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I feel stupid for even looking. No one’s calling my name. No one cares about me.
“Phoebe Ryan!”
My head snaps up, and I recognize Nate pushing his way through the crowd. He has a young girl in tow, her apathetic face set in a permanent scowl.
I greet him with a warm smile. “Didn’t you get my text? The band’s bus got stuck in some midtown traffic jam. They postponed the press conference until the after-party.”
Flashing me a grin, he gestures around the room. “And miss rubbing elbows with people like”—his forehead wrinkles as he scans the crowd—“these people?”
I fold my arms across my chest, fighting a smile. “You have no idea who these people are any more than I do.”
“I like Lords of Lyre…sort of.” He nods to the girl by his side. “Mallory is the die-hard fan.”
Mallory seems disinterested in life in general, and less appreciative of Nate bringing her to an album release party. She stares me down as I nervously fluff my hair.
“I only know what I’ve read and what Gage tells me,” I admit.
“You’re the entertainment reporter, Pheebs,” he jokes. “Aren’t you supposed to know what these guys eat for breakfast?”
I roll my eyes. “I had another article thrown at me the last couple of days, and I barely made the deadline right before this party. I went into a slight panic mode until Gage peeled me off the ceiling.” I motion to where my roommate leads a female record executive in a perfect ballroom waltz. “He’s a walking Lords of Lyre Wikipedia page. Who needs the internet when I’ve got him?”
Nate laughs while fiddling with his Nikon D3 camera. His eyes drop, then quickly avert when they land on my miniskirt. There’s an awkward silence, so I lift my drink to keep my mouth busy.
Yawning, Mallory pins me with a bored look. “Are you fucking my cousin?”
Rum and Coke shoots out my nose.
“Mallory!” Nate looks horrified. “What the hell? Are you insane?”
She rests her hands on her hips, her black fingernail polish gleaming under the spotlights. “Oh, don’t act offended. You’ve been stalking her since we got here.”
Nate stares into his beer as if he wants to crawl inside it. I don’t blame him. I want to deck her for him. I have no clue what to do, so I change the subject, hoping she’ll shut her face.
“Did you hear about Castellano’s vote of confidence?”
He lifts his head, his cheeks still stained crimson. “He’s a jerk, Pheebs. Nobody believes that.”
“Regardless, Castellano doesn’t think I’ve got what it takes.” I stare into my glass. “He’s expecting me to blow it.”
Nate lightly touches my shoulder. “I believe in you, Phoebe. You’ve got this.”
There’s heat in his touch, and I know a smug smirk sits on Mallory’s face without even looking at her.
Awkward.
Just as I start to fidget, I hear Gage’s boisterous laugh. Relieved to have a distraction, I turn to find him spinning a lead prime-time actress on the dance floor, then dipping her low in a dramatic show-stopping pose.
I take a step forward. “I’d better go rescue my date before half of New York proposes to him.”
* * *
“What did I tell you, baby doll? Best seats in the house.”
“Sure, for people taller than a third grader.” Frustrated, I slump back into the high-back chair.
The best seats are at our two-top table inside the invitation-only club. However, the people with shitty seats have abandoned them in favor of standing next to the stage.
I can’t see above anyone’s head.
