting for someone or something: an amp cable, a sandwich. After the wardrobe fitting—which came to an ignominious end when the wardrobe lady, sick of their complaining, declared them all hopeless and said they could show up wearing trash bags for all she cared, she was washing her hands of them—a small, mousy girl came to the door and escorted them into the main theater for a rehearsal, because the band was apparently performing during the ceremony, which nobody had bothered to mention to Rushani.

“It’s just one song,” James said, a little bit sheepish, because he knew he should have said something, even if the rest of them were clueless dolts. “Hakeem said it was a good idea.”

“Hakeem doesn’t have the slightest idea of what goes into a performance,” Rushani said crisply. “Where are your instruments? Who will be bringing them to the theater tomorrow? Have you coordinated with the sound and lighting personnel? How long will you have between your performance and the when the award is announced?”

“Uhh,” O’Connor said.

“Right,” Rushani said, and turned to the mousy girl. “Are you in charge here?”

“No, um, my boss, he, I can, um,” the girl stammered.

“Right,” Rushani said. There was clearly a lot of work to be done.

But the rehearsal turned out fine; even if the mousy girl was helpless, someone higher up the food chain clearly knew what he or she was doing, because all of the lighting and sound cues were in place, instruments magically appeared, and all the band had to do was go on stage. Rushani had the luxury of sitting in the front row and watching them perform. She was normally backstage during shows, and usually too busy putting out fires to pay much attention to the music.

They were really something. She knew it, but it was easy to forget in the humdrum day-to-day life of a tour. But they were the best in the business, skilled musicians with an impressive stage presence, and their songs just kept getting better and better with each album. Andrew was magnetic, the paragon of a front man. He prowled the stage and sang about true love, about finding it and losing it again. Rushani couldn’t take her eyes off him. Even when Leah showed up halfway through the third run-through, Rushani didn’t spare her more than a welcoming smile. She wanted to watch the rest of the song.

Andrew sang the last notes, and the stage lights cut off, leaving the band masked in darkness. She heard James let out a whoop.

“They’re pretty fucking great, huh?” Leah asked.

“They really are,” Rushani said, and leaned over to give Leah a hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Stop hogging my girl, Rushani,” O’Connor said, hopping down from the stage and coming over to sweep Leah into a dramatic kiss. Leah fought him at first, trying to squirm away, and then gave in and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Rushani glanced away. PDA wasn’t really her style.

“You’re disgusting,” James yelled from the stage.

“Nice work, everybody,” someone said from the sound booth. “I think we’re good to go tomorrow night. Exit stage left as soon as you’re done and someone will direct you where to go.”

“All right,” Andrew said into the microphone. “Let’s go get wasted.”

There was no time for that, though, and they all knew it; and anyway Andrew knew he wasn’t supposed to be getting wasted. “I’ll kill anyone who shows up hungover tomorrow,” Rushani said. “Don’t test me.”

“She won’t really, will she?” Nathan asked, looking genuinely concerned.

“I wouldn’t try her,” O’Connor said. “We lost a roadie two years back, and we’re still not sure what happened to him. I think he pissed Rushani off and she buried him in her basement.”

“I don’t have a basement,” she said absently, already looking at her phone for the next thing that needed taking care of. Dinner, probably, and then some minor press event. She wasn’t interested in humoring the guys’ conspiracy theories.

They all went out to dinner at a nearby Mexican place that Leah swore was the best in Downtown. Rushani ended up sitting next to Andrew, through no efforts of her own, and probably spent too much time staring at him, because shortly before their food was brought out he turned to her and said, “Quit it, Rushani. I’m fine.”

Her face went hot. She hadn’t thought she was so obvious. “I’m just admiring your bun,” she said. “It’s gotten more, uh. Copious?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re still a bad liar. Come on, Rushani.” He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s

been months. I’m really fine.”

Maybe he was, but she had only seen him once since he was hospitalized, for a three-hour tour-planning meeting the day after Marcus Aurelius played a show in Chicago, and they hadn’t talked about anything but business. He looked better. He had put on some much-needed weight, and he looked well-rested and—well. Happy, more or less. He was smiling more. He and James and O’Connor were back to cheerfully shit-talking each other the way they always used to, before Andrew’s sallies turned sharp and cutting, barbs aimed directly at a person’s soft protected places, the hook sinking in and catching. To all appearances he was the Andrew she had first met three years ago.

But something was off. She couldn’t have said what. His laughter was a little too loud, maybe. His eyes were a little too bright.

Probably nothing. She was a worrier. It was one of the traits that made her a good tour manager, but it also made her see trouble where there was none. She hadn’t been there to see his recovery, and so it was harder for her to believe that he really was better than it was for James and O’Connor, who had been there to witness the whole thing.

So she said, “I’m glad. You look better. Are you ready for the tour?”

He laughed. “Let’s get through the awards show, first.”

And everything was fine for the rest of the dinner, and afterward, when they went back to the hotel and had one beer each in James’s hotel room, before Andrew yawned and said he was going to turn in early; and in the morning, when everyone turned up for breakfast at the appointed time, variously surly (O’Connor, who was not a morning person) and cheery (Nathan, who definitely was). Rushani was beginning to think the whole thing would go off without a hitch She shuttled them all over to the theater an hour before they were officially supposed to be there, ignoring their collective groaning, and made sure that everyone’s instruments were on site and in working order. With any luck, nothing would go wrong.

And nothing did, until she couldn’t find Andrew.

“The ceremony starts in an hour,” she said to O’Connor and James, who were supposed to be keeping an eye on Andrew but who had instead been drinking in Banshee Rocket’s dressing room, and who were currently looking at the floor and shuffling their feet like naughty schoolboys, even though Rushani was trying very hard to sound calm. “You’re sitting front and center. And nobody knows where he is?”

“I texted him,” O’Connor said, as if that hadn’t been the very first thing Rushani tried.

“Okay,” she said, and took a deep breath, settling herself. “Okay. The two of you go back to the dressing room and stay there in case he shows up. I’ll go look for him.”

It was nothing, she told herself as she combed through the theater’s back hallways. He had stepped outside for a smoke. He had gone to take a last-minute shower. He wasn’t shooting up somewhere. He hadn’t taken too many pills. She wouldn’t walk into his hotel room and find him limp on the bed, eyes closed and mouth open slightly, like he was about to speak or sing. He was fine now. He was fine.

When she found him at last, in an unused dressing room at the end of a hallway, he wasn’t alone.

She stood in the open doorway, unable to speak at first, unable even to parse what she was seeing. There were two of them, both naked, one of them on Andrew’s lap and the other sitting on the countertop before him, her legs spread, touching herself languidly, letting Andrew look his fill. They had high, firm breasts and long hair. They looked at Rushani in tandem when the door opened, and one of them started giggling, high and girlish.

