The Arrangement (Songs and Sonatas Book 8), page 1
Contents
The Arrangement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
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About Jerica MacMillan
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The Arrangement
Songs and Sonatas Book 8
Jerica MacMillan
Copyright © 2020 by Jerica MacMillan
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Colt
Drink in hand, I turn to scan the room, taking in the tall tables surrounded by statuesque models on the arms of fat, balding label execs, artists in a wide array of designer clothing, and their managers and agents steering them in the direction of the right people to network with. The walls are draped with fabric, and colored lights shine through, giving the whole room an ethereal quality.
My gaze snags on a platinum blonde pixie a few feet away from me. She looks vaguely familiar—short hair, though it’s getting a little long and her roots are juuuust starting to show, sparkly red cocktail dress, long, toned legs ending in heels that match her dress. She fishes a maraschino cherry out of her glass and pops it between pouty lips painted the same deep red as her dress and shoes. The combination of her stunning, sultry attire that showcases her trim curves, the deep V of her dress ending below her sternum and the lazy nonchalance with which she leans against the bar is equal parts amusing and intriguing.
This is the kind of party where people go to see and be seen. Network. Make connections. Not the kind for plucking maraschino cherries out of your drink and sucking the liquor off your fingers.
I try to place her. Is she an artist, attached to an artist, or with a label? Or is she just someone’s guest? Sidling closer, I wonder if I can turn this vague sense of recognition into a beneficial connection. If she’s not powerful enough to help me on her own, she’s probably connected to someone who is.
In reality, I’m connected to someone who’s got enough clout to help me. But for reasons I haven’t been able to figure out in the last four years of being my brother’s assistant, he won’t. Jonathan has the fame. He has the contracts and contacts. But every time I’ve asked him for help, he’s hesitated. Told me that I know all the same people he does, and why do I think they’ll say yes to him if they won’t say yes to me.
Which … maybe he has a point. But why won’t he at least help me find out why I keep getting told no?
Or maybe he doesn’t want to lose his lapdog, and he’s been blocking my way. Maybe being his assistant has actually been holding me back, not getting me into the right circles to launch my own solo career.
That’s what I’ve wanted since high school. Before that, when I was still in junior high, I always hoped that my brothers and I could recapture the magic we had as Brash, the band we formed as kids.
It was my fault that we lost our record deals. I was the baby-faced kid with the golden voice.
Until my voice changed. And by the time I made it to the other side of that shitshow, no one wanted us anymore. Our contracts were canceled. Our agent had dropped us. And Jonathan and Brendan had moved on.
Or so they said.
Jonathan managed to find his way back to the spotlight in his senior year of college. Same age I am now, actually. And he’s been riding high for four years.
Brendan actually did move on. He never craved the spotlight like me. Like Jonathan. He was our drummer, and he liked his spot in the back, not being the center of attention. Still does. Now he’s an in-demand producer, churning out hits left and right.
He’s at least tried to help, working with me on my last demo. I asked him to help me shop it around, but he said it doesn’t work that way.
Really, though, I think my brothers don’t actually believe in me. It’s not that they want to hold me back. They just don’t think I can succeed.
And even though I promised myself that my last demo would be it—that if no one wanted it, I’d give up my dreams of a solo career and settle for running things behind the scenes—giving up is hard. This has been my dream for as long as I can remember. How am I supposed to just let go of the thing I’ve wanted my whole life?
So it’s up to me to make it happen. My brothers won’t help me. Maybe this physical embodiment of the manic pixie dream girl can do what they won’t.
But before I can even open my mouth, she’s shaking her head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. You can move right along with that charming smile and smooth moves. Not interested.”
My laughter is genuine as I lean on the bar next to her, undeterred by her stated disinterest or the way she turns her face away from me. I signal to the bartender for a refill on my vodka tonic. “You need a refill?” I ask the back of her head.
She deigns to give me her profile and orders a Shirley Temple.
My brows climb my forehead, and I study her. “You presenting an award later?”
That finally causes her to give me her attention as a raucous laugh rips out of her. She grabs my shoulder to steady herself, shaking her head.
An answering smile tips my lips, but I’m already trying to think of ways to withdraw from this obviously ill-advised conversation. She must’ve ordered a Shirley Temple because she’s already hammered and her handler told her to sober up. But of course, appearances being what they are, you have to have a drink in hand at all times. Drunken starlets are no use to me, even if she is pretty and her grip on my arm is strong.
