Chapter One — The Wrong Room for a Superstar (continued)

By 8:10, Ninth Street Record Annex had divided into three factions: people insisting Gravity Thief was VESPER's most shameless song, people insisting it was his most honest, and a father trying to persuade his masked eight-year-old that they were not staying for a third listen.

Luna had opinions about all three.

“The crown is a metaphor,” she told a man near the refreshments. “He's not filing for ownership of the moon.”

“Not yet,” Junia said, collecting empty cups. “Give him a week.”

“That's why we love him.”

“That's why I worry about you.”

The man wandered off, apparently unconvinced, while Luna started folding the chairs at the back. Her phone buzzed again. Someone had turned her latest Orbit post into an image with flaming lettering. She locked the screen before Junia could see.

Junia looked at her anyway. “You said the face thing, didn't you?”

“I have said many things about his face.”

“Luna.”

“In my defense, he's the one who keeps it hidden. The public is being asked to do an unreasonable amount of imaginative labor.”

“Put that in your autobiography. The one they seize in court.”

A hand caught the far end of the chair Luna was trying to carry.

“Are these supposed to go somewhere?” asked the stranger in the charcoal jacket.

Luna looked from him to the chair. “You do realize that volunteering is how they get you, right?”

“I'm prepared to take the risk.”

“Along that wall, then. If you get trapped here overnight, don't blame me.”

He lifted two chairs at once and followed her. Up close he was distractingly handsome in an unshowy way, which Luna thought was a deeply unfair use of ordinary clothes. His hair looked as if he'd argued with the wind on the way in and lost by choice.

“You seem disappointed,” he said.

“I'm deciding whether you're actually helpful or just tall.”

“Can I be both?”

“Ambitious. There's a waiting list.”

He set the chairs precisely against the wall. “How'd you know the sound problem was that adapter?”

“Because it was half out of the socket. Even I can diagnose a thing when it's visibly surrendering.”

“Most people would have kept hitting the speaker.”

“Most people did.” She nodded toward the little platform. “What did you think of the song?”

He considered the question with more care than she expected. “I think he enjoys making a big claim and then finding a way to earn it.”

“You make that sound like a character flaw.”

“It could be.”

“Not if you can back it up.”

“And if you can't?”

“Then Rhea Solis gets to laugh at you on the internet.”

His mouth twitched. “I saw that.”

“You and half the planet. I'm hoping the fog machine survives negotiations.”

“Personally, I think it should be allowed to choose where it works.”

Luna laughed before she could prevent herself. “That's a strangely strong position on equipment rights.”

“I believe in professional freedom.”

There was something about the ease of his answer that invited another question. Not an interrogation about VESPER, not the usual fan argument. Something about him.

“So what do you do,” she asked, “when you're not liberating chairs from underpaid volunteers?”

“Music, mostly.”

“That's suspiciously broad.”

“I travel a lot. Work with people who are very good at their jobs. Try not to get in their way.”

“Are you any good?”

“Occasionally.” His grin widened. “I have excellent references.”

“From yourself?”

“The most reliable source.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I work with people who think fixing one crooked shelf qualifies them to redesign an entire library. I can recognize a confident man.”

“Library?”

“Makerspace, exhibits, community workshops. The job involves persuading people that their terrible first attempt is worth keeping long enough to make a second.”

He stopped smiling quite so broadly. “That sounds important.”

“Sometimes it's just glue on the floor.”

“Still.” He glanced at the hand-painted crown, now hanging crookedly from one strip of tape. “I like the second-attempt idea.”

For a moment neither reached for another joke. Luna found herself wondering what sort of music work had taught him to pay attention when someone described a room full of glue and stubborn strangers.

Junia approached carrying the last crate of cups. “Luna, if you're finished recruiting civilians, Tessa needs the back table.”

“I'm not recruiting him.”

“I volunteered,” he said.

“Dangerous precedent,” Junia replied. She looked him over once, with the brisk neutrality she used on machinery that might be useful. “You got a name?”

“Asher.”

“Junia. That's Luna. Return her by closing time if she wanders off explaining bridge structure.”

“I'm right here,” Luna said.

“I know. I'm trying a new thing called preventative maintenance.”

Junia disappeared into the stockroom, humming off-key.

“Asher,” Luna repeated. It suited him. She resented that a little. “Were you going to introduce yourself before or after I signed your volunteer contract?”

“After. Better negotiating position.”

Tessa called for Junia again. The last guests were drifting out, and somebody outside had begun arguing about the new record through the open doorway.

Asher glanced toward the street, then back at Luna. For the first time that evening, his confidence seemed to have to make room for a real decision.

“There's an arcade across town,” he said. “Old machines, terrible prizes. I was thinking of going tomorrow evening.”

“That's an extremely elaborate way to tell me you need a second adult to beat the claw machine.”

“I've heard you can diagnose obvious mechanical surrender.”

“I charge for consultations.”

“Dinner?”

The single word landed differently from all the jokes before it.

Luna looked at him. He didn't rush to dress it up as an accident or claim she'd misunderstood.

“Dinner,” she said, “and no pretending you're good at claw machines if you aren't.”

“Cruel terms.”

“Nonnegotiable.”

They exchanged numbers over the counter while Junia pretended not to watch from behind a stack of boxes. Asher typed his name into Luna's phone without adding an occupation, a last name, or a clever little emoji. She found the restraint almost alarming.

When he left, he looked back once through the glass. Luna lifted her lemon soda in a tiny salute. He answered with the empty-handed approximation of a toast.

Junia appeared beside her immediately.

“You are smiling at the door,” she said.

“It's a very good door.”

“Does it have a phone number?”

“Shut up.”

“Did you at least learn what he does?”

“Music.”

Junia stared. “Well. That narrows it down to approximately every person in this building.”

Outside, Asher's waiting car eased into traffic. Only when the shop had disappeared behind him did he pull his phone from his pocket and call Nico.

“How was your field trip?” Nico answered. “Did the civilians throw things?”

“Only arguments. Someone nearly murdered a speaker.”

“Was the sound bad?”

“Loose adapter. A woman spotted it while everyone else blamed the equipment.”

“Useful woman.”

“Very.”

Nico let the silence breathe for exactly one beat. “You went there to find out what people thought of Gravity Thief. You're telling me about an adapter.”

“And a library.”

“Oh, you're in trouble.”

Asher laughed and ended the call with an entirely unconvincing denial.

He had spent months working on a song about commanding the attention of a room. In the car, with a world release still exploding across his notifications, he couldn't stop thinking about the one person who had made him forget to check whether anyone was looking at him.

He opened a fresh voice memo. Not for a polished lyric, not even for a title. Just a quick, bright little melodic idea that had been needling him since Luna laughed at the fog machine joke.

He recorded it once, listened, and recorded it again with the rhythm changed. This time it stayed.

Asher looked at the blank title field, then left it blank. Whatever it was becoming, it had started tonight.