No drugs, at least. Only sex—pretty vanilla sex, to be honest. She should have been relieved.

“Oops,” Andrew said, without moving his mouth away from the breasts of the one sitting on his lap. “Busted.”

He didn’t care at all. He wasn’t even embarrassed.

She mattered that little. Rushani felt a giant, invisible fist squeeze around her heart.

“Put your pants on,” she said, which was all she could think to say to him in that moment. She didn’t have the right to say anything else. The foolish hope she’d held onto for so long left her abruptly, a physical sensation like a tooth being yanked out. All of her carefully honed fantasies about him waking up one day and realizing she was The One crumbled away into ashes. He would never, she realized, see her as anything but his shrewish tour manager. She nagged, scolded, soothed. She made sure he was taken care of. And that wasn’t sexy; it was anything but. She had been playing mommy for too long to recast herself now. There would always be women, women prettier than Rushani, younger, always younger as the years went on, more agreeable, eager to feed Andrew’s ego. She had no claim on him other than the one she invoked now, her arms folded across her chest, which she knew made her look stern but in this case was merely her attempt to hold herself in, to shield herself with her own grasp: “It’s almost time.”

Wild Open is here, and it’s available for purchase through most major retailers (except Barnes & Noble, which is just being a little slow).

This is the second scene from the first chapter; the first scene is here. Andrew, believe it or not, is going to be the hero of book #2.

O’Connor woke up and couldn’t remember where he was.

Every hotel room was a minor variation on a theme: bed, television, bathroom. They all blurred together after a while. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. White. Stucco. Not informative.

Los Angeles. That was where they were.

Because Kerrigan had quit. Because fucking Andrew couldn’t rein it in.

He rubbed his hands over his face. His fingers smelled like perfume.

Right. There had been that girl. Sweet, eager. He hadn’t fucked her, he was pretty sure. No. They had made out in the alley for a while, and then she had told him she needed to go home.

Good. He wasn’t a one-night-stand sort of guy.

Also, having sex with groupies was a universally terrible idea.

Unfair. She hadn’t been a groupie. He didn’t think she had recognized him, which honestly wasn’t too surprising. The kind of girl who went to indie shows at dive bars probably didn’t spend too much time listening to the top 40.

His head ached. Not badly. He hadn’t drunk all that much beer. He needed a hot shower, a few glasses of water, and some coffee. And then more coffee. Maybe something stronger. Shit, they were holding auditions that afternoon. Definitely something stronger.

He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way downstairs to the lobby. Rushani had told them they had a band meeting at 10:00, and the last thing he wanted to do was piss her off. She was a ball-buster under the best of circumstances, and with everything that was going on with Andrew, she had become a coiled knot of tension, ready to lash out at anyone who broke the rules. O’Connor didn’t think she had been sleeping very much.

The hotel’s restaurant was mostly empty. People had checked out already, or gone off for their day of sightseeing. An elderly couple sat near the door, reading the newspaper over their empty breakfast dishes. A woman in a suit ate an omelet in quick, neat bites. O’Connor moved toward the table in the back corner where Rushani was sitting with James and, surprisingly, Andrew. She must have dragged him out of bed. He looked at least halfway sober.

O’Connor sat down and tossed his sunglasses on the table. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No,” Rushani said, giving him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Right on time. I ordered coffee for you.”

“Bless your heart,” O’Connor said.

“This is a goddamn farce,” Andrew said, bitter, his voice raw and ragged. He smoked too much. He didn’t care about anything except getting wasted and having sex with women he picked up at shows. He didn’t even seem to care about the band anymore. Or even about the music. His hair was greasy and falling into his face in lank strings. The circles beneath his eyes had progressed from blue to a dark purple, like a two-day-old bruise. He looked like shit. He was wearing the same T-shirt he’d had on for the past three days. O’Connor was glad he was sitting on the other side of the table. Andrew probably smelled about as good as he looked.

“It’s not a farce,” Rushani said, with an edge to her voice that had grown all too familiar lately. She was clean, dressed, and perfectly made up, but her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion. “We have two days to find another bassist. You’re playing in San Francisco on Monday night. Jeff can fill in if we’re desperate, but you know he doesn’t want to be on stage. You should be thanking your lucky stars that Kerrigan is a good person and waited to leave until we had a few days off.”

“Kerrigan’s a fucking traitor,” Andrew rasped. “Fuck him. We’re better off without him.”

Rushani’s mouth thinned into a grim line, and she looked away.

“Just shut up, Andrew,” James said, sounding tired. O’Connor knew the feeling. “Kerrigan left because you’re an insufferable piece of shit. Keep your mouth shut and don’t make it any worse than it already is.”

Andrew scowled. “Who died and made you the king of the universe?”

O’Connor took a long sip of coffee. This was an old argument, worn thin in its predictability. The specifics changed, but the underlying truth held steady: Andrew was self-destructing, and he was hell-bent on taking all the rest of them with him. The band wouldn’t survive. Andrew didn’t care. O’Connor had only recently realized how bad things had gotten, but he was beginning to think that Andrew didn’t care if he lived or died.

“Stop it,” Rushani said. The words were flat and expressionless. She was worn out. They all were. She leaned to one side and took a folder from her bag on the floor. “I called some people. Word should get around. We’re holding auditions today at 3:00. I want all of you there and sober. This isn’t a game. If you don’t have a bassist, you don’t have a tour, and nobody gets paid.”

Andrew still cared about money, because that was the only way he could afford the booze and drugs he mainlined like there was no tomorrow. “I don’t see why Jeff can’t do it,” he said.

“Jeff has no stage presence,” James said. He unzipped his hoodie and then zipped it up again. It was a nervous habit that got worse when he was stressed.

“He doesn’t like the spotlight,” Rushani said, diplomatic, smoothing things over. O’Connor wasn’t sure what would have happened to them in the past six months without her. Utter destruction. The apocalypse. “He’s a great tech. He’s happier backstage.”

“I don’t want some stranger coming in and fucking everything up,” Andrew said. He finally noticed the cup of coffee on the table in front of him, and began scooping sugar into it, one heaping spoonful at a time. O’Connor watched in mute horror. It would be completely undrinkable. A diabetic sludge. What a waste of good coffee. “We don’t need a bassist. O’Connor can just loop some shit in the studio and we’ll play it—”

“No,” O’Connor said.

“What do you mean, no?” Andrew asked. “You don’t call the shots here, asshole. If I say that you’re going to do it—”

“You don’t call the shots, either,” Rushani said, calm, very quiet, implacable. “This isn’t your decision, Andrew. You hired me to make these decisions. I’ve decided. We’re holding auditions.”

Andrew sneered at her. “Yeah, I hired you, and I can fire you again.”

