Page 8 of One More Made Up Love Song (Midnight Rush #2)

If the industry has taught me anything, it’s that it will chew you up and spit you out no matter how sweet and charming you are.

Behind me, a door creaks, and Freddie appears in the hallway, his jaw tight. “Hey,” he says as he approaches. “You okay?”

I slip my phone into my pocket. “Yep. Just talking to my mom. How was your conversation with Sloane?”

He frowns. “Super,” he says dryly, and I press my lips together.

“She was tough on you?”

“Only as tough as I need to be,” Sloane says, as she steps out of the control room.

I look at Freddie, eyes wide. “How did she hear me?” I ask under my breath.

Sloane stops and drops a hand onto each of our shoulders.

“I hear everything, children.” She looks at Freddie.

“I believe in you, all right? I respect the creative process, but I also respect your contract—a contract I really don’t want to renegotiate.

You know I will. I work for you, not them.

But trust me when I tell you they’ll ask for more than you want to give.

Your life will be easier if you can record something and meet this deadline. ”

Freddie nods. “I know. I hear you.”

Sloane nods, her expression softening. “Good. Now take care of yourself. And put on a good show tonight.”

Freddie’s eyebrows lift. “Why? Are you coming?”

Sloane purses her lips, like she hates playing into Freddie’s charm. “I’m bringing my niece,” she finally says.

“You have a niece?” Freddie asks, and Sloane nods.

“My brother lives in Chicago. His daughter is fifteen, and it’s her birthday.” She sighs like it pains her to admit this out loud. “She’s a fan. I’m currently staying in her bedroom, which means I get to wake up to a hundred different renditions of your face.”

I fight a grin. It’s not unusual for agents to be at the concerts of the musical artists they represent, but somehow, this feels different. Like we’re catching a glimpse of Sloane’s softer side.

Her eyes dart to me. “If you laugh, I promise you will live to regret it.”

“Not laughing,” I say, eyes wide, though the idea of Freddie’s very professional agent sleeping under a Freddie Ridgefield duvet is almost more than I can handle.

“Bring her backstage,” Freddie says. “I’d love to meet her.”

After Sloane says goodbye, Freddie and I follow Wayne outside to the SUV waiting to drive us to a hotel near the stadium where tonight’s concert will happen.

There’s a crowd of fans gathered on the sidewalk, and they erupt into cheers and screams as soon as we emerge.

I walk directly to the car and wait. Wayne shadows Freddie as he greets a few of the fans and signs a few autographs.

It used to surprise me how frequently fans show up, sometimes in the most random places, but I’ve since learned about the very active online network of Freddie fans, fans who are constantly discussing and posting updates about Freddie’s whereabouts.

The radio station was more of a given, since the interview was live.

Of course people would assume he’d be leaving the building eventually.

But it happens everywhere. More in bigger cities.

The last time we were in Charleston, Freddie wanted to try this hole-in-the-wall seafood place he’d read about online.

Not a soul outside of his team knew we were making a stop, but by the time we finished ordering and picking up our food, a crowd of at least thirty people had gathered outside.

I have no idea how they mobilized so quickly, but I’ve stopped being surprised by it.

His fans are nothing short of completely devoted.

“How’s your mom?” Freddie asks once we’re both safe inside the car, Wayne in the front seat next to the driver.

“Good,” I say. “But Carina has disappeared again.”

“That feels very on-brand,” Freddie says. “Any clue where she is?”

“Not one,” I say. “Mom said it felt different this time. Like there was something off about her before she left.” As much as I reassured Mom, I can’t keep myself from clicking over to my text messages to make sure I haven’t missed Carina’s reply.

Freddie frowns. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “She’s twenty-one. That’s old enough to go where she wants, right? ”

“I mean, probably someone should know where she is,” Freddie says. “She isn’t answering her phone?”

“Mom says her messages are going through, but Carina hasn’t responded yet.” I shake away the worry gnawing at my gut. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. She always does.”

Freddie nods. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Like what?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know. Hire a PI? Whatever you want.”

“I don’t need to hire a PI,” I say. “It’s just Carina. That feels a little like overkill.”

He shakes his head dismissively. “She’s your sister. You take care of me, so I take care of you. That means I take care of her too.”

We pull into a private garage at the back of the hotel, stopping outside of an elevator that will take Freddie directly to his suite, bypassing all the public areas of the hotel.

Freddie reaches over and squeezes my knee. He leans close enough for me to catch his scent, and for a split second, I’m back in my bunk on the bus, hand pressed against his bare chest. “Just know I’m good for whatever you need,” he says. “I have to go nap. See you before the show?”

I nod. “Yeah. See you in a bit.”

The elevator doors open, and Jason, another member of Freddie’s security team, appears. He holds the door open while Freddie leaves the car and crosses the short distance to the elevator.

“Are you ready to head to the stadium?” Wayne asks, looking over his shoulder. Before tonight, he’ll meet with the facility’s security team and make sure everything is in place to keep Freddie safe.

There’s a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes, probably because I had just as little sleep last night as Freddie, but I should head to the stadium too.

The crew will be finished with assembly by now, and I like to personally walk through Freddie’s checklist, just to make sure everything is in place before he takes the stage.

Not to mention the million other things I usually check on before he arrives.

He’ll need wardrobe updates before he goes on, and the catering team will definitely have questions I’ll be able to answer better than Seth.

“Yeah, I’m good to go now,” I say to Wayne, and he nods to the driver, who shifts into drive and circles out of the garage.

I lean my head against the seatback and close my eyes. If not for the worries running circles in my brain, I could almost sleep just like this, sitting up in the back of an SUV. I’m tired enough, that’s for sure.

But I can’t stop thinking about Carina.

And Freddie. And the album he isn’t ready to record.

And the job I didn’t apply for and the very complicated reasons why.

But it’s fine, I think, as I stifle a yawn. Everything is fine.

Maybe I’ll sleep when I’m thirty.