Love Song Page 6

  My head swung around to see if Cristo had caught my gaffe, but he was putting out new table settings on a just cleared table eighteen. Or maybe it was table twenty-two? Honestly, the table numbering system was a bit of a baffler. Tables would be better served by names. Like, the tables by the bar could carry pop star names like Lady Gaga or Sporty Spice. The tables that no one wanted by the bathrooms could be Milli Vanilli and Vanilla Ice. Celine Dion, J. Lo, and Madonna could rule the roost at the large, family-style center tables. Those were all about being seen and heard.

  “Could we get more bread?”

  A shrill voice pulled me out of my table renaming reverie. Ugh, that voice. It had the same effect as nails scraping a chalkboard, just sent every nerve on edge.

  With a curt nod in her direction (table sixteen maybe?), I marched to the bucket, where I disposed of the dirty plates. It was overflowing and needed to go back to the dishwasher.

  Right. Customers first. I hustled into the kitchen and grabbed a new plate of warm focaccia, then exchanged the empty bread plate with the fresh one.

  Neither person at the table said thank you, I noted as I hustled my way back to the overflowing bucket. I dropped the plate in and heard the china shift under its weight. This sucker needed to go.

  I put two hands on the black plastic bucket and… wait. Did they drop lead plates in the bottom of this thing or what? I removed my hands and, with a wince, wiped my greasy fingers along the thighs of my Armani pants. With a firmer grip, I tried again, this time lifting the bucket up with a grunt.

  Shit. This thing was heavy.

  I hiked up my knee and used it to rebalance the load. The plates at the top of the stack teetered forward, so I re-angled the bucket toward me. Then I moved. Well, if you could call it that. The weight of the bucket made my legs feel like I was moving through quicksand, fighting for every step. The plates and silverware clinked and clacked with each heavy footfall. Dirty plates piled up against my chest. I tried not to think about how my obscenely expensive top was getting coated in olive oil. I tried to ignore my stomach churning at the odor of stale Peroni and acidly sweet wine. I tried to pretend that my slim fingers had a firm grip on the curved plastic of the bus tub.

  Reality, however, was a bitch.

  Instead, I choked back a dry heave. This caused the heavy tub to buck back, spilling the contents of old food and liquid all over my chest while the china and silver clanged its way up and over the sides, landing around me in an earsplitting shatter.

  All eyes were on me when a final, miraculously unbroken bread plate spun in a noisy circle around and around and around before clattering to a stop. Just as I was about to stoop down and pick up the mess, Fiorella stormed her way through the dining room toward me. She was pointing her finger, her mouth hinged open, and I braced for her wrath. That’s when the heel of her Manolo Blahnik hit the blob of oily lettuce from table seven’s salad plate. Before I could yell a warning, Fiorella’s feet swept out from under her. She went down with such force that she slid all the way from table seven, through the detritus that surrounded my feet, and landed in front of me like a runner on third stealing home plate.

  “Shit,” I whispered when she skidded to a stop. I’d gotten so busy with clearing plates, the focaccia, and the bus tub that I forgot to clean up the lettuce that had fallen on the floor. It was a mistake, an error, but a bad one. It had caused a slip and fall. It had caused my boss to slip and fall.

  “You’re fired!” she screamed at me while she was still on her back.

  “Fiorella, let me explain…” I started.

  “Get out,” she hissed. She pulled herself up using the leg of a nearby chair. Her hair had a blob of ricotta hanging near her shoulder.

  “But if you just let me explain—” I tried again.

  “Pamela put you up to this, didn’t she?”

  I blinked at her. “My mom? What does she have to do with this?”

  “I know all about Pamela Benson from my old Viper Room days. Wasn’t a man in a band that she didn’t open her legs for. We all knew it. The boys all knew it. How she snared Vince Davis into her web was something all us girls wondered back then.”

  Oh. My. GOD.

  Fiorella was a freaking groupie! And she knew my mom. My stiff back slumped in defeat. Pamela didn’t have any fans left over from her groupie days. My mother didn’t just burn bridges, she napalmed them.

  No wonder Fiorella didn’t want to hire me.