“You absolutely can’t,” James said. The past six months had changed him. As Andrew deteriorated, James had stepped up and become the band’s de facto leader. O’Connor was happy to cede that responsibility. “You’re outnumbered. O’Connor and I both want her here.” He shot a quick glance in O’Connor’s direction, checking for agreement, and O’Connor nodded slightly. He was Team Rushani all the way. “This isn’t your band. We walk away, and you’ve got nothing.”

“I’m everything,” Andrew said. “You’re nothing without me. I write all of the lyrics. I sing all of the songs that keep teenage girls up at night, staring at my face plastered on their wall, and probably crying because they won’t ever have me.”

“I write all of the fucking music,” O’Connor snapped, goaded into arguing with Andrew, which everyone knew was a fool’s game. He inhaled deeply and took another sip of coffee. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what Andrew said or did. The only thing that mattered was the band. He was going to keep the band together or die trying.

Maybe literally.

Andrew didn’t miss a beat. “Songwriters are a dime a dozen. Let’s hold an audition for a new songwriter while we’re at it. Then O’Connor can go back to Middle America in a self-righteous huff.”

“Shut up, Andrew,” James said, and turned to Rushani, eyebrows drawn together. “Why is he even here? Can we ban him from band meetings?”

“You fucking wish,” Andrew said. “You need me. You can’t do this without me.”

Rushani lay one hand flat on the table, her shoulders pulled up toward her ears, ready—O’Connor hoped—to flay Andrew to the bone with the sharp edge of her tongue. But their waitress approached, notebook in hand, to take their orders, and Andrew immediately turned on the charm, smiling brightly and telling her how pretty her earrings were, and could she tell him where she got them, because his sister’s birthday was soon and she would really love a pair of her own.

James gave O’Connor a meaningful look, mouth twisted to one side. O’Connor shrugged and drank his coffee. There was nothing he could do, and nothing he wanted to. Andrew’s good looks and charisma were a large part of the reason they had sold almost two million albums in the last fifteen months. Andrew hadn’t lost that, at least. He still knew how to turn it on for the fans.

But the funny, easy-going boy O’Connor had grown up with was gone. Possibly for good. All that remained of him was this cynical, ruthless husk, a sad simulacrum that looked like Andrew and sounded like Andrew but wasn’t really him at all.

They might have been doomed.

“Here’s to us,” O’Connor said, raising his coffee mug. “The Saving Graces.”

They all looked at him. Nobody else raised their mug.

O’Connor drank.

I’m still working on Wild Open, but this idea grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go…

____________

Three weeks after she was unceremoniously laid off from her job, Cara turned, in a fit of desperation, to the newspaper classifieds.

Her roommate and best friend, Loren, stood over her holding a cup of coffee, and made a skeptical noise. “Nobody uses the classifieds anymore.”

“We’ll see,” Cara said. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of newspapers at her elbow, ready to spend the morning hunting through the classifieds. Loren was probably right, but she had looked everywhere else. The newspaper was her last, flailing attempt to find something. Otherwise she wasn’t sure how she was going to pay her rent.

“Good luck with that,” Loren said, and headed for her room.

Cara bit the cap off her pen and got to work.

One would think that administrative assistant positions would be thick on the ground in New York. And they were—but after weeks of applying for every job opening she came across, Cara hadn’t gotten a single interview. Her initial determined optimism had given way to despair. She was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with her. She had a decent resume, several years of experience, and a promised glowing reference from her former boss. She was responsible. She dressed appropriately. She showed up on time for work. But nobody wanted to hire her. Nobody even wanted to interview her.

It was enough to make a girl question her self-worth.

She worked her way through the classifieds, putting a tick mark beside any positions that looked promising. Loren had been right: offerings were thin on the ground. The entire administrative/clerical section filled a single column, with a few lines spilling over into the next column. Some of the ads were duplicates of listings she had seen online. Some seemed miscategorized, like the ad for a pizza delivery driver. An ad near the bottom of the page caught her eye:

Wanted: personal secretary. No experience necessary.

Will train the right candidate. Must be quiet and biddable.

Call for more information.

And then a phone number. That was it: the entire ad.

Biddable. What an odd, old-fashioned word. And secretary, too. Nobody used that term anymore. It was probably an older man who still remembered the days when secretaries wore stockings with seams down the back and smoked at their desks while they did their typing. He would want Cara to do some filing, and maybe bring him a cup of coffee mid-morning. He probably wouldn’t pay her very much, but that was okay. She would be able to pay her bills while she continued looking for a better job.

She called later that afternoon. Loren had gone to work, and the apartment was quiet aside from the constant background noise of the upstairs neighbor’s television. Cara was frankly amazed that anybody could find a twenty-four-hour supply of police procedurals.

She dialed the number from the ad, and waited while the phone rang. Finally, long after Cara thought the line would click over to voice mail, a woman answered. “Wilton Enterprises.”

“Yes, hi,” Cara said, and winced. Hi wasn’t professional. “My name is Cara Giordano. I’m calling in response to your classified ad in the Daily News. Is that position still available?”

“It is,” the woman said. There was no warmth in her voice. “Do you have a valid driver’s license?”

“Yes,” Cara said, wondering why that mattered. “I can send you—”

The woman cut her off. “That won’t be necessary at this time. Are you available to come in for an interview tomorrow?”

Cara’s heart leaped in her chest. This was her chance, finally, to show somebody what she was worth. She opened her mouth to respond, but then reconsidered. Maybe she shouldn’t be available tomorrow. Even though she was absolutely, 100% desperate, she didn’t want to seem desperate. “Tomorrow won’t work for me, but I’m free the day after.”

The woman said nothing, and Cara cursed herself silently, afraid that she had ruined her one shot. But after a few long and agonizing seconds, the woman said, “Very well. I have an opening at 10 A.M. on Thursday.”

“That would be perfect,” Cara said, her panicked heartbeat slowing again. “10 A.M. Thursday. Great.”

The woman gave her an address, which Cara scribbled on her notepad. “When you arrive, go into the lobby and tell the man at the front desk that you’re there to speak with Sandra about the job opening. Please bring two copies of your resume and a list of your references.”

“Of course,” Cara said, writing that down. “Thank you. I’ll be there on Thursday.”

Instead of responding, the woman hung up.

Cara set down her phone, pressed her fists against her mouth, and squealed with delight.

The upstairs neighbor thumped loudly on the floor and bellowed, “QUIET DOWN!”

“Sorry,” Cara called, even though she wasn’t really sorry at all.

* * *

On Thursday morning, she took the subway to Midtown and walked to the address the woman on the phone had given her. It was a nondescript skyscraper a few blocks south of Rockefeller Center. Cara went into the large, echoing lobby. Every surface was made of marble or glass, and there were no carpets or plants to soften the space. Aside from a few benches arranged around the perimeter, the lobby’s only feature was a high reception desk at the back, beside the bank of elevators.

The man sitting at that desk watched Cara as she approached. His focus was so intense and his expression was so bland that she glanced down at herself to make sure she didn’t have a stain on her skirt or something. Everything was in order. Her blouse was tucked in. Her stockings hadn’t run.

