me.
The next few hours pass in a blur of spa treatments, a makeover, and shopping.
Now it’s seven o’clock Friday night, and I’m waiting.
In front of me is a room service trolley, loaded up with champagne and food. I cross my legs and adjust my pose on the nice sofa in the hotel suite.
I’m all alone here, in the penthouse suite, waiting for Dylan to arrive.
He’s been in touch with me by text messages only.
He told me he signed the deal with Morris Music. A significant deal. Like, the kind of deal all the industry blogs are buzzing about. And the blogs are buzzing.
There’s no way people could have gotten the news this fast. Someone within Morris Music was sending out announcements.
I check the clock over the grand marble fireplace. 7:01pm. Dylan said he’d be here by 6:30.
The longer I wait, the more I worry that Mr. Carter Morris was right.
Now that Dylan has signed his deal, our relationship could fall apart. Maybe he was only with me to get him inside information. Maybe when he looks at my face, he sees his dead wife, and he secretly hates me.
Who’s been playing whom?
I smooth down my new black dress. Underneath the dress is more new underwear, all black and lace. I flick some lint off my new dress. If only I could flick away my doubts as easily.
By 7:30, I’m not just nervous anymore. Now I’m pissed. Dylan’s keeping me waiting. With each minute, I feel our relationship becoming disposable.
Finally, I start eating the food from the trolley. I grab my bag and dump the contents onto the fancy coffee table for sorting.
The stack of old photos I stole from the archives are here, along with a shocking number of candy wrappers. My old bag hasn’t been much use since I started carrying a purse.
I sort through the photos. Something catches my eye. It’s a group photo, taken outside at a picnic.
The picture’s old, but I recognize an older couple wearing matching hoodies.
They’re younger here, but it’s definitely them. These same two were filming Dylan on the street the day we met. And Dylan confirmed to me that they’re working for or with Q.
On the back of the photo, there are no names written. Just question marks, like the photographer didn’t know who they were.
A realization hits me.
These people are working for Q. But these people are also connected to someone within Morris Music.
My head is buzzing with these new developments.
I dig through the photos and find one of the couple posing with a third person—a man. They seem friendly with him. I flip over the photo.
There are two question marks, and just one name: David Ambler.
My hands drop to my lap.
“David Ambler,” I say to the empty hotel suite.
He’s the man who hired me at Morris, but was fired by Maggie Clark before I started.
I take a closer look. David Ambler has small, beady eyes. He’s wearing thick glasses. Just like how Dylan described the mysterious Q.
I swear out loud at the empty room.
David Ambler is Q.
And if Nick and Maggie Clark really don’t know about him, that means he’s working against them.
The door to the penthouse suite opens.
I’m so shocked, my arms jerk up, scattering the photos. I let out a strangled scream.
Chapter 13
The door to the room opens all the way.
Dylan walks into the penthouse suite. He’s followed by two redhead girls.
The girls are shocked by me screaming. They scream, too.
Dylan catches my eyes with his, and starts laughing. His laughter echoes the room. I’ve never heard him quite this happy.
“Guilty conscience?” he says.
He’s got his old beat-up guitar with him, which he sets just inside the door.
I holding my hands to my chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I brought some old friends,” he says, nodding to the girls.
They’re pretty redheads. One has blue eyes and the other green. I recognize them as the singer twins I met at Dylan’s gig. They slept off their partying at his loft, and then they wouldn’t leave.
And now
The next few hours pass in a blur of spa treatments, a makeover, and shopping.
Now it’s seven o’clock Friday night, and I’m waiting.
In front of me is a room service trolley, loaded up with champagne and food. I cross my legs and adjust my pose on the nice sofa in the hotel suite.
I’m all alone here, in the penthouse suite, waiting for Dylan to arrive.
He’s been in touch with me by text messages only.
He told me he signed the deal with Morris Music. A significant deal. Like, the kind of deal all the industry blogs are buzzing about. And the blogs are buzzing.
There’s no way people could have gotten the news this fast. Someone within Morris Music was sending out announcements.
I check the clock over the grand marble fireplace. 7:01pm. Dylan said he’d be here by 6:30.
The longer I wait, the more I worry that Mr. Carter Morris was right.
Now that Dylan has signed his deal, our relationship could fall apart. Maybe he was only with me to get him inside information. Maybe when he looks at my face, he sees his dead wife, and he secretly hates me.
Who’s been playing whom?
I smooth down my new black dress. Underneath the dress is more new underwear, all black and lace. I flick some lint off my new dress. If only I could flick away my doubts as easily.
By 7:30, I’m not just nervous anymore. Now I’m pissed. Dylan’s keeping me waiting. With each minute, I feel our relationship becoming disposable.
Finally, I start eating the food from the trolley. I grab my bag and dump the contents onto the fancy coffee table for sorting.
The stack of old photos I stole from the archives are here, along with a shocking number of candy wrappers. My old bag hasn’t been much use since I started carrying a purse.
I sort through the photos. Something catches my eye. It’s a group photo, taken outside at a picnic.
The picture’s old, but I recognize an older couple wearing matching hoodies.
They’re younger here, but it’s definitely them. These same two were filming Dylan on the street the day we met. And Dylan confirmed to me that they’re working for or with Q.
On the back of the photo, there are no names written. Just question marks, like the photographer didn’t know who they were.
A realization hits me.
These people are working for Q. But these people are also connected to someone within Morris Music.
My head is buzzing with these new developments.
I dig through the photos and find one of the couple posing with a third person—a man. They seem friendly with him. I flip over the photo.
There are two question marks, and just one name: David Ambler.
My hands drop to my lap.
“David Ambler,” I say to the empty hotel suite.
He’s the man who hired me at Morris, but was fired by Maggie Clark before I started.
I take a closer look. David Ambler has small, beady eyes. He’s wearing thick glasses. Just like how Dylan described the mysterious Q.
I swear out loud at the empty room.
David Ambler is Q.
And if Nick and Maggie Clark really don’t know about him, that means he’s working against them.
The door to the penthouse suite opens.
I’m so shocked, my arms jerk up, scattering the photos. I let out a strangled scream.
Chapter 13
The door to the room opens all the way.
Dylan walks into the penthouse suite. He’s followed by two redhead girls.
The girls are shocked by me screaming. They scream, too.
Dylan catches my eyes with his, and starts laughing. His laughter echoes the room. I’ve never heard him quite this happy.
“Guilty conscience?” he says.
He’s got his old beat-up guitar with him, which he sets just inside the door.
I holding my hands to my chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I brought some old friends,” he says, nodding to the girls.
They’re pretty redheads. One has blue eyes and the other green. I recognize them as the singer twins I met at Dylan’s gig. They slept off their partying at his loft, and then they wouldn’t leave.
And now
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