Love Song(131)

A waiter approaches, his tray laden not with champagne flutes but small glasses of something amber.

“Bourbon theme,” Mollie supplies, grinning.

“What is this charity?” I ask her, accepting the glass.

“They raise money for senior care, with a focus on women. I helped them out last year too. Had lunch with the chairwoman, and she was telling me how most nursing homes have more women than men. Since men, on average, die earlier. A lot of these women, the married ones especially, suddenly end up alone in these places, suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever other illnesses.”

“That’s really sad.”

“I know. My abuela is in a similar situation,” Mollie May tells me. “So it’s sort of a personal cause for me.”

We chat about the charity for a bit longer, but soon my mind drifts, because I’m still not sure why she asked me to come tonight.

“You seem bored.”

I glance at her amused face. “Sorry. I was just…wondering why I’m here,” I admit.

“Got it. You’re a right-to-business kind of guy.” She sips her bourbon, drawing my gaze to her red lips. “I bribed Tobey to send me some tracks from your album.”

I narrow my eyes. “Did he?”

“Oh yeah, that man will do anything for me.” She winks. “Most men do. But I’ve been listening to them nonstop and—”

“Mollie May,” someone interrupts. “I need to steal you away for a moment. Veronica is dying to meet you!”

I swallow my frustration as she dashes off. I’m forced to spend the next fifteen minutes waiting for her to return. I’m almost done my bourbon when she gets back.

“Why doesn’t anyone ever call you just Mollie?” I ask curiously.

“Because my name is Mollie May. Technically, it’s one word. My birth certificate has a hyphen. Mollie-May Rivera.” She grins. “Courtesy of an Irish mother and Puerto Rican dad. If anyone calls me by a nickname, it’s usually Mol. Anyway, back to business. I wanted to—”

But then we hear, “Mollie May, you’re on.”

She stops again. “Shit. Hold that thought again. Time to shine.”

My head is spinning as I watch her saunter toward the stage. I chat with an assistant to one of the record label execs as we wait for her set to start. He whispers that it’s ten thousand dollars a head to get into this event. Jesus Christ.

A hush goes through the ballroom. The ambiance is intimate and seductive with the candlelit tables and velvet ropes. There’s no band onstage, only a piano, a guitarist on a stool, a cellist, and a lot of candles. That startles me. Mollie’s shows are usually such productions that it feels wrong to watch her grace such a simple stage with just her sleek yellow gown. No Auto-Tune, no backup dancers, no pyro. Just her and the mic.

And holy fuck, she’s good. She covers a Patsy Cline song, soulful and sultry, then launches into one of her own tracks, only it’s been stripped down to acoustic guitar.

For a moment, I have to grit my teeth, because I hate being wrong. Plus, I feel like an asshole. This woman is talented. I’ve spent years judging her as bubble gum, and it turns out she might have more talent than I can ever dream of having.

When her set ends, she glides off the stage and spends the next thirty minutes chatting with attendees, accepting their heaps of praise, and flitting from group to group like a pro. I can see why they paid her the big bucks to attend. She’s probably raking in the cash for this charity.

Finally, she sidles up to me near the silent auction table. “Well?” she says, tipping her head.

I tip my head back. “Well, what?”

“Did you like my set?”

“It was incredible.”

She nods, then casually says, “You want to open for me on tour?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you before. My opening act got a DUI last week.”

“Stylo Lewis?” I say in surprise.

“Yep. Not a good look. So we’re hunting down a replacement.” She shrugs. “I’m thinking you.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. You in?”

I’m still battling shock. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect Mollie May, the biggest pop star in the world, to invite me on tour with her.

“But…” My head spins. “Our styles are…”

“Day and night?” she fills in.

“I mean, yeah.”

“That’s why I want you.” She winks and I get the feeling it means in more ways than one. “I always go with singer-songwriter openers. It helps ease the audience in before I drop them into chaos.”

I have to grin, because I’ve seen clips of her tours. Fire, pyro, backup dancers in latex.

“I loved what Tobey sent me. Those tracks. Especially ‘Lightkeeper.’” She shivers. “Slow in the right places, moody where it needs to be, and then you belt out that last chorus and holy Jesus. That balance is hard to pull off, but you do it so well. And it doesn’t hurt that you have that”—she waves vaguely at me—“face.”

“My face?” I echo with a grin.

“You’re hot,” she says frankly. “And we need to make these straight girlies and gay boys happy. Give them some eye candy.”