“May I help you?” the man asked, when she came to a stop.

“I’m here to speak with Sandra about the job opening, please,” Cara said. She was pleased that her voice sounded steady and confident. She was already feeling intimidated, and she hadn’t even gotten to the interview yet. Everything about the lobby seemed designed to make a person quake in her professional black leather pumps.

The man pressed the mouthpiece of his headset closer to his lips and spoke briefly, too quietly for Cara to make out his words. He nodded, and then said to Cara, “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Cara said, and turned and walked away from the desk, and then realized she didn’t have anywhere to go. The benches were too far, halfway back toward the door, and she didn’t want to make that trek with the man’s eyes on her the whole way.

She settled for waiting awkwardly by the elevators, hands clasped in front of her like an obedient schoolgirl. The man at the desk was probably laughing at her. If only there were an actual waiting area, somewhere with chairs and maybe a few magazines—

One of the elevators opened, interrupting her wishful thinking. A woman emerged, dressed in a severe black pantsuit and black heels, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was smooth, unlined, and just as expressionless as the receptionist’s. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.

“Cara Giordano?” she asked, extending her hand.

“That’s me,” Cara said, and they shook hands.

The woman had a firm, cool grip. “I’m Sandra,” she said. “I’ll be interviewing you today. Right this way, please.” She gestured toward the elevator.

They rode upward in awkward silence. Cara felt awkward, at least. Sandra didn’t seem to notice. Cara tried desperately to think of something to say—Nice weather we’re having—but couldn’t come up with anything that wasn’t completely inane, and in the end decided to just keep her mouth shut.

The doors opened again, and they went out into a small waiting area, with the overstuffed chairs and magazines Cara had wished for earlier. A row of windows lined one wall. They were quite high above the city, and Cara could see the trees of Central Park in the distance.

Sandra led Cara down a short hallway and into a bright, sparsely furnished office. “We’ll talk in here,” she said, and closed the door.

Cara realized just then what it was that had her so unsettled. Aside from Sandra and the man at the reception desk, she hadn’t seen a single other person in the building. It was weird.

Sandra sat at the big desk, and Cara sat in one of the chairs on the other side and took out her resume and the list of her references. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to interview,” she said. “I’m excited to talk with you today.”

Sandra smiled for the first time. “Someone taught you how to interview.”

“Oh,” Cara said, feeling like she had been caught with one hand in the cookie jar. “I guess I’m—I did a little reading…”

“I’m making you nervous,” Sandra said. “Don’t mind me. Do you have your resume?”

Cara handed it over, grateful for an excuse not to say anything. She was nervous. Everything about this job gave her a bad feeling: the weird ad, the weird building, the man at the front desk, and Sandra herself, icy as the Arctic.

Sandra spent several minutes studying Cara’s resume. It was only one page long, but Sandra appeared to be taking it very seriously, even marking notes in a few places. “Why did you leave your most recent position?”

“I was laid off,” Cara said. “The company was having financial problems. My supervisor there is one of my references, so—”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Sandra said. “You seem very qualified.”

Cara didn’t know how to respond to that. She wasn’t ‘very qualified.’ She was twenty-five. She had a bachelor’s degree and three years of experience working as an admin assistant at two different companies. She could type pretty fast, and she knew how to operate a multi-line phone system. But anyone could do those things, probably, with a little training. Cara was hard-working and dutiful, but she knew she wasn’t anything special. Just an ordinary person. She felt awkward in the face of Sandra’s praise.

“Let me tell you a little bit about the position,” Sandra said, setting Cara’s resume to one side. “Your potential employer values his privacy very highly. For now, I’ll refer to him as Mr. X. You’ll be expected to perform basic clerical tasks for Mr. X. Sorting his mail, answering the phone, running errands… as well as certain duties related to his condition.”

“Condition?” Cara asked, imagining heart problems, or maybe diabetes. She could probably learn to administer insulin shots.

Sandra folded her hands on top of the table. “Are you familiar with paranormals?”

Cara swallowed. “Paranormals? You mean—”

“Mr. X is a lycanthrope,” Sandra said. Her mouth tightened. “Known in common parlance as a werewolf.”

The first scene of my next book, Wild Open, coming summer 2015 if all goes well.

The club was loud, crowded, and hot. Summertime in L.A.: the club’s air conditioning couldn’t keep up with the sweating bodies packed in close quarters, or the powerful lights shining down on the band on stage. Leah’s T-shirt stuck to her lower back, and a slow trickle of sweat worked its way downward between her breasts.

She was starting to regret her decision to come.

Mateo had sworn up and down that he would go with her, and then ditched her—of course—at the last possible second. Something about his girlfriend’s nephew’s birthday party. She had seriously considered bailing. But it was her very favorite band, the best one, the one she always went to see whenever they were in town, and that was why she had gone anyway, and that was why she was standing wedged in the crowd, wearing combat boots that stuck to the floor and a mini-skirt that kept riding up her thighs. The man behind her kept elbowing her in the back. The man in front of her was so tall that she had to crane her neck to the side to see the stage. A woman to her left kept flailing around and jostling Leah’s beer. And there was still another opening act to go before the main event.

“Fuck yeah! Yeah!” the flailing woman screamed, and slammed her body into the man in front of her, sparking a chain reaction that ended with Leah’s beer finally giving up the ghost and spilling all over her boots and the sticky floor.

“Okay,” Leah said to nobody in particular, holding her empty cup. The flailing woman moshed her way to the front. The man she had slammed into gave Leah a sympathetic look.

It was time for another drink.

She fought her way through the crowd toward the slightly-less-packed area at the back of the club near the bar. The man on stage was singing about heartbreak and a beautiful woman who had left him behind. The bass pounded through the floor. The crowd sang along, voices raised to join in the chorus. Leah sang along softly. She liked this song.

The relative peace and quiet at the bar was a relief after the intense heat and closeness of the crowd near the stage. Leah leaned against the bar and waited for the bartender to notice her.

The guy beside her was looking at her. She felt his eyes on her face, that subtle prickle of attention and awareness. “Hey,” he said, leaning in. “You look really familiar.”

Oldest line in the book. Leah managed not to roll her eyes.

“I know what it is,” he said. “You were in Rung, weren’t you?”

She drew in a breath. This was even worse than getting chatted up. “Yeah.”

“I saw you guys play at Largo last year,” he said. “I was sorry to hear that you broke up.”

“Yeah,” Leah said. This was what she got for coming to an indie show. She had forgotten how small and incestuous the L.A. music scene really was. “Me too.” She looked away from him and started rummaging through her purse, pretending to look for her phone.

The guy took the hint and went back to talking with his friends. Leah’s shoulders relaxed.

The bartender came over and said, “What can I get for you?”