  “No one”—she shook her head and the blob of ricotta went flying—“and I mean no one, can be as incompetent as all this.” She swept her arms out to encompass the mess that surrounded me. “But this? This is exactly the kind of shit Pamela would pull.”

  “Fiorella—”

  “Get out!”

  Her shriek made me jump, and I dropped the bus tub on the floor. Whatever dishware had remained intact before shattered on impact.

  “Fiorella, please,” I pleaded. “It was an accident—”

  She extended her hand, palm out, to shut me up. “I. Do. Not. Care. The spawn of Pamela Benson does not work in this restaurant. The spawn of Pamela Benson does not eat in this restaurant. And in about two seconds, I do not want to see the spawn of Pamela Benson in my restaurant ever again.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  The entire restaurant, which had been tittering uneasily during our exchange, went silent. My body went from icy panic to fiery rage. I sucked in air through my flared nostrils.

  “I am nothing like Pamela,” I said, my voice quiet but quaking in anger.

  Fiorella opened her mouth to respond, but Rafe interrupted her.

  “I think you’ve said enough, Fiorella.”

  I dropped my eyes to my feet. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Humiliation leached into my body. I was incompetent. I mean, I couldn’t even clean up after people! These were demanding, terrible people, granted. But still! What the hell was wrong with me?

  I felt Rafe’s firm hand press against my back, and I slumped against it.

  “Come on, Beanpole,” he said. “You deserve better than this.”

  9

  “Now you’re looking for a job on Craigslist?” Rafe scoffed at my open web browser.

  I shivered in response, my back cold from my shower-wet hair soaking through Rafe’s flannel shirt, the one I’d borrowed from him the night before.

  After the debacle at Parma, Rafe had dropped me at his apartment and taken off to God knows where. Which meant I’d had the place to myself, which was fine with me. I’d needed some alone time to lick my wounds.

  After washing off the sting of Parma in the shower, I’d fired up my computer, determined to finesse a resume that would land me a job. An hour later, I was looking up job search sites. When I’d given up on those, I moved on to Craigslist, only to find I wasn’t even qualified to be an exotic dancer. You needed experience for that too, and I assumed the three Zumba classes I’d attempted with Presley didn’t qualify.

  Tired of striking out on the job front, I’d dug out my well-worn copy of Devil in a Blue Dress and escaped into some Walter Mosley. By the time Rafe had gotten home, I was hungry and tired. All I wanted to do was eat a pizza on my makeshift bed and then fall asleep.

  But Rafe was just getting started. He’d ordered two pizzas—one with meat, one without—and then changed into a pair of baggy sweats, his tats peeking out from under his loose-fitting T-shirt. Now, he stretched his legs out, his bare feet kicked up on the barstool next to him. The only rock star thing about him was the way he chugged one of his expensive wines straight out of the bottle.

  I remedied that quickly, taking two glasses out of the cabinet. I poured the wine, then settled onto the barstool next to his feet and watched his chiseled face as he squinted at my monitor. This was the Rafe I’d found on the tour. The one who didn’t peacock around, flirting and womanizing. When he was like this, I almost felt… well… never mind.

  “You don’t need Craigslist when you’ve got Rafe’s List,” he said,
pecking at the keyboard.

  “Yes, because that worked out so well for me today,” I said dryly.

  Ignoring me, he turned the computer toward me. His grin was ear to ear.

  I glanced at the screen, and then blinked at him. “I don’t get it. Why are you showing me the En Fuego Records website?” My eyes widened, and I let out a small gasp. “Oh my God. Are you leaving Grimm?”

  “For En Fuego? No. Contract,” he said with a shrug. “But I hooked you up with an interview with Bobby Gee.”

  “Wait,” I said, pushing my damp hair off my face. “What do you mean Bobby Gee?”

  It was his turn to blink at me. “Are you thick, college girl? Bobby Gee? Head of En Fuego Records?”

  “I know who Bobby Gee is,” I snapped, snatching up my glass of wine and taking a good-sized swallow. “What I don’t get is why you arranged for me to meet with him.”

  He picked up his own glass and sighed in exasperation. “You need bank, right?” I nodded. “So, how’s Craigslist working out for you?” I opened my mouth to argue, but he kept talking. “The only job you’ll find on Craigslist is one turning tricks. If you’re gonna do that, you just slip out of those joggers, and I’ll kick some cash your way.” He smiled as my face flushed. His gap-toothed grin almost made the tawdry comment charming. Almost.

