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“Uh,” Remy said, blinking. He was instantly ashamed of his hesitation. Wasn’t this the justification for taking the tour? That it was a great resume builder for producing? This was Vivi Swan herself. If she liked what he played, it wouldn’t be her name on his résumé, it’d be herendorsement.
But there was still something scattering about how she’d asked him to play something—how she’d said it in a way that made it clearnowasn’t really an appropriate answer. Gathering himself as best he could, Remy rose, walked to the sound system, and plugged his phone in. He chose one of Quiet Coyote’s songs—sort of. It was one of the last songs that Val wrote, just before the creative blocks wedged themselves into place. It was the second song, the one they’d been working on when the label dropped them. As such, it’d never been released and wasn’t a part of their SALT set—it was just too depressing for Val to play.
“That’s a hell of a hook,” Vivi said, nodding along as the song played over the bus’s impressive speakers. The hook had been all Remy’s doing—an addition in the studio, synthesized brass instruments and the sound of hands clapping. The hook was what people remembered, was what kept people coming back and singing along and creating remixes and performing covers. The hook was what made their hit single a hit—which was perhaps why Val hated hooks now. He wanted his music to be a secret, special thing, rather than something the general population could pump their fists to.
Remy returned to the galley table and busied himself spinning his empty soda can around in his hands while he waited for the song to end. Vivi listened intently, appearing to pick out all the layers, to listen to the parts rather than the whole. When it was done, she grinned at him, and something in his core felt unlocked. Warmed.
“That was great.”
“Thanks,” he said, voice rockier than he’d anticipated—her smile was so different up close, in only the best way. He hurried to the sound system and unplugged his phone. In the silence that followed, Vivi looked out the window again. “Are the paparazzi still there?” Remy asked.
“Yep,” Vivi said. “They’ll give up eventually, though. It’s just that there’s no one else to follow around here. When I was just starting out, my friend Tuesday and I used to have a system—if one of us was being chased, the other would call in and say we were going to dinner or shopping or sometimes something dramatic, so they’d turn around and come to us instead. It was usually Tuesday being chased, since she was more famous back then, but I thought it was so much fun. Times have changed.”
She had to be talking about Tuesday Rivers—how many girls named Tuesday could there be in the world? She was one of those tragedy cases, a child star eager to prove to the world that she was a grown-up now; she seemed an odd choice for Vivi to callfriend. Remy was about to say something—he wasn’t entirely sure what, he just knew he needed to keep the conversation going—when Vivi’s phone rang.
“Hey, Walter,” she said when she answered. “No, it’s fine. I’m on the band bus with Remy.” His name sounded different when she said it; there was no weight in it, like there was when Val said it, and it wasn’t the professional, nearly branded version of his name that he heard when colleagues at the studio said it. She said it the way someone like Celeste said it—someone who knew him, but not someone who attached a fat, loaded history to his name.
Of course, Vivi didn’t know him, Remy reminded himself. Not really—not beyond this conversation and whatever she’d read in the stalker file her people had assembled. Yet still, he liked the way the word sounded in her voice and was pleased when she said it again.
“Remy and I are just talking. No, it’s fine—let’s try to outdrive the paps. They’re not going to chase us forever, not if they think we’re going to drive through the night. Hey, tell David I’m going to eat all his Nutter Butters.”
There was a laugh on the other end of the line, loud enough that Vivi flinched and pulled the phone away. She went on, “Can Steve and Big John meet me when we change over though, just in case? Oh, no, tell them it’s not their fault! I’m not mad. It’s fine, really. Okay. Bye.”
She hung up and tossed the phone beside her on the couch. “You can go to sleep.”
Remy’s lips parted at the simplicity of the command, delivered with the same confidence as her command he play her something had been. When was the last time he’d been ordered to bed? When he was eight? Nine, maybe? He felt his face twisting, pride battling with professionalism—
“I mean, don’t feel like you’ve got to stay up and entertain me or something,” Vivi said, shrugging.
Oh.She’d meantcanas inyou’re free to go to sleeprather than an order. In retrospect, Remy couldn’t quite tell—had he interpreted it as an order because of how she’d said it or because there was a lingering expectation of that sort of behavior from her?
It’d been too long since he’d spoken, so he let words tumble from his mouth, hoping at least some were the right ones. “I don’t need to go to sleep yet. I’m fine.”
“I’m fine too,” Vivi answered and smiled a little. She smoothed her shirt, and Remy noticed she was still wearing her high heels. He considered telling her she could take them off, if she wanted, but it sounded weird even in his mind, so he refrained.
“Well,” Vivi said. “Play another song?”
It wasn’t a command—and now that Remy was thinking on it, he realized it hadn’t been a command the first time either, not really. He took a breath and looked at his laptop. There were a handful of unfinished songs there, sure, but it seemed a little much to play a second or third or fourth. He hated those musicians who sat back and played their half-baked tracks or poetry-slam read you their lyrics, waiting for you to recognize their genius. He hated the prospect of accidentally being one even more. He looked back at Vivi. “I have some stuff from our last album?”
“But I’ve already heard that,” she said. “It’s less fun when they’ve all been polished up and sleek.”
“That’s when they’re best! When they’redone,” Remy argued.
She shook her head. “No way. I like it when they’re still little baby songs and are ugly and weird.”
“I don’t have baby songs. I produce, I don’t write. When I’ve worked on a song, it’sdone.”
“Seriously? Youneverwrite?”
“Nope, that’s my brother. He carves, I polish.”Or he used to, anyway.
Vivi looked skeptical. “Notoneugly baby song? Seriously? That’s basically ninety percent of what I have.”
“Well then, play me one of these beloved ugly and weird baby songs of yours,” Remy said, lifting his eyebrows.
Vivi’s lips parted into a perfect O, like she couldn’t believe his audacity—and honestly, Remy couldn’t believe his own audacity. He’d just forgotten for a moment that this wasn’t another musician—this was Vivi Swan. She probably didn’t even do nearly as much songwriting as she got credit for, despite her ability to play guitar. He was just about to backtrack when she closed her lips and gave him a smug look.
Vivi rose then slid down across from Remy at the galley table. “Alright. I’ll bite.”