She ordered a beer and drank it, and then ordered another one and drank that, too, perched on a stool with her elbows on the bar. The band finished playing, and the second opener took the stage. She wasn’t familiar with their music, but it was good. Catchy. The music caught her up the way it always did, a thick sonic blanket dampening the background noise of her restless mind, and she lost track of time.

A man sidled up to the bar beside her and leaned forward, searching for the bartender.

“He just went into the back,” Leah said, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

The man glanced at her and flashed her a quick smile. “Thanks.”

He was cute: scruffy, dark-haired, good shoulders. Worn jeans that rode low on his hips. Leah looked him up and down while he waited for the bartender, drumming his fingers against the dented surface of the bar.

Very cute.

The beer warmed Leah’s belly, making her bold. It had been a long time. Too many months of mourning and regrets. Maybe a little light flirtation was exactly what she needed. “Do you know anything about these guys?”

The man glanced at her again. “Not really. I’m here to see the headliners.”

“Me too,” Leah said. “I like these guys, though. Their drummer is doing some interesting things.”

He turned toward her then, supporting himself with one elbow propped on the bar. He was even better-looking from the front. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, and his jeans strained across his muscular thighs. He looked like he worked out. “You know about music?”

“A little bit,” she said. She shouldn’t have opened with that. Now he was going to grill her about music theory. She took another sip of her beer.

His eyes shifted from her face to the bar behind her. “You’re here by yourself?”

She shrugged. “My friend ditched me.”

“That sucks,” he said. “I can’t say I’m too sorry about it, though. You probably wouldn’t be talking to me otherwise.”

“Maybe you can be my friend,” Leah said, greatly daring. Was she flirting? Was that what flirting felt like?

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a slow and very obvious once-over. Leah’s face heated. “I would love to be your friend.”

God. He was definitely flirting with her. A flush of warmth spread through Leah’s body, and this time it wasn’t just the alcohol.

The bartender re-emerged, carrying a plastic tub filled with lemons. The guy—Leah’s guy, her mystery man—caught the bartender’s attention, and he came over, grinning. Leah watched as they slapped hands.

“Hey, man,” the bartender said. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah, likewise,” Leah’s guy said. “It’s been a while.”

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

Leah’s guy glanced at her and grinned. “Three shots of Jack.”

“No,” Leah said. “Oh, no. Nope.” Terrible idea. She was already working on her fourth beer of the night. If they started doing shots, she would end up on the floor.

“Oh, yes,” the guy said, and the bartender had already turned away to pour the shots, and Leah accepted her fate.

Why did it matter? The music was playing loud enough that she could feel it shake her bones, and the guy kept looking at her with gray eyes like the ocean in winter, and she wanted it. She wanted him. She was going to have him.

They did their shots—two for him, and one for her—and then he ordered another round, and they did those, and then Leah said, “If I drink any more I’m going to die,” and ordered a glass of water. She felt a little spinny, a little blurry around the edges. She felt good.

“You’re not too drunk, are you?” he asked, looking concerned.

She laughed. She had spun to face him, and she placed one hand on his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm. She was a brave person now. The alcohol gave her just enough courage to do what she would ordinarily be far too embarrassed to do. Leah didn’t hit on strangers at bars. She wasn’t that person. Except after four beers and two shots of whiskey.

He was gorgeous, even by L.A. standards, and way out of her league. She didn’t care about any of that now. He was smiling at her, talking to her, touching her knee. He was interested. He wanted more.

He had asked her a question. “I’m not too drunk at all,” she said. “I’m exactly drunk enough.”

He grinned. “For what?”

“For this,” Leah said, and leaned in and kissed him in the one quiet moment between songs.

Then the next song came, an avalanche of joyous sound.

He slid his hands into her hair and kissed her back.

The first touch of his lips set a song humming through Leah’s body, and she vibrated in counterpoint to the music playing from the stage. He kissed her like he meant business. His mouth was soft yet firm, and his short beard prickled at Leah’s skin. His hands slid down her body to her hips. One big palm moved to her lower back and draw her closer toward him, and she went, letting him ease her forward until she was perched on the edge of the bar stool, her thighs splayed around his hips. He slid his tongue along her lower lip, asking permission, and she opened her mouth and let her in.

He felt so incredibly good that there was a good chance she would fall off her bar stool right then and there, dead from pleasure.

The song ended. It was Leah’s favorite band on stage, playing all of her favorite songs, and she didn’t care. She wasn’t even listening. All she wanted to do was keep kissing this man.

“Hey,” he said, murmuring the words against her mouth. “Let’s go outside.”

She grinned. “Really? What do you think is going to happen out there?”

“A little making out, a little hanky panky,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to screw you in an alleyway behind a bar. I do have some class.”

“Good to know,” Leah said, delighted by him and his big hands. Hanky panky. Nobody talked like that.

They went out back, past the disinterested bouncer and the smokers and row of dumpsters. Leah’s boot caught in a hole in the pavement, and she stumbled, but he was right behind her, one arm around her waist, holding her steady.

“Careful,” he said, laughter in his voice, and his other hand came around to slide beneath the hem of her t-shirt, splaying warm across her belly.

It was a warm night. They kissed, leaning against the brick wall. Leah couldn’t remember the last time she felt this happy. The guy’s hands wandered up her thighs. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He pulled back and looked at her intently. “Are we really going to do this?”

She was smiling; she couldn’t help it. “Why not?”

His answering smile built slowly and kindled a fire inside of her belly.

He said, “Let’s do it.”

Here’s the first scene from my next book, the final installment in the Silver Cross Club series. It’s about Beth, the head waitress at the club. I’m almost halfway through and am aiming for a January release.

—–

Dusk rose from the ground, viscous, pools of shadows punching up through the concrete—

Wait. Start again.

Dusk rose from the ground. Viscous shadows gathered at the base of every building on the square, obscuring concrete footings and—

No. That still wasn’t right. I deleted the line and began again.

Dusk rose from the ground. An early dusk, the cold winter afternoon drawing to its inevitable close. The sun’s last light reflected from the glass windows of the building across the square, a sudden, blinding flash of—

I turned away from my laptop with a sigh. I had been working on the same scene for the past week, and I couldn’t get it right. I could see it, in my mind’s eye: the civil twilight, the sun fading pink and orange in the west.

Of course I could see it. I had been there.

I couldn’t write it, though. Not the way it deserved.

I tipped my desk chair onto its front legs and peered out the window. The trees lining my street were speckled with the first bright leaves of early spring. I wanted to be out there, frolicking in the unseasonably warm weather. Not trapped inside with a novel that didn’t want to be written.

