Chapter 30 - Chase Me, Cowboy

I feel kind of dirty, watching her account without her permission. But that doesn’t stop me, not for a damn minute.

She’s gaining a lot of momentum. Does she have instant deal numbers? No, but she has enough that if she keeps up with this, she’ll start getting noticed by the end of the year. I was right in my analysis. She comes across as sweet, but with a sharp edge that people seem to find attractive. When I’m feeling brave, I dip into the comments section. The commenters are largely female, and the response is overall very positive. There are a couple people calling her a wannabe, saying she’s too similar to some other artist, making fun of her for being stiff on camera. The same old run-of-the-mill bullshit.

But overall, her following seems to love her.

I scroll further and scowl.

User4565travis appears to like the way her tits look in that dress. I click through and scroll his photos, all taken from below in the front seat of his truck. Not a particularly big fan of this guy. I report all of them, and his entire account, and click off his profile without a single regret. Her tits do look great, but Travis-whoever-the-fuck does not need to point that out.

I pace the hotel room.

That comment starts a little firestorm in my head. The one advantage Madi has in having an overbearing father is that predatory men in the industry can’t get to her. The downside is, she’s overworked. The truth remains that the sharks circle when they smell blood in the water. They’ll circle Serena if she gets picked up. She’s young, naive, and beautiful. Despite my efforts, there are predatory men a-plenty along this career path.

I toss my phone aside. I’ve done my best not to tease myself by considering calling her before now. Tonight, I’m having a little trouble. I go to the minibar and pour a whiskey. Usually, I don’t drink when I’m on the road. But there are some nights when my bed seems colder than usual, when my phone won’t stop going off, and work feels like a never-ending road. Those are the nights when my hand starts itching to pick up the phone, to give her a call.

Maybe just to hear her voice.

Maybe to see if she’ll lower her voice…talk to me the way she did when it was her and I alone in bed.

I pour another whiskey.

Deep down, I know calling her would be a bad idea.

I lift the glass to my lips, flipping it and taking the whole thing in one gulp.

But…what if I went to her instead?

A faint buzz starts in the back of my mind. Is it alcohol or the thought of touching her skin, burying my face in her hair and breathing in again? I could fly to New York right now. I don’t have a private plane, but I have a friend who would lend me his anytime. I could get my ass to New York City tonight, send a car for her, and have her in a hotel room by midnight. It’s still late afternoon. Time and money are no object, not when it comes to this.

No, it’s everything else that’s on the line.

I put my finger in the glass, pressing down, and spin it. How many times have I sat at a bar and done this? Alone, at that.

Did I make a mistake in letting her go?

How important is my professional reputation? In my opinion, priceless.

I slide the glass down the bar and back again, pouring another glass. This one goes down easy, and somehow my phone is in my hand, typing out a message to my assistant. She can get the plane for me within the hour. I can have a car outside the hotel to take me there, luggage in hand, by then.

I pace around the room. A trickle of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.

I thought I knew who I was. Then, I met her, and I’m working with a whole new set of rules.

My phone sits on the minibar. I pour one more splash of whiskey. It takes a lot to get me drunk, but a little liquid courage and a buzz never hurt me. Then, I send a text that really gets my blood racing.

One more time.

She doesn’t see it for a good ten minutes. I leave the room and walk up and down the hall. A woman pulling a cleaning cart gives me a curious look. I can’t be bothered with anyone. They can think I’m losing it, and they’d be right.

She sees it. I freeze, phone in my palm.

What do you mean? she asks.

She answered me. That’s a good sign.

Just one more time. The Whitehall Hotel. I’ll send a car for you, I send back.

She sees it, and there’s a long silence. My heart is on my tongue. If she says no, I won’t be surprised, but God…I’ll be crushed.

How do you know I’m in New York?

I shake my head once. God, she’s argumentative.

I talked to Coen the other week, and he mentioned it.

Give me one good reason to go. I was supposed to fly home to Wyoming the day after tomorrow to visit my sister. This fucks up my plans.

