Page 3
Chapter 3
The Agreement
Delilah
W hen Sutton shows me the photo, my jaw almost hits the brick pavement beneath me.
“Do you recognize him now?” she asks.
“Was he here, like?—”
She nods. “He was having lunch with his agent.”
I signed an agreement, and before singing the national anthem in a packed stadium, I will sign an NDA and a contract with Forever Four.
I should be riding high on that, but I am the girl who’s been lied to, cheated on, shit-talked on the internet about looks, lack of talent, and being a fraud, and yet, I’m tripping on the fact that this gig is a last-minute fill-in, with time to prepare, right after I took a delivery to earn an extra twenty bucks to cover the Wi-Fi bill.
Damien Donovan, my future fake boyfriend and a walking thirst trap, is the man who dropped Ben Franklin in my tip can, saw me for the first time in a thrifted, faded, peach graphic tee I’d cut into a crop without measuring, high-waisted jeans I got from the same store for five bucks, boots scuffed from gigs, bar shifts, and more than one emotional breakdown behind a dumpster, a slouchy denim jacket with one sleeve falling off my shoulder, gold hoop earrings too big for the occasion, and my hair braided over one shoulder, loose from rushing, with one tiny butterfly clip tucked behind my ear—Rae’s, probably.
My makeup was far from stage-ready. I had on lip balm—no gloss—mascara, and a dusting of whatever eyeshadow was left at the bottom of my bag. No planning involved. Just me, guitar in hand, singing “Yeah Boy” to a half-engaged crowd, thinking no one was really watching.
Oh. My. God.
I can’t even begin to overanalyze this with Rae or Harlan because I practically pinky swore not to, as if I wasn’t already panicking over the fact that I can’t tell anyone. Not Rae. Not my sister. Not even that insistent voice in my head asking, What on earth did you just agree to?
The only people who are aware that this entire situation—this bizarre fake dating scenario that seems like something out of a wild fever dream—isn’t real are me; Damien freaking Donovan; his agent, Ty; and my own management team. That’s it. No one else.
The “official NDA” is set to drop in my inbox tomorrow, like a bomb gift-wrapped in DocuSign.
I press my thumb into the crease of the takeout bag, trying not to squash the cornbread because Rae will kill me if her fries are ruined. Meanwhile, my mind is racing, somersaulting like it’s drunk on Moscato without even opening the bottle.
Damien Donovan doesn’t need an NDA; I’m definitely not spilling the beans to anyone. They’d twist it against me, claim I was lying back then, too, even though I never said anything against him publicly—it was just assumed by everyone. The man whose chiseled jawline seems sharp enough to cut glass, and who apparently needs me, a struggling bar singer with a ripped denim jacket and precisely eight dollars and forty-two cents in my checking account, to pretend-date him for a PR makeover. As if that makes any sense. As if this isn’t the most bizarre plot twist my life has ever thrown at me.
I stop outside Sweet Magnolia Smokehouse to pick up Rae’s favorite Mac and Cheese and catch a glimpse of myself in the darkened window. I don’t look like the kind of girl who signs NDAs for non-existent relationships.
My mom’s words from her last days echo in my mind, “Don’t you go questioning the rain when your garden’s finally blooming. Some prayers get answered later than we want, but they get answered when they’re supposed to.”
Perhaps this was one of those moments.
I touch my face, half-expecting to feel a tear, but there isn’t one. I feel a bit guilty about that, but the bills won’t pay themselves, and my sister’s tuition didn’t become any more affordable after we lost Mom.
I imagine her up above, barefoot on a cloud, her hair flowing freely, wearing a floral dress that dances with the breeze, coffee in one hand and a microphone in the other. She’s humming a song, tapping her foot, keeping an eye on me from the best seat in the sky.
Grab some food.
Head home.
Don’t say a word to Rae.
Even if it’s tearing me apart inside.
Even if the urge is almost overwhelming.
For professional reasons.
Or whatever.
I pull open the door, reminding myself to concentrate; Rae, who’s been through everything with me, and I are sharing discount wine and cheap takeout tonight to celebrate a dream worth pursuing, even if it seems crazy.
The door swings open, and someone brushes past me with a takeout box, carrying a scent that makes my stomach rumble. I snap back to reality and put on a smile for the kid at the counter.