Maybe locating my desk directly in front of the window had been a poor decision. The original idea was to give myself something to look at while I wrote: nice scenery, a pleasant working environment, a periodic distraction when someone’s cute dog paused to pee against a tree trunk. I made the desk myself out of a piece of scrap walnut I fished from a dumpster a few blocks away. I sanded it down, stained it, sealed it, and mounted it along the wall in front of my bedroom window. The surface was clear aside from my laptop and a small potted cactus. Sheer white curtains framed the window and blew in the breeze when it was warm enough to open the window. It was the perfect place to write.

And yet.

I tried to write. I sat down every day, an hour before work and three hours on my days off. Sometimes I wrote a few sentences. Sometimes I wrote entire paragraphs, the words pouring out of me like water from a tipped pitcher. And then I ended up deleting it all.

I just couldn’t get it right.

Frustration was my worst enemy. I tried, failed, decided everything I wrote was terrible, decided writing was a stupid thing to waste my time on, and then was back at the computer the next day, beating my head against the same impossible scene.

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. It was a quarter to 3, and I needed to be at work in an hour. My writing time was over for the day.

Work was a quick subway ride away. I had purchased my apartment on the Upper West Side in part because of the commute: twenty minutes on the red line, and less than half a mile from the station at 14th Street to the front door of the club. In the worst extremes of summer and winter I dreaded the walk, but today I was grateful for it. It was early April, the very start of spring in New York, and the first warm day since the end of winter. I held my coat bundled in my arms—I had brought it with me because I knew the temperature would drop after dark—and enjoyed the feeling of the sunlight on my bare arms. My walk took me through the northern end of the Village, and the playground that had been mostly deserted all winter was swarming with children. A teenager playing basketball waved at me. I waved back, and his friends erupted in excited jeers.

Spring, when a young man’s fancy turned lightly to thoughts of love.

I arrived at the Silver Cross Club a few minutes before opening. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside: an old industrial building, brick, nondescript. The club occupied the entire first floor, and above were offices. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. A person passing by on the street wouldn’t take a second glance.

Inside, of course, was a different story.

Javier, the doorman, was standing outside smoking a cigarette. He jolted guiltily when he saw me approaching, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it beneath his heel.

“I don’t care if you’re smoking, Javi,” I said. “Although you know you’re supposed to do it out back.”

“I know, I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell Germaine, okay? It’s nice out. I’m done now. No more smoking.”

“I’m not a snitch,” I said, mildly offended.

“I never said you were,” he said. He slung an arm across my shoulders and we turned to walk into the club. “You heard the latest gossip, Miss Beth?”

“No,” I said, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

He grinned. “That Sassy Belle got married over the weekend.”

“Really?” I asked. I was genuinely surprised. Sassy had quit working at the club about a year and a half ago, and I knew a man was involved somehow, but I’d had no idea she was the settling down type. “How do you know?”

“Scarlet went,” he said. “You know how she and Sassy have stayed in touch.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m happy for her. It’s not really gossip, though. Gossip implies something scandalous. Getting married isn’t a scandal unless someone’s pregnant.”

“Maybe she’s pregnant,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. Scarlet’s got the wedding announcement if you want to see it.”

“I’ll take a look,” I said, amused as always by Javier’s deep entanglement with the dancers. He wanted to sleep with most of them, but as far as I could tell had never succeeded. “Anything else exciting?”

“Too soon to say,” he said. He opened the door to the club and waited for me to go in ahead of him—probably because he wanted to look at my ass. I had known Javi for years and had long since stopped being bothered by his matter-of-fact lechery. “Germaine’s got some white guy in the office with her. And Nina hasn’t shown up for work yet.”

Nina was the newest waitress, and she had been late for work three times over the last two weeks. I glanced at my watch; it was still ten to 4. “She’s still got a few minutes,” I said. Javier seated himself on the tall stool behind his podium, and I said, “Tell her to come see me when she gets here, will you?”

“Sure thing, boss,” he said, and winked at me.

I went inside.

The club was in its usual state of pre-opening stasis. A couple of the dancers were sitting at the bar, intent on their phones, but most of them were still in the dressing room getting ready. The waitresses who had already arrived were gathered around the bar, chatting with Mike, the bartender, who was slicing fruit for drink garnishes. The conversation petered out as I approached. I was used to it; I had a reputation for being No Fun.

“Hi, Beth,” Mike said, and the waitresses murmured their greetings.

“Hi,” I said. I stashed my purse beneath the bar and took a quick head count. I had scheduled six girls to work tonight, and five of them were already there. Only Nina was missing.

What a pain. Germaine did her best to hire reliable workers, but it was impossible to get it right 100% of the time. It was my job, as head waitress, to ride herd and let Germaine know when it was time to let someone go. If Nina showed up late tonight, that was her last strike, as far as I was concerned.

“Nina isn’t here yet,” Amy said. She had been working at the club even longer than I had, and seemed to think of herself as my right-hand woman. Mostly harmless, but it could be annoying when she prodded me to address an issue I wasn’t ready to handle yet.

Like now. “Javier told me,” I said. “She isn’t late yet.”

“She probably will be,” Keisha said. “She texted me earlier and said she was really hungover.”

I ground my teeth. The waitresses had a distinct pecking order, and Nina hadn’t yet established her place in the hierarchy. The girls who had been working at the club for a while usually stuck up for each other and presented a united front, but Nina was still an unknown quantity, and they all wanted to see me chew her out for their own entertainment. I wasn’t happy about it—employment issues weren’t for public enjoyment, and they caused genuine problems for both me and Germaine—but there was no way to deal with this catty nonsense without making the waitresses feel chastised and defensive. I wasn’t in the mood to put up with their sulking all night.

So I just said, “None of you need to be worrying about this. I’ll deal with it. Who’s working a private party tonight?”

They all exchanged glances, as if I wasn’t standing right there watching them do it. Amy said, “Me and Tubs are doing Wilkinson’s party.”

“Good,” I said. I glanced at my watch again. Five minutes. “I need to speak with Germaine. Please send Nina to see me when she gets here.”

“Germaine’s in there with some dude,” Amy said.

“So I heard,” I said. “I’ll take my chances.”

I walked away, rolling my eyes. I liked the other waitresses, for the most part, but sometimes it really seemed like I was dealing with a bunch of kindergartners. I had been working at the club for too long. Most of the waitresses were young, in their early 20s, and they stayed a year or two at most before they moved on to other things. I got older every year, and they all stayed the same age.

Not that I was especially old and wizened. I was only twenty-five.

I felt a lot older than twenty-five.

Germaine’s office door was open a crack. I peered inside, not wanting to disturb her if she was in there with a client. She was seated at her desk, frowning—not an unusual state of affairs for Germaine. The man she was speaking to had her back turned to me, and I couldn’t see his face.

I started to back away, but Germaine made eye contact with me and beckoned me into the room with a tilt of her head.

I knocked to alert the man that I was coming in, and then eased the door open. “Sorry to interrupt,” I said.

“Not at all,” Germaine said to me. “Please come in.” She glanced at the man and then said, “You should probably close the door behind you.”