She straightens away from me and shakes her head, patting my shoulder once then brushing my jacket like she’s getting rid of any wrinkles. “Sorry. That wasn’t the question I expected you to ask. And no. The answer to your question is no. I’m not presenting later.”
Her words come out clear and straight, no slurring. Her pupils are dilated normally. She’s not rolling, despite her unnecessary touching, and she’s not drunk. My brows wrinkle.
“Why the kiddie drink?” The question pops out before I can filter it or rephrase.
With a shrug, she picks up her drink and takes a sip from the straw. “You always this nosy when you first meet someone?”
“Just making conversation.” Offering a shrug of my own, I turn around to face the party, leaning back against the bar and sipping my own drink. It’s pretty watered down, but that’s fine. I’m not trying to get drunk. Like I said, this party is about seeing and being seen. I’m just here to look the part, make whatever connections I can to help Jonathan, since I’m officially here as his assistant. If I happen to make connections to help myself in the future … well, that’s a nice bonus.
But with the way things are going, I doubt this will turn into anything, and I’m already scanning the room for someone else who might prove more advantageous.
“I quit alcohol,” she says after a long pause.
My eyebrows jump up my forehead at her admission. “Good for you.”
She snorts. “That’s it? That satisfies your curiosity? No more prying?”
I turn my head to find her staring incredulously at me, and I can’t help grinning. “You said you weren’t interested in talking to me and bristled at the only question I asked.” I hold up a finger. “For the record, I didn’t come over here to hit on you.”
“Oh really?” she says, disbelief dripping from her words and puddling at her feet. “You sure about that? I watched you checking me out.”
Resisting the urge to do it again, I return my attention to the crowd. It’s mostly people I’ve already talked to or prefer to avoid right now. If I wait here long enough, though, someone important is likely to come along. And for now, this exchange is entertaining at least. So it’s not a complete waste.
I shrug again. “You’re hot. I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact, though.”
“Are you gay?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is that the only believable reason a man wouldn’t hit on you?” Her silence is answer enough. I shake my head. “No. I’m not gay. Are you?”
Her cheeks get pinker, and she drops her gaze. “No. Though when you’re a member of a girl band, everyone assumes you are. Or at least bi.”
“Which band?” I sip my drink, eyes roaming over her again, flipping through my mental catalogue of girl bands now that I have that clue. So she is an artist. Maybe this conversation could be more than just entertaining after all.
“Golden Enigma.” She mutters the answer, the sound almost lost in the ambient noise, but it all clicks into place.
They were big news, getting a lot of media attention, opening for Cataclysm if I remember right. Things were going good until a few months ago.
There was a bad car accident, a head-on collision on the freeway late at night. The other driver died on impact. All three members of Golden Enigma were in the car. One was in the hospital for weeks. One’s facing charges. And one walked away with bumps and bruises. Or so the story goes.
Her eyes never leave my face as the impact of her words sinks in. She watches me put all the pieces together, and her face shutters the longer the silence stretches between us.
She draws a breath, the sides of her dress threatening to slip off her breasts, except I know it’s taped in place and that kind of wardrobe malfunction is extremely unlikely. Especially for someone still overcoming a worse scandal. She doesn’t need more scandal heaped on her name.
“Which one are you?” I ask as the band members’ names come to me—Katie Long, Mia Rossi, and Alexis Lovell. If memory serves, Katie was the one who ended up in the hospital, Mia was the driver, and—
“Alexis,” she answers.
“The one who walked away.”
Turning back to the bar, hiding her face from me again, she snorts. But it lacks the amusement and conviction of her previous snorts. She’s pretending to be unaffected, but it’s an act.
“What are you doing here?”
She lets out a sigh and stirs the ice in her drink. “My agent is trying to get our old label to sign me as a solo act. Katie’s out, and Mia …” She shakes her head again. “Our contract was canceled after the accident. Since I was the voice of reason of the three of us, my agent thinks we can convince the label that I’m a safe bet. But I have to walk a fine line of attending parties like this”—she waves her hand around at the elaborate colored lighting and fabric-draped walls—“where I can schmooze and network and prove that I’m sober and a risk worth taking.” She raises her eyes to mine once more. “I have the talent. They know I have the voice. They’re just not sure I won’t fuck it up again.” Picking up her drink, she jiggles the ice. “So Shirley Temples for me for the foreseeable future. Holding up the bar. Talking to people my agent brings over to meet me.” She points a finger in my direction. “No douchey assholes looking for a quick fuck.”
Chuckling, I hold up my hands. “Good thing I’m none of those.”
