Page 50 of Two Hit Wonder

Not that Maeve blamed her. She couldn't blame her. She'd been a disaster back then, drinking too much, fighting with everyone, burning bridges faster than she could build them. She'd destroyed The Stage Girls with her own two hands and expected everyone else to clean up the mess.

Iona had cleaned up her own mess instead. Got married. Had a kid. Built a life. Did all the things that normal people did when they weren't busy self-destructing.

Maeve had spent that time putting herself back together, piece by piece, and she still wasn't sure all the pieces were in the right place. But that was her own doing. Her own responsibility. She took responsibility for her own drinking. She didn't get to blame anyone else for the choices she'd made.

The point remained. Out of all the moments they had shared together, that kiss was next to nothing. Iona had built a life regardless and Maeve wasn’t going to blame her for that. Nor was she about to remind Iona of something she’d almost certainly forgotten.

"Maeve." Shepherd appeared at her elbow. "Can I have a word?"

She followed him out of the studio and into the corridor, which was quieter, but not by much. Someone in the next room was playing scales badly. The same five notes, over and over, with a pause between each repetition that suggested they were checking sheet music.

"What?" She folded her arms.

"Aria’s on board," he said. "She wants to produce the festival set. She thinks if we can capture that energy live, we've got something special."

"Great."

"Which means we need a setlist. And we need to record it for streaming. Lakeside has a deal with one of the platforms. Every main stage act gets their performance uploaded within twenty-four hours."

Maeve's stomach clenched. "Right."

"Got a problem with that?" Shepherd’s eyes were hard.

Maeve shook her head.

Shepherd studied her for a moment. He had that look on his face, the one she remembered from the old days. The one that said he was about to ask something she didn't want to answer. She'd seen it plenty of times before, usually right before he asked her if she was sober enough to perform. "I need to ask you something," he said. "And I need you to tell me the truth."

"Your wish is my command, oh great agent."

"Are you drinking? Or anything else?"

The question still made her gut turn to water. She took a breath, felt her jaw tighten, felt the old defensive anger rise up in her chest. Then put it away as something useless. "No."

Shepherd eyed her. "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm asking because I need to know."

"And I'm telling you. No. I haven't had a drink in fifteen years. I go to meetings. I call my sponsor. I do all the tedious little things that tedious sober people do to stay tedious and sober. I'm boringly, relentlessly clean."

Shepherd nodded slowly. "Okay."

"That's it? Okay?"

"No." He reached down and unlatched his briefcase. "I'm going to need you to sign something."

"Sign what?"

"An indemnity contract." He was flipping through folders, not quite meeting her eyes. "Basically, it says that if you relapse, and it affects the band's performance or reputation, the studio isn't liable for any losses."

Maeve stared at him. "You're serious."

"The studio insisted. It's standard practice for anyone with a history."

"A history. That's a polite way to put it."

"I'm a polite person." He was digging through the briefcase now, shuffling papers. "It's not personal, Maeve. It's just business. Everyone has to protect themselves."

"Fine." The word came out sharper than she intended. She couldn’t be angry about this. What he was asking was fair, was her due, was the price she paid for all her mistakes. "Give me the thing. I'll sign it. Sign whatever you want. Bring it on."

He pulled out a stack of papers, and as he did, something slipped free and fluttered to the ground. A letter, official-looking, with a school crest at the top.