That was a little strange, but I did as she said. “It’s about Nina,” I said.

Germaine opened her mouth, closed it again, pursed her lips, and looked again at the man. I still couldn’t see his face. He was tall, dark-haired, and wearing a nice suit. Standard client fare. I saw men just like him every night of the week. I didn’t know what had Germaine so unsettled, but she was very obviously displeased about something this man had said or done.

“Should I come back later?” I asked.

And then the man turned around and said, “Please don’t, Bee. I was hoping we could have a talk.”

My heart started pounding in my chest. Bee. Nobody had called me that in eight years. Not since—

But I didn’t know this man. I didn’t recognize him.

Dark hair, gray eyes, clean-shaven. Tall. Broad shoulders. Big hands hanging at his sides. Our eyes met. He smiled at me, lopsided, one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other, and then I knew.

I knew him.

My God.

It was Max, after all these years: Max, alive, breathing, and standing here in Germaine’s office, smiling at me.

I took a step toward him and slapped him across the face.

Happy reading!

Coming November 5.

Here’s another scene from my new book. Observant readers may remember Tanya as Yolanda’s sister from “The Billionaire’s Command.”

I called Elliott the morning after my conversation with Carter, who—thank God—had included Elliott’s last name in his text message, so maybe I wouldn’t sound like a complete idiot.

The phone rang and rang until I was about to hang up and try again later, when someone finally picked up.

“If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m not interested,” a deep voice said.

I raised my eyebrows. Elliott needed a better receptionist. “I’m not selling anything,” I said. “My name is Sadie Bayliss. I’m calling to speak with Elliott Sloane about—”

“He isn’t in,” the man said, and then he hung up on me.

I listened to the dial tone for about fifteen seconds before I realized what had happened. I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it in shock. What kind of company was this guy running?

I called back. Nobody answered, and the call went over to voice mail. Well, fine: at least that way I could finish my sentence. “This is Sadie Bayliss,” I said. “I’m friends with Carter Sutton. He told me that you’re looking for a graphic designer. You really need to hire a receptionist who doesn’t hang up on people.” I gave my phone number, and then said, with a touch of sarcasm, “I’m looking forward to hearing from you soon.” Hopefully Elliott would be a little more polite than his receptionist was.

I shook off my annoyance and headed to the hair salon. I had an appointment to get my hair braided. I’d been twisting it myself for the last few months, but I figured a freshly braided head of hair would make me feel awesome, and it probably wouldn’t hurt my job search.

The salon was almost empty when I got there. Unexpected bonus to being unemployed: running errands in the middle of the day when most people were at work. I usually liked the camaraderie and gossip at the hair salon, but today, I didn’t feel much like talking to anybody.

My regular hairdresser, Tanya, came over to greet me and said, “Goodness, you look pissed.”

“I am,” I said. “I got fired. Job searching sucks.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “Sounds like you need some job-searching hair and a little peace and quiet.”

“You read my mind,” I said, and she smiled and led me over to a chair.

True to her word, she didn’t talk to me much, just worked on my hair and let me sit and flip through a stack trashy gossip magazines. I was in the middle of an article about some starlet’s latest stint in rehab when my phone rang.

I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. I didn’t recognize the number; maybe it was someone calling about an interview. I answered, trying to sound upbeat yet professional.

“This is Elliott Sloane,” a voice said. “I’m returning your message.”

I recognized that voice: it was the rude asshole I’d talked to earlier, the one who hung up on me. And who was apparently the guy I was trying to work for. Terrific. “Sounds like you decided I wasn’t trying to sell you something,” I said.

A pause. “I’d like you to come in for an interview,” he said.

We weren’t going to talk about the hanging up incident, then. Okay. He seemed like a jerk, and not necessarily the kind of person I wanted as an employer, but I might as well get some interview practice in. “Okay, sure,” I said. “When? I just got fired, so my schedule’s pretty open.”

Another pause. I fervently hoped that my bluntness was making him uncomfortable. “Tomorrow at 3:00, if that works for you.”

“Absolutely,” I said, fumbling around in my purse for a pen and paper. “What’s the address?”

He gave me an address in Midtown. We confirmed the time and hung up, and I put my phone away.

“I just got a job interview,” I told Tanya.

She laughed. “That’s how you talk to your future boss? You’ve got balls, Sadie, I’ll give you that.”

I sighed. She was right; I probably shouldn’t have been quite so sassy with Elliott. I was short-tempered and impatient: my worst qualities. My mother always got after me about my inability to tolerate bullshit. She said that putting up with people’s crap was the mark of a grownup. Well, maybe I hadn’t made it to adulthood yet, but at least I let people know when they sucked. It was a public service.

On my walk home, I finally called Regan. Carter was right: she was my best friend, and she deserved to hear it from me, not second-hand from Carter. She took it better than I thought she would, and seemed relieved that I was already looking for jobs.

“What did you think I was going to do,” I asked her, “sit around in despair and gaze at my navel?”

“That’s probably what I would do,” she said. “So it’s not really that far-fetched.”

“Well, you know me,” I said. “I’ve never taken anything lying down.”

Regan made a skeptical noise.

I didn’t want to go down that road with her, so before she could start giving me any grief about my year-long pity party, I said, “Why don’t you get me a job at that club you worked at? I know how to shake my moneymaker.”

“You can’t call it that,” Regan said. “That’s awful. And no.”

“Why not?” I asked. “You did it. Easy money. I could use the cash.”

“You would hate it,” she said. “You would lecture all of the clients about how they shouldn’t objectify women. You would convince all of the dancers to unionize and then the club would shut down because all of the clients would leave. I think you can find a real job.”

“You’re no fun,” I said. “Anyway, I’m home now, so I need to spend the rest of the day working on my portfolio. You want to get coffee this weekend?”

“Of course. I want to hear all about the job search,” Regan said. “You’ll have something within a week. I’ve got a feeling.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. She could be right. Stranger things had happened.

Here’s the first scene of my next book (still untitled), due in mid-October. I’ll post a few more excerpts before the release!

The baby had gotten fat.

Not in a bad way. Babies were supposed to be fat. But this one had been a skinny little thing when it was born, long and lanky, and it had stayed skinny for the first two months. The last time I saw it, only a week ago, Regan had been convinced that it had failure to thrive and that she was a horrible mother. No longer a concern, it looked like. Kid had ballooned up overnight. It had two separate fat rolls between its wrists and its elbows.

Surprise: I wasn’t much of a baby person.

I held it carefully, hands beneath its armpits, and stared at it. It stared back, a thin trail of drool running down its chin. It looked about as unimpressed as I felt.

Babies were fine. They were cute, mostly, when they weren’t funny-looking. After they learned how to smile and sit up, they could even be fun to play with, for about ten minutes. But this one was still in the newborn slug phase, what Regan called the “fourth trimester.” It was like a little grub: eat, poop, sleep, repeat, sometimes in a slightly different order.