I could play my cards safely. Or I could go with my gut. I decide the latter: I gave you a good reason the morning I took you to the airport.

I go back to my room. The door shuts, and my phone buzzes. I can feel deep inside that the answer to all my turmoil is in that text. So I delay it because I’m a coward… Or I like the way she makes me suffer. Or because I have hope.

By the bed, I take out my phone.

My stomach drops.

Send a car for me when you get here. And fix my flight home, she says.

The world lights up and electricity bursts through my veins. The dull, pressing ache in the back of my neck I’ve had for weeks—months—disappears. That buzz wasn’t from liquor because it bursts. I shove my phone in my pocket and start scooping everything up and throwing it in my suitcase. The paperwork I just sorted through carefully is dumped into my laptop case. I grab my charger, slinging it around my neck, and leave the room with everything in tow.

What is this? I don’t know.

But tonight, I get to feel her magic. It’s worth it, even if this time really is the last.

I’m in the Uber when it hits me that I really did it, after months, weeks, days. In less than twelve hours, I’ll be between the sheets with my mouth on hers, my hands in her hair. The streetlights fly by in a harsh blur. My driver is quiet, which I appreciate. All I hear is the thumping of my heart.

My phone rings, startling me. I flip it, swiping.

“Hey, Marion.”

“Hey,” she says tiredly. “You busy?”

“I’m hoping to be. What’s going on?”

“I just talked to Lenny a few hours ago. He’s a little pissy. Said you snarked him about not answering his calls.”

Releasing a sigh, I lean back. “Yeah, I did.”

“You alright?”

For a second, I consider lying. But Marion is the closest thing I have to a mother, and she’s always been a very good friend.

“I don’t know,” I say finally. “I’m having trouble.”

“With what?”

I clear my throat. “The girl I was with.”

“Oh, honey.”

My throat won’t clear out, even when I try again. “It was supposed to be a hookup, but I’m not over her.”

“But what’s stopping you?”

“She wants to be in the industry. She’s looking at the agency in the future, maybe.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s complicated.”

There’s a long pause. We’re getting closer to the airport, and the streetlights are few and far between. Up ahead is a long line of brilliant white overhead lights. A plane skirts by overhead.

“Is she any good?” Marion asks.

“Yeah, she’s got what it takes.” I sigh. “That’s what makes it worse. I could help her, but we all know that sometimes, when I help, I end up hurting people.”

Marion’s quiet; I know her well enough to visualize the way she’s pursing her lips in disapproval. She always does that when I’m hard on myself. We’ve already been through this conversation a million times since Coen had his episode.

In my head, in my rational mind, I know it wasn’t my fault.

In my heart, I’m not convinced.

“There are other agencies,” she says finally.

“I know, but I’m respecting what she wants, too. If ITA is really her goal, that’s her prerogative.”

“For once in your life, you should think about yourself.”

“That’s not my job, Marion.”

My voice goes firm, slipping into my corporate tone that scares most people straight. Not Marion, though, she sighs but doesn’t protest. I’m not the person standing in the spotlight; I’ve never been. My work is what gets me up in the morning, and my work is ensuring that others get where they’re trying to go. That means I am an endlessly selfless, helpful person. I don’t snark at my client. I don’t argue. I answer calls and fix people’s lives. I make introductions and make dreams come true.

I’m last on the list. And I’m happy there.

“Alright,” she says. “What are you doing right now? Can you call Lenny?”

My mouth opens. The words sit on my tongue. Then, I think about what’s waiting for me when I get to New York and for the first time, I choose to be selfish.

“No,” I say. “I’m flying to see her tonight. Just one more time. Lenny can sit and nurse his wounds for a few days.”

She’s shocked, I can tell by her silence. Then she laughs. “Good for you. I’ll hold everyone at bay for a few nights.”

I’m also not great at accepting help. But Serena makes me different; she makes me desperate. And bad at my job, apparently. I’ll have to snap out of it eventually because I know who I am and how many people are depending on me.

I just need tonight.

“Thank you,” I say.

She hangs up, and I’m left watching the airport lights get closer by the minute.