“Well, thanks. But I don’t take orders from you about my personal style.”
“It’s no order,” he rumbles. “Just a preference, Miss Landry.” Then he turns his back, a quiet dismissal.
I hate how he does that.
How easily he shifts the dynamic between us when I wanted to just walk away, but now I’m going because he told me to go.
“Good luck tonight,” he adds over his shoulder.
I stop.
“For the record, I’m still not comfortable being your spy chick,” I tell his back. Yes, I’m contrary.
Tell me to stay, I want to go. Tell me to go, and I’ll hold my ground.
“Normally, I’d never let any boss—any man—talk me into this,” I say sharply.
“Good thing I’m not just any boss, isn’t it?” His fingertips trail the glossy edge of his desk as he walks away, the elegance of his hands holding my attention despite his glacial tone. “Also, it’s a good thing I only need you to do your job.”
“Which job?” I ask bitterly.
“The one you were hired for—being a damned great editor.” His hand falls away from his desk as he passes by. He stops in front of the shelf with the record player, his shoulders stiff as he lifts the needle to silence the music. “I look forward to your report, Callie.”
Boom.
Hearing my name in his thunderbolt voice unscrews me.
Holy hell.
Why now?
I don’t get this guy.
He’s hot and cold, unreadable, impossible, infuriating.
And it makes him incurably dangerous.
This time, I’ll take the dismissal.
I need to go, and I need to stay out of here more.
As I’m walking away, I remind myself it’s in my best interests to keep Roland Osprey a hundred miles away, if only in my mind.
Before things get too confused.
Before I can’t remember why I’m here.
Before I start putting up with a mountain of his crap and a small, demented part of me starts to like it.
* * *
Meeting Easterly Ribbon reminds me that despite her sudden fame, she’s just an ordinary girl.
She still lives with her parents in a nice but unassuming townhouse on West Fullerton that her father tells me they’re still getting used to after a lifetime in rural Iowa.
I’m kind of surprised she invites me straight into her home instead of a more neutral location, but that’s who Easterly is.
Sweet. Trusting. Open.
She’d never think it’s safer to meet me in public so I can’t catch unwanted glimpses into her life.
Which makes me ten times the crapbucket for accepting her parents’ hospitality, the wine they give me, the fussing over my comfort before Easterly gives me a red-faced look.
“Mooom, just leave Callie alooone!” she whines.
Then, giggling, she leads me to her room.
It’s all ruffles everywhere and stark contrasts of black-and-white posters of Peggy Lee alternating with fierce shots of Joan Jett.
Yeah, it’s not hard to tell where Easterly’s style came from.
I can’t help smiling as I glance at her.
“I bet you’d do an amazing cover of 'I Love Rock and Roll.' You’ve got the vocal range for it.”
Blushing, she plops down on her bed, swinging her feet.
She looks like a kid right now in this room bursting with keepsakes—a raggedy old stuffed rabbit with clear sentimental meaning, third-grade merit ribbons, a few dusty stacks of old-school CDs.
It’s all a reminder that she’s far too young for Vance Haydn.
Too vulnerable to a predator.
Even if I’m drowning in guilt, I need to swallow it and focus on doing the right thing. If anyone’s going to help her, it could be me.
“You really think I could?” she asks. “I’ve been wanting to do a few covers here and there just for funsies. Like, when I was first starting out, I’d do lots of open mic nights. I’d cover other people’s songs all the time, and it was this amazing thing, you know? Putting my own spin on classics people already love, giving them a new reason to remember why those songs make them so happy.”
“Definitely. So why don’t you?”
“Oh, um...” She looks away, tugging at the neck of her oversized sweatshirt. “Well, Vance says it’s not the best time for it right now. He says I should just focus on making my own name, not someone else’s. He’s all business sometimes, but it’s good advice.”
I try not to frown, biting my inner cheek.
It’s not hard to tell she’s disgruntled, even if she doesn’t say anything else.
But I can’t push her just yet.
I just got here, and if I pounce on her relationship out of the gates, I’ll just make her defensive and end up getting ejected from the house before we do a proper interview.
Still...it’s hard when your appetite for crap sandwiches has always been nonexistent.
I steal the small lacquered white chair from her desk and take a seat, crossing my legs and tucking my hair back. I definitely try not to touch the pearl hairpin, knowing it could blow everything.