Read The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5) Online
Authors: Bec Linder
The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5) (31 page)
She hadn’t even learned the guy’s name.
Her phone buzzed. She opened her eyes and glanced down at the screen. Luka, of course.
If I come home and you’re still there I will kick your ass.
That was an empty threat if Leah had ever heard one. Luka wasn’t going to do a thing to her. Whine a lot, maybe. He could be pretty irritating.
She would be a lot more willing to go if the audition weren’t in fucking
Burbank
. Traffic on the Five was always a nightmare.
Her phone buzzed again.
Scared?
The most irritating thing about Luka was that even though she
knew
when he was trying to manipulate her, it usually still worked.
She turned off her phone and tossed it on the coffee table, and turned up the volume on the television. She planned to still be sitting there, greasy, unbathed, and disgusting, when Luka got home. It served him right. It was none of his business what she did or didn’t do, as long as she paid her half of the rent, and she
did
, every month, on time.
That was the problem with family: they never quit meddling.
She looked at the clock. 1:07.
Heaving a sigh, Leah got up and headed for the shower.
* * *
She made it to the audition ten minutes early, which ended up being a terrible idea, because there was nothing to do but sit around in the lobby and stare at the competition. There had to be twenty people waiting in the cramped room, mostly men, clutching their instruments and giving each other the evil eye. They were all dressed to the nines in the latest hipster attire of choice. Leah looked down at her old band t-shirt and baggy Levi’s. Probably not cool enough. Whatever.
She found a seat in the corner of the room and waited. Ordinarily this was when she would be getting nervous, but since she didn’t
actually
want the job, she felt oddly calm. Everyone else in the room was clearly sweating bullets, but Leah was just there to check things out. Stay in the loop, or whatever. Gawk at these Saving Graces guys. She wondered if Making It Big left a visible sign on a person, like a tattoo or a scar. Marked by experience.
The door opened. A woman wearing thick-framed glasses emerged, carrying a clipboard. Probably a PA of some sort. “Okay, everyone, thanks for coming today,” she said. “We’ll get through this as quickly as possible. I’m sure you all have other things to do. Please write your name on this sheet of paper. We’ll go in alphabetical order.”
There was some irritated muttering. “But I’ve been here for two hours!” one man said.
The woman shrugged. “Not my problem. This is how we’re doing it.” She handed the clipboard to the closest person and went back into the other room.
“It’s not fair,” said the man who’d protested. He was tall and skinny, and was wearing even skinnier jeans.
Leah rolled her eyes. With a last name like Zakrewsky, she was going to be there longer than anyone else. That guy was just a whiner.
She really didn’t like whining.
She wrote her name on the sheet when the clipboard came around, and then she settled in to wait. She should have brought a book or something. At least she had her little MP3 player. Everyone else was busy poking at their smartphones, and for once Leah regretted being such a cheap bastard. Her phone could make calls and send text messages and that was about it. She hadn’t paid a dime for it, though.
The clipboard woman came in and out, calling people’s names and ushering them into the next room. Leah watched people’s face as they emerged after their auditions. Nobody was in there for more than five minutes. Nobody looked happy. A few guys looked like they wanted to cry. The only other woman who’d showed up actually
did
cry.
It didn’t bode well.
Finally, after more than an hour and a half, the clipboard woman came to the door and said, “Zakrewsky.”
Leah stood up. She was the last person in the waiting room. Her butt had long since gone numb from sitting on the hard chair. She picked up her bass and followed the woman into the room.
Amps and cables littered the large room, with an open space in the middle facing a long table where three men sat in various poses of boredom. Leah tried not to look too closely at any of them; seeing people’s faces just made her nervous when she performed. She walked into the middle of the room and crouched down to open up her case.
“This is Leah Zakrewsky,” the PA woman said. “Last one of the day.”
“Thank God,” one of the men said. Leah didn’t look up, busy plugging in to a nearby amp.
“Shut up, Andrew,” another one said. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Leah took her guitar out of the case and stood up, slinging the strap around her neck. “Okay,” she said.
She looked toward the table, at the men sitting there, waiting for her to play.
And there he was, sitting at one end, chin propped on his fist, wearing a hoodie zipped all the way up: the guy she’d hooked up with at the club the night before.
