Hot and Bothered(13)

                Earlier that day Haven had sent him a color-coded spreadsheet that laid out his fate at a series of fund-raisers, openings, soirees and cocktail parties. Nothing in her schedule—not even the two-hour appointment at the high-end barber or the afternoon of shopping at the department store—had struck as much fear in his heart as the text Jimmy had sent him a couple of hours ago, telling Mark to meet him and Pete Sovereign at Mo’s.

                Mark had called Haven for help and together they’d worded an apology. She was sorry she couldn’t accompany him to Mo’s but she had to attend an event. She told him she had faith in him; he should just deliver the apology and get out, fast.

                While he’d needed the help in getting the words right, he was grateful she wasn’t with him. It would have felt too much like having a babysitter. Better to face up to Pete and do his best.

                And so he was here. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, trudging toward what felt like his doom. Love you, Dad. Doing this for you.

                He lifted his gaze and found Jimmy in the crowd, beanpole tall and narrow faced. His former manager waved him toward the wide bar that formed a U on one side of the restaurant. Pete was leaning on the bar, his blond bangs hanging in his eyes, as insufferably cocky-looking as he’d been the last time Mark had seen him. Mark was a poor judge of male beauty, but he’d never gotten Pete’s appeal to women. He looked—to Mark—like an overgrown kid. Countless promoters and image consultants had championed Pete’s boyishness back in the day, claiming he was popular precisely because teenaged girls didn’t really want men. They weren’t ready for them yet. Body and facial hair still secretly scared them. They wanted the illusion of innocence. Hence the appeal of the barely-past-boyhood pop group.

                Mark crossed to the bar and Jimmy clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were friends. “Hey.”

                “Hey.”

                Years ago, Mark had believed that Jimmy liked him. Jimmy was a straight shooter, and Mark had been, too. In an industry that was full of hot air, that was a rare commodity. This last week, though, had made it clear how little Jimmy thought of the man Mark had become—and how unnecessary he considered him to the tour.

                It would be humbling, if there were anything in him left to be humbled.

                Behind Jimmy, Pete shifted but didn’t step forward to greet him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Mark. And as much as Mark hated him, he couldn’t blame him.

                Moment of truth. He had to lower himself enough to apologize to the piece of dung leaning on the shiny teak bar. Otherwise, all the image rehabbing in the world wasn’t going to make this tour happen.

                Pete’s arrogant half smile made Mark think of Lyn. Her beauty, her passion and her promises, the romantic ones and the professional ones. Pete had taken away not just those promises, but something deeper, something Mark had never been able to get back.

                The noise in Mad Mo’s formed a cushion around Mark, making everything feel faintly unreal. It still seemed possible to turn and leave, without consequences. His father and the medical bills were far away.

                Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. Pete’s smile grew bigger and more smug, the smile of a man who knew his opponent was between a rock and a hard place. Mark wondered how much of this Pete had orchestrated. Did he even give a shit whether or not Mark apologized? Did he just want to see Mark squirm? Had sending Mark to Haven been Pete’s idea? He could imagine Pete howling with laughter at the notion of Mark undergoing an image rehab.

                Jimmy gestured loosely toward Pete. “So, um—”

                Mark’s mouth refused to open. It was wrong, just dead wrong, that he should be the one apologizing.