“We were supposed to be watching hot people miscommunicate in swimsuits. Instead, we’re caught in a digital rabbit hole titled ‘How Many Companies has Damien Freaking Donovan Sold His Soul To?’” Rae snort-laughs, scrolling with one hand, shoveling fries into her mouth with the other.
Okay, so I may have led the horse to water with one mention that I thought the big tipper was a Nashville Terror player, knowing a thirsty bitch is bound to drink and spill all she’s found, leaving me guiltless.
Me? I’m lounging with a takeout box balanced on my knee and my third glass of Moscato teetering precariously, but I’m aware of how I get when I’ve had too much, so this will be my last drink.
“Okay,” Rae says mid-bite, “this one’s—wait. FyreGlove?” She shows me her screen, nearly dropping her phone into the ranch dressing. “Lala, look at this. It’s a baseball glove with actual flaming stitching.”
I squint. “That looks like something a twelve-year-old would doodle in the margins of his English notebook.”
“It sold out in four hours,” Rae says flatly. “Four. Hours.”
I shake my head, stabbing a fry as if it’s responsible for my diminishing self-respect. “We can’t even get decent Wi-Fi in this apartment, and this guy is making seven figures wearing a glove that looks like a Hot Wheels car.”
Rae bursts out laughing. “Catch. Fire. That’s the tagline. Catch fire, Lala.”
I grimace. “That sounds like a threat or the symptom of an STI.”
She scrolls again. “Okay, wait—ThirstRift.”
“Oh no.”
“Flavors include Adrenaline Mango and Electric Berry. Look at him guzzling it like it’s a life-saving potion. He’s got the little sweat shine and everything.”
I lean in closer. Damien is in slow motion, head tilted back, drinking from a neon blue bottle as if he’s been lost in the desert. I can almost picture a production assistant spritzing his neck between takes.
“Is it just me,” I say, “or does Electric Berry resemble windshield washer fluid?”
“It does. But I’d still drink it if he offered it to me shirtless.”
“Fair enough.”
Next up is Bolt that’s the vibe.”
“He looks like he’s sprinting straight into a Nike-fueled apocalypse.”
Then FlashFrame appears, and I have to pause to put down my wine.
“Okay, I can’t with these sunglasses. Who let him look like that?”
Rae whistles. “Cyberpunk baseball daddy.”
“Rae!”
“What? I didn’t design his face!”
By the time HotBite rolls around, I’ve finished my Moscato, and Rae is on her back, dramatically fanning herself with the takeout menu.
“Oh my God,” she wheezes. “The commercial has him biting into a burger in slo-mo. And the voiceover says, ‘Sometimes, hunger hits back.’”
I’m laughing so hard I’m in tears. “This guy turned eating a cheeseburger into a porno.”
“He’s not a baseball player,” Rae says. “He’s a brand. A walking billboard with abs.”
And yet, I still open another tab and start watching his SwiftNet ad. Because no matter how ridiculous the commercial is, and no matter how many absurd slogans he peddles with that jawline, I just can’t stop watching. And I do it smiling, because he looks into the camera like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Which, honestly, he probably does.
The man can act … which is a damn good thing .
Standing side by side as we brush our teeth and prepare for bed, mouth filled with paste, Rae mumbles, “We need to start a new envelope for saving up to go to a game.”
Oh shit , I think as it dawns on me that I was too busy freaking out about the tip and then Damien Donovan’s fine self to tell her about the unexpected meeting.
I prepare myself as best I can for the inevitable freak out before telling her, “Remember that label that reached out to me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The husband, wife, and two kids stopped at the restaurant today, and I’m going to sign with them.”
“What the hell, Lala? Lead with that next time instead of Sir Hits-A-Lot!” she exclaims before spitting out toothpaste and making a mess.
“I guess I could have, or maybe I should have mentioned that they booked me to sing the national Anthem in Jersey for the Jag’s first home game.”
“Shut. Up.”
“I’ve got a pass, and if we can swing extra bus fare, I’ll ask for a guest?—”
“Not me—Hellion needs to be there!” Hellion is what we call Harlan, who’s the total opposite.
“She has school three hours south, the opposite direction.”