“He’s adorable,” I told Regan. Part of friendship was knowing when to lie.

She beamed. “Isn’t he? I’m so happy he’s finally gaining weight. I thought maybe I wasn’t producing enough milk, but I guess he just wasn’t ready to start growing.”

The baby squirmed in my grasp and let out a tiny mewl, and I hastily returned it to Regan, who draped it over one shoulder and made some cooing noises, kissing its slimy face.

My personal feelings about babies notwithstanding, it was nice to see how much Regan adored her tiny slug creature.

“No, you’re not hungry yet,” she said to the baby. “Oh, what a fussy little dumpling!” She patted his back, and looked at me and smiled. “Sorry. I feel like having a baby has killed off at least half of my brain cells. Let’s have some grownup talk.”

“Do they teach you how to make that voice before you leave the hospital, or is it innate?” I asked.

Regan groaned and scrunched her face up. “I know, okay? It’s so embarrassing. It just happens! I can’t help myself.”

“Does Carter do it too?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Regan laughed, moving her hand back to support the baby’s diapered butt. “He’s worse than me,” she said. “I’ll have to record him and send it to you.”

“Oh my Lord, please do,” I said. “I could sell it to the tabloids for eight million dollars, and never have to work again.”

“That bad?” Regan asked, frowning at me. “I thought your boss—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “Whatever. I’m working on it. It’s fine.”

Regan gave me a skeptical look. “If you say so. It’s just that you’ve been unhappy for so long, Sadie. You won’t look for a better job, you won’t leave that awful apartment, you won’t date…”

This again. I gritted my teeth. Regan was my best friend, and I loved her like a sister, but she really needed to stop harping on my love life. “I’m not ready to date,” I said.

“It’s been a year,” she said. “He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

“I don’t think,” I said, really annoyed now, “that any of us are really in a position to say what Ben would or would not have wanted.”

Regan leaned away from me slightly, eyes widening.

I sighed, and closed my eyes. That had come out sharper than I intended. She was so sensitive “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just… I’m not ready.”

“Not ready for what?” a voice said behind me.

I turned to see Carter, Regan’s husband, coming into the room, briefcase in hand and suit jacket slung over one arm. He must have been at the office. It was Sunday afternoon—did the man never take a day off? He smiled at me as he crossed to where Regan was sitting, and bent to kiss her on the top of her head. He brushed one hand over the baby’s downy skull. “How’s that fussy baby?”

“Fussy,” Regan said, smiling up at him. “Sorry I didn’t tell you that Sadie was coming over. I didn’t think you’d be home so early.”

“Mi casa, et cetera,” he said. He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. “What’s she hassling you about now?”

“Dating,” Regan said, before I could open my mouth. “Don’t you think it’s time?”

“Hmm,” Carter said. “Maybe you should let Sadie decide that for herself.”

At last, a voice of reason. I hoped Regan would listen to him, and stop giving me the business.

Or maybe the baby would start crying, and that would be the end of it.

But instead, Regan frowned and said, “I just want her to think about it.”

“Leave her alone, darling,” Carter said. “Let’s hassle her about something else. Sadie, have you quit that terrible job yet?”

“Oh, God, you’re ganging up on me,” I said, groaning dramatically and flopping to one side on the sofa. “Lord take me now. I can’t deal with the stress.”

Carter laughed. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Oh, you should!” Regan said to me. “Caleb goes to bed early, and then we can drink wine and talk about grownup things.”

I grinned. Again with the grownup talk. Regan was spending a year at home with the baby before she started law school, and it seemed like she was going a little bit stir-crazy. I didn’t blame her. Being stuck at home with a newborn sounded like an absolute nightmare.

Regan’s home wasn’t anything like my tiny apartment, though. She and Carter had recently left his penthouse in the Meatpacking District and moved to a brownstone in Chelsea. It was shockingly unpretentious for one of the richest men in the country, but still pretty damn swanky. I didn’t think I would mind being at home all day if I got to drink coffee in my private garden every morning.

Basically, Regan’s life was ridiculous, like something from a movie. She and Carter met when she was working as a cocktail waitress at a high-class, trumped-up strip club. Regan had always been sort of cagey about the exact circumstances, and Carter didn’t really seem like the sort of guy who frequented nudie bars, but somehow they had made it work. They’d been married for almost three years now, and seemed happier than ever.

And of course I was thrilled for her—overjoyed for her, so happy that she had found someone who treasured her the way she deserved—but it hurt, still, even after a year, to see how much they loved each other.

I’d had that, once. That kind of love.

And then I lost it.

I didn’t want to think about it. “If you’re offering to feed me and give me free wine, I am definitely down to stay for dinner,” I said.

Regan beamed at me. “I’m so glad,” she said. “Let me go change this dumpling and I’ll see what I can throw together. Carter, do you want something to drink? Marta got that Scotch you wanted to try.”

“Lifesaver,” Carter said. He took the baby from Regan and kissed it on each fat cheek. “This is a smelly baby.”

“He has to poop to make room for more food,” Regan said, standing and moving behind the sofa to join Carter. “Maybe I’ll feed him, too. How was your day? We never talk about anything except the baby, anymore.”

“Much better, now that I’m home with you,” Carter said, bending to kiss her.

I sat and watched them talk to each other, the fond, familiar sort of conversation that flowed between lovers. Maybe Regan was right. Maybe I needed to start dating again.

It was so daunting, though, the thought of putting myself out there, going on first dates, making awkward conversation, trying to find someone whose eccentricities meshed with my own. Relationships were work, finding them and building them, and I was tired. I just plain didn’t want to. I didn’t know if I had the strength to go through all of that again.

Regan went upstairs with the baby, and Carter poured himself a drink and joined me on the sofa, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. “You want a drink?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “Not that nasty Scotch you drink. I’m holding out for the wine crypt.”

That was an old joke between us—Carter’s apocryphal medieval wine cellar. Carter and I weren’t friends, exactly, but we got along well, and I enjoyed talking to him. It didn’t hurt that I was basically the reason that he and Regan were still together, and he would be in my debt until the end of time.

“Regan’s been hoarding a few bottles of that horrible Riesling you both like so much,” Carter said. “I imagine you’ll have a good evening.” He sipped his drink and frowned at me. “Look, I know you’re tired of hearing about this, so if you really aren’t interested, I’ll never bring it up again. You should go freelance. Your job is a waste of your talent. I know so many people who are desperate for a good designer that you would never be out of work.” I opened my mouth to protest, and he help up one hand and said, “Just think about it. We won’t talk about this any longer. I’m going to get you some wine.”

“Well,” I said, mollified by this blatant peace offering, “I guess I won’t yell at you, then.”

“Think about freelancing,” he said. “That’s my only condition.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

I wasn’t willing to promise him anything more than that.