Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols Page A

a prick to you?”
    “You could say that.” I decided not to inform Sam about my night of intense anxiety or the fact that in my mind, Elvis had caused me to become a homeless prostitute. “Anyway, maybe there’ssomething about standing between Baskin-Robbins and McDonald’s that drives us all batty and makes us turn on each other. In high school I knew groups like this were playing around town. I might have passed Loretta Lynn once or twice on my way to shop for shoes, but I never pictured myself actually having this job. And I sure never knew the concert in the food court turns into a reality show. They should advertise it. People would come to the mall just for that.”
    “We musicians are impossible,” he said in a dead-on imitation of Ms. Lottie.
    I almost laughed. Almost. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a short noise. I did want him to know how funny I thought he was, so I said dryly, “You sound just like her.”
    “Ms. Lottie is full of wisdom,” he said. “She used to do makeup and costumes for the Grand Ole Opry, and once upon a time she was married to a record company executive.”
    “I guess she doesn’t have the sway to get anybody a contract, either,” I said. “Everybody in this town knows somebody who was Somebody with a capital S at some point.” When he didn’t say anything, I finished with a zinger that reflected what I’d suspected when he mentioned my granddad. “If she had any clout, you would have used her by now.”
    He lifted his chin and turned his head, as if he couldn’t see me clearly, and looking at me with the other eye might help. “Why does that bother you?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you do anything to get a recording contract?”
    “No,” I said too loudly. My voice echoed against the flat, blank concrete walls of the mall. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t use somebody.”
    His dark eyes widened in surprise—which surprised me in turn. Though I’d walked around the mall with him for hours, I hadn’thad the chance to watch him much. He’d stood on the other side of his father most of the time. Only now was I noticing how expressive his eyes were, and how tall he was, and how young he seemed all of a sudden, like he hadn’t been tall for long and he wasn’t yet used to his own height.
    But what he said next surprised me more than anything else he’d said or done. “I am so disappointed you feel that way, because I wanted to use you.”
    He uttered this with such confidence that I thought his innuendo was intentional. And despite the fact that I did not— did not —want to be used, chill bumps popped up on my arms in the hot sun.
    His eyes grew even wider. “That’s not whatI meant.” He closed his eyes and cringed. “God, what else can I say to embarrass the fuck out of myself?”
    He’d teased me that afternoon, but this time I could tell his discomfort was sincere. And it was adorable. I wanted to hug him and help him out of it.
    I couldn’t, though. I stood paralyzed in front of him, letting him flail as if I enjoyed watching it.
    With a final tortured look at me, he burst out, “When I first met you, I wasn’t sure how old you were. It’s hard to tell whether somebody is thirteen or thirty without seeing what they’re wearing.”
    Perplexed, I asked, “How old am I?”
    “Eighteen, like me. Please, God, say you’re eighteen like me.”
    He sounded so desperate that I repeated automatically, “I’m eighteen like you.”
    “And I’m so glad,” he rushed on, “because I didn’t figure a thirty-year-old woman would be interested in my band.” He looked around the empty loading dock and over both shoulders at the parking lot like somebody might be crouching behind the cars, listening in. “I couldn’t say anything when my dad was around. I mean . . .” He rolled his eyes at his own words, just as he’d done several times that day. I got the impression that his mouth moved faster than his brain. He seemed to blurt out a lot