“We want to write with you,” Bryan said. “Tell me where you are and we’ll be there today.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Look, you know you’re going to give in. Why go through all the trouble of pretending you’re not?”
Bryan had not been dropped on his head. He was the front man and the brains of the operation. Collins played lead guitar and, like Zealand, rarely spoke. But he wrote music like an angel.
“Los Lobos.”
“Is he speaking Spanish?” Peter asked. “Hasta la vista, baby.” The other man laughed. “That’s from a movie. I can’t remember which one.”
Wayne pressed his forehead to the table. Quinn hoped he wasn’t going to start hitting his head. He needed Wayne to stay conscious.
“I’m in Los Lobos,” Quinn clarified. “You can drive here. There’s a hotel. If you get rooms here, act nice. This is my town, and my grandmother owns the hotel. I will let Wayne shoot the three of you if you don’t behave. Understand?”
“Yeah, man.” Collins sounded more amused than worried. “That would make Wayne happy, but our fans would eat you alive.”
“There are worse ways to go.”
“We’ll be there. I’ve got some good ideas I want to talk to you about.”
That piqued Quinn’s interest. “How many songs are we talking about?”
“Eight, maybe ten.”
For most artists, that meant at most two of three would be viable. But with Collins, each one could be a hit.
“I look forward to hearing what you have.”
“Good. Thanks, Quinn.”
“Yeah, thanks, Quinn,” the other two yelled before hanging up.
“I have to go back to LA,” Wayne announced. “Right now.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I want a raise.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t know how much I want.”
“I don’t care how much. You can have it.”
His assistant glared at him. “I hate it when you give in to me.”
“I know. That’s part of why I do it.”
Before Wayne could say anything else, the phone rang again.
Quinn picked it up. “Go away.”
“W-what?” The female voice was soft and trembling.
“Joyce?” Quinn dropped his feet to the floor. “What’s wrong?” His grandmother had gone out with one of her friends for lunch.
“It’s so s-silly,” she said. “I slipped in the restaurant. I’m in the emergency room. I’m sure I’m fine, but could you come be with me?”
“Give me fifteen minutes. I’m on my way.”
“You won’t believe it,” Belinda continued. “He told Ellie that she could get a tattoo!”
Rachel carefully applied the color to the strand of Belinda’s hair, then expertly folded the foil into a neat packet. “But she’s only fifteen.”
“I know. I should kill him. Seriously, just back the car over him. Maybe twice. Now I have to be the one to tell her no. So he’s the cool dad and I’m the terrible mother. How is that fair?”
Belinda continued to rant. Rachel couldn’t blame her for being upset. How on earth did something like that happen? What had her husband been thinking? Thank goodness Greg never did anything like that to her. Even at his worst—when he’d been more interested in hanging with his friends than being a husband and father—he’d never deliberately undermined her. And lately, well, she wasn’t sure what was happening lately.
He was around so much more than he ever had been. He was cooperative, nice and understanding. It was as if he’d made the decision to grow up. If only that had happened while they’d been married.
Sometimes she wondered why he was trying so hard. Did he want them to get back together? Did she? She missed him, of course. Missed them. But to let him back in her life. Could she trust him? He’d cheated. There was no forgiving that. That was what she’d always thought. But maybe, just maybe, she’d been wrong.
She rotated the chair to finish up a few more foils on the side of Belinda’s head.
“Give this twenty minutes and we’ll get you shampooed,” she said when she was done. “Do you need any more magazines? Or something to drink?”
Belinda picked up the latest copy of Vogue. “I’m good. Coming here is a break from four kids. Twenty minutes to just sit and read is heaven.”
Rachel smiled at her and cleared away her bowls and brush. She went into the back room and cleaned up, then drank some water. She was about to go check on her client when Martina, the receptionist, hurried toward her.