  I scowled and took another sip of my wine, ignoring my impulse to take him up on that offer. “How did you conjure this up on a Thursday night?”

  He shrugged. “Bobby’s a friend. I popped by his place. Honestly, I’m pretty bent at myself for not coming up with the idea sooner. I mean, Parma? What the hell was I thinking?”

  I had wondered that too while he was gone.

  “So, what is this meeting about?” I raised a single eyebrow at him, one of the few useless talents I inherited from my father. “What, does he need a secretary or something?” My voice dripped with disdain, a side effect of the wine on an empty stomach killing my inhibitions. It was bad enough to get caught out bussing tables. But to be a label executive’s girl Friday? That could destroy Satan’s Sisters. I couldn’t do that to Nik and Pres.

  Rafe shot me an exasperated look. “Would I play you like that? You are meeting with him to discuss a songwriting gig.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Songwriting.”

  He picked up the wine bottle and poured more in each of our glasses. “Yeah, you know that thing you do for Satan’s Sisters? That poetry stuff you’ve got going on? Yeah, that. Except he’ll pay your pretty ass.”

  “He wants to buy one of my songs?” I asked, cautious. Los Angeles was a city of empty promises. Given the recent turn of events that had upended my life and shaken me to my core, I wasn’t up for getting played.

  “Didn’t say that.”

  I grimaced. Of course Bobby didn’t want one of my songs. Why was Rafe even wasting my time? And his? No way was I going to show up at En Fuego only to get humiliated. Hadn’t I had enough of that this past week? Or even just tonight?

  He continued before I could protest the meeting. “I played him some songs from Satan’s Sisters’ EP, told him you wrote them. And he gets that you’ve got talent. He can spot it. So he wants to see what you can do for his artists.”

  I broke out into a smile despite my misgivings. Rafe’s impish grin was practically irresistible. It was a smile that melted hearts. No wonder he had a reputation as a womanizer, even though it wasn’t exactly earned. He had been faithful to Reesie. That cow. The thought of Reesie slammed me back to reality.

  “Vince will shit all over me if I take a meeting with Bobby Gee.” I swallowed down more of Rafe’s ridiculously expensive wine. “Then he’ll shit all over you for setting it up.”

  Rafe’s dreadlocks bounced against his shoulders when he shook his head. “Babe, no label signed you. You owe no allegiance. Now, if this were me, Vince would kick my ass and then force Grimm to sue the piss out of me, Bobby, and En Fuego. That man is hard-core with business. But you’re a free agent. Presley signed with Grimm, and Nik’s tied to his label because of Rogue. But you? You’re free and clear.”

  “But Vince is…” I stopped myself. What was Vince? He wasn’t my dad. I owed him nothing, professionally speaking. And he was divorcing my mom, which had put her in this nasty mood that had gotten me kicked out of the house. Fuck Vince! (That might have been the wine talking.)

  “Vince is a shithead because if he didn’t have his head up his ass, he’d have pushed Grimm to sign Satan’s Sisters. And if he was smart, he’d have signed you too, to write for Grimm’s artists,” Rafe continued, relaxing back on his barstool. He pushed the bottle toward me, then lifted his legs and dropped his feet into my lap, looking smug. “Vince is risk adverse, but I’d look at you as a sure thing.”

  That was sweet.

  So I ignored it.

  “Rafe, I don’t know. My songs are for Nik and Presley. That’s all. Nik and Presley.”

  “You wouldn’t have to stop writing for Nik and Presley,” he said.

  “Yes, I would. En Fuego would own me. Like you said, they’re signed with Grimm. Satan’s Sisters will never get off this hiatus.”

  “Is that so bad?” he asked.

  “I mean, sure. Nik will explode. Presley will…” I shrugged, since I wasn’t exactly sure what Presley would do. She was a loose cannon.

  “Do you care?” he asked.

  I nearly choked on my wine at that question. “I care,” I sputtered out. “They’re my sisters.”

  His eyes went to the ceiling and then came back down to look at me. “I’m not talking about Nik and Pres. I’m talking about you.”

