A Billionaire for Christmas

When he and Raji arrived in the private room at the rear of the French restaurant, Xan fucking Valentine was sitting at the table, too.

Xan’s dark eyes widened in shock. “What the fucking hell?”

Peyton had turned on his heel, preparing to walk the fuck out.

Georgie and Raji had pounced on them both, insisting that they talk it out.

Obviously, this was a coordinated attack on both fronts.

There was nothing to do but surrender.

After some snarling from both sides of the table, they crossed the distance between them and talked about music and the music business.

Within an hour, Xan was offering terse, instructive critiques on Peyton’s lyrics, and Peyton listened. When one of the century’s geniuses is willing to give you notes, you should let them.

Peyton offered Xan an introduction to a social media blogger whom he hadn’t been able to find an in with.

Now, Peyton stood in the dark of the Hollywood Bowl, listening to seventeen thousand, five hundred whispers wither and fall away.

Night air gathered around him.

Behind him, the orchestra settled, tuning their instruments one last time in a smooth cacophony.

Over on the side of the clamshell in the wings of the stage, just visible in the backstage safety lighting, Raji stood with Xan Valentine, Georgie Johnson-Grimaldi, and the other members of Killer Valentine.

Georgie’s arm was draped casually over Raji’s shoulders as they both grinned.

Xan looked like he was restraining himself from walking onto the darkened stage. One of his hands firmly grasped the back of a chair.

Tryp had wrapped his long arms around his sprite of a wife, Elfie, and was ruffling the brush at the end of her blond braid. Rumor had it that she was pregnant with their third child, but they hadn’t admitted it yet.

The toddlers and kids were sequestered at Peyton and Raji’s house, corralled by a platoon of nannies and sitters. Play yards lined the large nursery-slash-play room, waiting for bedtime.

Gita had been toddler-flirting with both Tryp’s son Neil, who was her age, and Xan’s son Adrien, staggering after them as they stumbled around the padded playroom. Peyton was pretty sure she was primarily after Adrien who was almost two years old, so she might have a thing for older men.

At the Hollywood Bowl, out in the dark expanse that crawled up the hillsides of the canyon turned into an open-air theater, the lights dimmed. The crowd quieted in their seats and on the benches that striped the hills around the stage.

Over seventeen thousand throats breathed out there. Seventeen and a half thousand hearts beat. Tree-covered hills in the Hollywood Heights funneled cool air and quiet into the valley, blocking out the traffic and blare of Los Angeles. The stars above glittered through the haze of light all around the tops of the mountains.

Peyton’s parents were in the front row, mollified that their offspring was at least making his debut at the Hollywood Bowl, a stage renowned for its classical and jazz traditions and for being the summer home of the L.A. Philharmonic. The venue was a marginally suitable substitute since their progeny was too stubborn to make his entrance to musical society at Carnegie Hall like a proper musician.

At least they were there.

Peyton took one last look over the body of the piano at Raji, standing in the wings. Her thrilled grin and hands clasped under her chin in excitement made each day of his life worthwhile.

Every step of his shooting-star rise to fame had been detailed on one of her spreadsheets, from polishing a defined number of songs via intermediate goals, to capitalizing on his classical contacts, to working his connections in the rock world, to the initial club dates, and finally to uploading his music to the streaming services with advertising already in place.

Raji’s spreadsheets and then project management software files were organized, so precise and detailed that Georgie had dragged Killer Valentine’s A&R VP Jonas all the way to California during another one-month band hiatus. Raji had given them both a crash course in how to use the software.

Peyton had cracked up as both Jonas’s and Georgie’s eyes had lit up at the possibilities for long-term career planning and management team organizational structure. So much planning.

Now, at the apex of Raji’s planning, seconds before the beginning of his first stadium-sized concert, Peyton drew a deep breath and laid his hands on the piano. The cool ivory calmed him.

Voices broke the silence of the crowd beyond the apron of the stage.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, he counted in his head.

In the darkness, the few wails swelled to screams, which expanded into a roar.

Three.

Peyton shouted into the darkness, “One, two, one-two-three-four—”

His hands slammed the piano keys.

Spotlights blasted through the Hollywood Bowl. The clamshell brimmed with light, and the glow flowed over the restless audience along with his music.

Peyton opened his throat and his soul and sang.