She quirks an eyebrow in disbelief, but a real smile finally stretches those ruby red lips. “Well, good, I guess. So now you know my story. What’s yours?”
Chapter Two
Alexis
The tall douche with piercing blue eyes and artfully messy hair who claims he’s not a douche—aka, the poster boy for douches everywhere—laughs at my question and drains his drink.
He turns to catch the bartender’s attention and orders a glass of tonic water with a slice of lime. Fresh glass in hand, he turns and tinks it against my glass. “You know, tonic with lime is a more convincing non-alcoholic drink if you’re looking to keep up appearances. No one can tell the difference between it and a vodka tonic.”
I make a face, stirring my remaining cherry in my glass. “But then I’d have to drink tonic water. At least a Shirley Temple tastes good.”
His low chuckle sends a wave of goosebumps down my arms. He has a sexy laugh. Too bad I’ve sworn off men as well as booze and all other forms of fun at parties. A few months ago, I was partying with actual rock stars. I even made out with Mason Gray, the drummer for Cataclysm. He hosted the best parties until his bandmates made him stop, claiming they were too crazy, too out of control. That he was out of control.
Katie, Mia, and I had scoffed at the time, riding high on newfound fame and fortune.
Now, though …
I see what they were getting at. Cataclysm is still going strong, untainted by career-ending scandals.
Katie, Mia, and me? Maybe we should’ve listened better.
Maybe I should’ve listened better. Tried harder to rein them in.
Now it’s up to me to keep on the straight and narrow, at least if I want to make something of what might be the last chance I have in this industry. I grew up following the careers of all the famous female artists. So many of them have a brief, meteoric rise, and then it burns out just as fast, ending with them broken.
I promised myself when we started that I wouldn’t end up that way. That we wouldn’t end up that way. I’ve already broken the second promise. This is my last chance to make good on the first.
That means no dick, no matter how charming the smile attached to it or how tingle-inducing his laugh.
“Shirley Temples have too many calories, though,” he says, oblivious to the effect he’s having on me. Good thing I’m not drinking alcohol. I might not be able to pretend to be so unaffected if I had a good buzz going.
I stir my straw around my pink, sugary drink again. He has a point. But I’ve saved my calories just for this, and I’m not going to let some pretty boy ruin my enjoyment of the one pleasure I have available right now. Shrugging one shoulder, I take another sip. “I’ve only had chicken and celery today. I have room for the extra calories.”
He gives me an appraising look, his eyes tracking over my body, lingering on my waist and thighs. “Smart,” he says, returning his attention to the crowd.
I want to be disgruntled at the way he was checking me out, but his gaze was clinical. Calculating. The way my agent sizes me up before meetings with the label execs where we discuss my marketability. “Don’t get too fat,” she says. “In fact, lose five pounds. Skinnier is better.”
We stand companionably against the bar, me sipping my drink slowly, drawing out the sweetness for as long as possible before I have to return to my dull, carefully controlled diet, intended to shave off those last stubborn five pounds.
“So who’s your date tonight?” he asks, apropos of nothing. “Wait, don’t answer, let me guess.”
I hide my smile in my drink, because he’s never going to get it right if we’re playing this game.
He looks me over again, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Even though your band is out, you guys were pretty hot over the last six months. I’ve heard the chatter. And you said you’re trying to get signed as a solo artist. You need someone to boost your image.” He turns his attention back to the crowd, picking out and discarding possibilities with his eyes. After a moment, he jerks his chin off to our left. “There. Derek Bayers. He’s close enough to your age to be a viable boyfriend candidate, which is important for the press. He was nominated for best new artist last year, and has strong sales and tour numbers. He’d be good for your reputation.” Raising his eyebrows, he looks at me for my answer.
Pressing my lips together to hide my smile, I shake my head.
He jerks his head back, surprised. “Really?” At my nod, he resumes scanning the crowd, humming thoughtfully to himself, his brows now furrowed together. He rattles off a few names, but without the lists of qualifications, each more ridiculous than the last.
Finally, my laughter gets the best of me. “No. You’re never going to guess at this rate.”
He gives me a lopsided smile that sucks the air out of my lungs. “Fine. I give up. Tell me.”
“No one.” I lift my free hand and let it fall. “Unless I can find someone who’ll show up everywhere with me for an extended period of time, coming with a date will only hurt me. Being seen with a new man at every event makes me look like a whore. The goal is to rehab my party-girl reputation. So no men. No alcohol. No drugs. No fun at all.”