  “What about me?” I grumbled.

  “They dragged your ass on a tour you didn’t want to go on. You lost a semester at school.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I muttered, placing my lips on the glass to take another sip.

  He guffawed. “Beanpole, it was all you bitched about.”

  “I did not,” I lied, because, really, I bitched about it. A lot. Mostly to Rafe. He sat back on his barstool and sipped his wine, evaluating me. “Well, I didn’t mean it.”

  He shook his head. “You did, but I’mma let that bullshit slide. If you’re writing for Bobby, you write a song, you turn it in. No touring, no time in the studio. You earn enough to pay for school, and you can work in songwriting around your schedule. You and Nik and Presley have enough music banked for a while. And I’m not saying sign with him forever. Just until you get some money together and you finish your degree. Yeah?”

  When he put it that way, it made sense. Contracts weren’t forever. And Nik and Presley had their own shit going on. Satan’s Sisters wouldn’t come out of hiatus soon, regardless of my situation with En Fuego. If there was going to be a situation.

  And it wasn’t like Grimm had made any overtures anyway. Vince never asked about my songwriting, never pushed me on Grimm. Presley was his goddamn golden goose.

  I huffed out a breath. “Okay, so when’s this meeting?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I clutched the wineglass to my chest, panic making my voice go one octave higher. “Tomorrow? I can’t meet with him tomorrow.”

  Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re kidding, right? Bobby Gee wants a meeting and you’re, what? Too busy?”

  My brain mentally unpacked the clothes still stuffed in my duffle bag. “But I have nothing to wear.”

  “You’re worried about fashion now?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means chill, girl. He’s used to musician casual. Just don’t smell funky,” Rafe said, his grin lopsided.

  Right. Like I had after my Parma shift. Jerk.

  “You’re not helpful,” I said instead.

  Rafe’s grin disappeared. “You just go in and be you, Jett.” He cocked his head. “What’s the big deal?”

  I closed my eyes and took a breath. “Isn’t he expecting someone more like—” I opened my eyes and bit my lip. “Presley?”<
br />
  “You’re not fronting the band, you’re writing songs. You don’t need to look sexy.”

  “Right,” I said, and my body deflated. The beanpole with the frizzy red hair and nose in a book. Not a traditional stunner like Presley. Or tomboy sexy like Nik. Nope, I was the twenty-two-year-old schoolmarm.

  “Just wear jeans and a T-shirt or something,” Rafe continued. His eyes dropped to my boobs. “But maybe a little cleavage wouldn’t hurt.”

  I glanced down at my flat chest and sighed. “Right. I’ll just order some up overnight, then.”

  “You’ve got the morning too,” he said. “Meeting’s at three.”

  “Even better, I can worry about it all day,” I said. “You got another one of these?” I pointed to the nearly empty bottle of wine. “And where the hell is that pizza?” The benefit of being a beanpole was that I could eat my feelings.

  “You know, now I’m in the mood for Thai,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. Before I could argue about my lack of cash, he was ordering enough food for a small army. Plus, we had pizza on the way. At least I’d have several days’ worth of leftovers to tide me over.

  “So, tell me about Bobby Gee,” I said once he finished placing the order on his app.

  “He’s a typical music exec,” Rafe said. “Not much to tell.”

  “Is he nice?”

  The cork made a pop, and Rafe paused, holding the corkscrew over the lip of the bottle. “Nice? Did you just ask if Bobby Gee was nice?”

  “Forget it,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning against the back of the barstool. “I just don’t want to go in cold.”

  “I’m really not trying to be difficult,” Rafe said. He moved to the living room, placing the wine on the coffee table. “He’s just LA, you know?”

  “Like Vince’s sort of LA?”

  He poured out more wine in his glass and then motioned for me to come join him on the couch. “Nah, Vince lived on the road. He has a different perspective. Bobby’s not a suit exactly, but he’s definitely a label guy. Loves the music but doesn’t play it himself. Knows the spreadsheets and all that other boring shit, but doesn’t understand the practicing, the bars, the touring, the road. But Bobby’s artists have churned out a shit ton of platinum albums. Vince says he has a golden ear. The man just sniffs out hit makers.”