As Dust Dances (Play On 2)

“A bag?”

“Carrier bag, paper bag. A bag.”

“Um . . . let me check.”

It was my turn to stare at him quizzically, but he didn’t acknowledge the look. He sipped his water and stared around the restaurant as if this weren’t awkward and weird. His nose had a slight bump in it, his cheekbones high, and his jaw chiseled and angular. Overall, he had a very hawklike profile, masculine, rugged, and intimidating. And at that moment I felt like prey, stupidly allowing myself to be caught.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he genuinely didn’t want anything sexual from me.

I stared at him unabashedly, wanting answers.

He remained steadfast, ignoring me, until the waitress he’d called out to returned with a plastic carrier bag. “Will this do?”

“Aye.” He took it from her. “Thanks.”

He held it out, staring at me with those eyes that would’ve been much more suited to a Lothario, to someone who knew how to be charming. “For your clothes.”

Oh.

It was a kind gesture, also at odds with his demeanor, and my suspicion increased. I took the bag, however, sliding my wet clothes into it and out of sight. Exasperated, I said, “What the hell do you want?”

“Food first.”

“So I’ll be well fed, satisfied, and more amenable to whatever the hell it is you want from me?”

He looked at me now, really looked at me, and the corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Exactly.”

“A good villain doesn’t admit to his plan, you know.”

“I’m not a villain.”

“What are you?”

“Fo—”

“Food first. Yeah, yeah.”

And so we sat in silence until the food arrived, and the smell of my sea bass made my stomach grumble loudly. Years ago, it would’ve embarrassed me. Now I couldn’t give a shit. All I cared about was that fish.

I dug in, closing my eyes in joy as I ate.

When I opened them to scoop up buttery mashed potatoes, I felt his gaze on me.

The furrowed brow, the glimmer of concern in his eyes, made me stiffen. But just like that, his expression cleared, blank, and he went back to eating his burger as if I didn’t exist.

I savored every morsel of that meal, including the Chocolate Fudge Fixation I ordered for dessert.

My belly felt full and satisfied, and exhaustion began to force my eyelids to droop.

And I knew it was time to pay the piper. “So . . .” I pushed away my empty dessert plate and slumped back against the booth, my expression baleful. “What the hell do you want from me?”

His answer was to reach into his wallet, pull out a business card, and hand it over.

I stared down at it, disbelief flooding me.

* * *

Killian O’Dea

A&R Executive

Skyscraper Records

100 Stobcross Road

Glasgow

07878568562

MY FINGERS BIT INTO THE fancy embossed business card in my hand and I looked up at Mr. Killian O’Dea frowning. He was an artist and repertoire executive. Someone who found new artists and built the repertoire of a record label. “A record company?”

He stared blandly back at me. “If you don’t believe me, I can give you my phone so you can google us.” Before I could respond, he rhymed off who they’d signed; I recognized a few of them as successful British artists. “We’re the only record company in Scotland worth discussion and on our way to eclipsing the top labels in England. Between our eye for recognizing relevant talent and a marketing team that knows better than any how to sell talent to a digital generation, we’ve had a succession of number one albums in the last five years and a handful of our artists have gone global.”

There was a spark in his eyes as he spoke that hadn’t been there before. A light. Of passion or cold ambition, I wasn’t quite sure. Moreover, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure why I was getting his pitch.

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

O’Dea turned slightly toward me, his intense focus unnerving. “We don’t merely grow commercially successful singers, we nurture real artists. You have a gift. Do you think I stop by every bloody busker out there listening to them do Adele covers? No. You made me stop the first time I heard you singing an original song. You have my interest. I’d like a chance to hear more of your stuff, and if it’s as good as I think it is, then I’ll want you to write an album for me.”

“I don’t have a manager.” It was a lie.

“I can help you with that.”

There was a small part of me that would always be pleased to hear someone appreciate what I could do, but there was an even bigger part scared shitless that this guy had approached me. My heart pounded in my chest at the thought of what he was proposing. Putting me out there again. It would only take seconds and all my secrets would be uncovered. Sweat slickened my palms and I felt cold and shivery. I reached for my stuff. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“That’s it?” he bit out, and I glanced up to see him glaring at me.

“I don’t have anything else but the songs you’ve heard me sing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Anger mingled with the fear, making my cheeks flush. “I don’t care what you believe.” I made to slide out of the booth but he grabbed my elbow.

My eyes blazed with warning but O’Dea didn’t let go. “Why would a person choose to stay stuck on the streets rather than take up an offer to change her life? That doesn’t make sense to me.”

I laughed unhappily at his naiveté. “Do you think fame and fortune are all they’re cracked up to be? It’s an emptier existence than mine.”

“And how would you know?”

“Let go of my arm.”

“How would you know?”

“You only have to look at the lives of famous people. How many of them seem truly happy to you?”

“I happen to know a few who are genuinely happy.”

“Then they’re probably self-medicating.”

“You’re awfully cynical for a young girl.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “How young do you think I am? If you’re looking for a new teenybopper to burst onto the scene in short skirts and fake pointy nails, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“If you think that, then you haven’t been listening. How old are you?”

“Why the twenty questions?”

“That was one question. I haven’t even asked for your name. Why the evasion?”

“Because you’re a strange man who is buying me dinner because he wants something from me. It might not be what most men want, but it’s still something I’m not willing to give. You can dress it up anyway you want, but we both know you couldn’t give a shit about me. You want to make money and I don’t want to make you that money. Still going to pay for dinner?”

O’Dea reluctantly let go of my arm. “Aye.”

Relief flooded me but I didn’t let it show. I pretended I wasn’t shaking all over and got out of the booth, hauling up my backpack onto my shoulders.

“You’re right,” he said.

I paused reaching for my guitar case and waited for him to go on.

“I couldn’t give a shit what age you are, what your name is. I couldn’t give a shit that you’re homeless. All I care about is your voice, the songs you write, and your ability to sell records.” He stood up, pulling a wad of cash out of his wallet and dumping it on the table. It covered way, way more than the meal. His dark eyes were steely with disappointment and annoyance. “When you’re ready to pull your unwashed head out of your arse, give me a call.”

Outraged pride suffused me. “You condescending, pain in—I washed my hair this morning.”

He strolled around the table and stopped to stare down at my head, making me squirm. When he finally met my eyes, the hardness in his didn’t soften as it clashed with the fierceness of mine. “In a public shower somewhere. Let me guess . . . a swim center?”

Shame prickled my cheeks, and in that moment, I hated him for mocking me. “What kind of man shames a homeless person?”