“Well, at least give her the option, for God’s sake.”
“I can’t swing it this time, but?—”
“Money won’t always be so tight we’ll be lying to ourselves, callin’ ourselves resourceful for reusing coffee grinds.”
I wake up to the whump-whump-whump of dryers spinning below and the faint metallic clunk of quarters dropping into machines. The laundromat beneath our apartment opens early—like, offensively so—and every sound comes through the thin floorboards like a second, louder alarm clock, especially on the one day I can actually sleep in.
Rae’s already off, heading to her craft store shift. She took the job more for the discount and insurance than the pay. She’s probably trying to upsell googly eyes to a jittery soccer mom at this moment. Her bed is unmade, and her clothes are scattered everywhere. She’s never known a hanger, despite my giving up the tiny closet—it’s really there just to house the temperamental water heater—in hopes she’d use the rods I put up on the other side.
My feet hit the ground, and I take a sharp breath. Even with all the machines running downstairs, the space isn’t warm or cozy until the temperature hits the eighties. The owner refuses to heat it above fifty-five degrees, saying, “No need to make anyone comfortable in here. They’ll stay longer than their quarter allows.”
I look around and know that when I make it big, or at least big enough, I will rent a nice place or buy a three-bedroom house for me, Harlan, and Rae. It really doesn’t matter where as long as it doesn’t smell perpetually like fabric softener mixed with burnt lint, the odor that always sneaks in through the dryer’s exhaust vents. Rae calls it “the scent of desperation and discount rent.”
Sometimes, the outlet near the floorboard buzzes if you walk too close. Other times, the bathroom light flickers whenever the hairdryer and microwave run simultaneously. And just last week, a ceiling tile in the hallway buckled and stayed that way, as if the building is breathing wrong. When we called about that, the response was, “That’s what happens when you live above a business—things get a little warm, tiles fall.”
Warm? It’s never just warm; it’s either sweltering hot or freezing cold.
After wrapping a blanket around myself, I shuffle into the kitchen, a glorified corner with a stove that hisses when you look at it wrong, and the whiteboard catches my eye. It’s right above the microwave, covered in dry-erase marker scribbles and smudged fingerprints. Our sacred text. Our gig ledger. Our survival map.
In bold letters at the top is this month’s header:
brOKE STRINGS & BIG DREAMS
Tues @ Darlin’s - $75 + tips
Sat @ Rusty Nickle - $100 flat
Three Miles From Grace
Rae
Thursday@ Neon & Nine - $150 + tips
Friday@ The Hallow Note - $100 flat+ tip
Hank’s on 12th (no pay, no covers, $3 burger night)
More Exposure
Wed
Bluebird Café Open Mic (lottery slot, but BIG if you get in)
Thurs
The Row Writer’s Round (2-song limit, decent foot traffic)
Sun
The Velvet Taproom (free beer, moody lighting, weird poet guy always there)
Alt. Sat
The Creekside Market Patio (basically unpaid, but tourist TikTok gold)
Monthly Goal: $850 More or We Starve
I reach into the fridge for the Mason jar of creamer, and it jiggles slightly. Then a groaning sound emanates as if from within the wall. This place has a sturdy structure, but I just hope it holds up until Rae and I have moved on. Not that it’s going to collapse today.
Today, I will brew coffee using the quirky little pour-over we snagged at a yard sale. Today, I will warm up by singing in the shower with one eye on the curtain rod because it’s been drooping for a week and the perv in the next building over never leaves his house. Today, I will braid my hair like a shield and strategize on how to convincingly fake-date America’s most marketable baseball player.
Just another Sunday morning in paradise … if paradise reeked of artificial fragrances and burnt lint.
Once I’m sufficiently caffeinated, I take a shower. I manage most of it with lukewarm water before it sputters and icy water trickles from the faucet.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I hurriedly rinse the soap from my body and as much conditioner from my hair as I can bear. I’ll rinse the rest out in the sink to avoid catching a spring cold.
Still wrapped in my towel, I sift through Rae’s and my clothes and realize I have no choice but to forgo my day of dashing and head to the thrift stores, hoping to find something decent for the performance.
Everything I had that was suitable, I sold when I needed to.
No regrets.