Their eyes met, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach, a sudden dive like going down a rollercoaster. It was totally him—there was no mistaking it. She’d felt that stubble scraping along her collarbone, and seen that full mouth breaking into a helpless grin.
God. Didn’t it just figure. Out of all the bars in all the cities, he’d walked into
hers
, her favorite dive bar on the night her favorite band was playing, and now here she was, turning bright red while the entire lineup of The Saving Graces sat there and stared at her.
Talk about stage fright.
Her first impulse was to throw her guitar back in the case and walk out. She didn’t owe them anything, and she’d already done more than Luka had asked. He’d just told her to show up; he hadn’t said anything about actually auditioning. And even if they wanted her—even if she played well enough that they asked her to go on tour with them—she’d learned a long time ago not to shit where she ate. No way was she mixing business with pleasure. The pleasure had already taken precedence, and it was too late for business at this point.
She wouldn’t ever be able to forget the way he looked at her right after she kissed him, her back pressed against the bar, her hands fisted in his t-shirt.
Her second impulse was to stay, and see if she could convince him to sleep with her again.
In the end, she didn’t get to decide. The guy sitting in the middle said, “We’re waiting,” and Leah’s reflexes took over. She started to play.
She started with the bassline for one of their own songs, their biggest hit, “Wild Open.” She’d listened to the entire album while she was waiting, and it was actually pretty good. She was a huge snob, of the “I liked them before they were popular” kind, and she never listened to the type of radio station that would play their music; but they weren’t bad. Catchy. Good melodies. The lyrics were the best part, though. They sounded like poetry.
Halfway through, she started improvising, directing the bassline away from the album version and adding her own flourishes. She glanced up to see the reactions she was getting. The guy in the middle was frowning, but another was nodding his head slightly, bobbing along with the beat. And her guy—
hers
, even if he didn’t know it, even though she didn’t know his name—was still staring at her, an expression on his face that she couldn’t read.
She came to the end of the song and stopped. The amp let out a squeal of feedback. She winced. Not really ending things on a high note, there.
The guy in the middle said, “Do some Motown.”
Leah shrugged and launched into “Bernadette,” and segued from that into “What’s Going On.” Standard audition fare. These guys didn’t know much about music. If they’d really wanted to trip her up, they should have asked for some Bhangra, like the last audition she’d been on. God, L.A. was chock full of hipster assholes.
She played the last note and stopped again. One of the guys, slumped in his chair with a knit cap hiding his hair, said, “Fretless bass.”
“Yeah,” Leah said. “It gives me more options.”
The one in the middle said, “Thanks. Someone will be in touch.”
Leah stood there, staring at them dumbly. They stared back. All of them, even the one she had—well, it obviously hadn’t been a big deal to him. He probably hooked up with a different girl every night of the week. Just because it had been—just because Leah had been stupid enough to think it was something
special
, that they’d had a
connection,
didn’t mean it was true. Didn’t mean he’d felt the same way.
She swallowed her humiliation. “Thanks for your time,” she said, and knelt to put away her bass, face burning.
Some small, idiotically hopeful part of her still thought that he would run after her, that as she walked out of the building she would hear him call out to her, and she’d turn and he’d be there, jogging through the parking lot, and he’d give her his number and say,
Call me, let’s have dinner
, and she would let her bangs fall in her face and look up at him, all mysterious, and tell him she’d think about it.
But of course that didn’t happen. She walked out to her car and got in and drove home, hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel.
Things like that didn’t happen in real life.
She probably wouldn’t get the job, either.
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Other Books by Bec Linder
The Silver Cross Club
Acknowledgments
This book owes a great debt to Rachel Aviv’s thoughtful essay “Netherland,” about homeless LGBT teenagers in New York.
I am grateful to Mr. Linder for his patience and careful eye, and to the city of San Francisco, for being lovely despite raining on me for a week.
And I am grateful, as always, to my readers, for their encouragement and interest.
Copyright
©
2015 Bec Linder, all rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. References to real places and entities are used for verisimilitude and are intended as fictitious representations.
Cover design
©
Bec Linder. Cover photograph Dreamstime.com
