More Than Anything by R.E. Blake Page A

you’ve already got a name.”
    “Which I didn’t get by slacking.”
    “Is that what you view not working as doing?”
    He gives me an annoyed stare, and the light changes. “What are you, my shrink?”
    I try to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “Do you have one?”
    “Why, you angling for the job?”
    “Not really. What does your girlfriend think about you being married to the studio?”
    He laughs. It’s not a funny laugh. “I’m kind of between exes right now.”
    I’m sorry it’s gone down this road so fast, and try to figure out how to reel it back in. “Well, that’s never easy, is it?”
    “June told me all about the reports on you and what’s his name – the other singer? That must have sucked. But frankly, it’s better for your career that you went the distance solo.”
    “That had nothing to do with why we split up. He hurt his hand. Playing together was a big part of the act. He’s a great singer on his own…”
    “I know. I saw his stuff. He is. But you’re something really unique, really special.”
    He doesn’t have to say that Derek isn’t. I know he’s thinking it. I want to defend Derek, but arguing with one of the biggest producers in the world about music probably isn’t a good idea for a teenage chick from the park. So I keep my big fat mouth shut, for once, even as I blush from the compliment, but I still feel a twinge of disloyalty. Then again, if he were here, he’d recommend that I do exactly what I’m doing, which is not pissing off the guy who has my career in his hands.
    We arrive at the ice cream shop, which is a retro fifties place, and each order double scoops of black death chocolate – a new flavor, apparently, that’s even more chocolaty than double chocolate. I get mine in a cone, and when I take my first lick, it’s like all my tastebuds go ballistic, it’s so rich. Like putting a stick of butter in my mouth. Chocolate-flavored butter.
    “Oh, my God. This is insane,” I manage as he pays.
    “I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I have to only allow myself some after one of these shows, or I’d have to get my stomach pumped.”
    “I’ve never had anything like it.”
    We move to one of the cheesy plastic tables and take seats. “You know what’s even better?”
    What could possibly be better than this? Besides Derek being here, I mean. “What?”
    “When you’re famous and on tour, when you get to Buenos Aires, Argentina, you have to try the Super Dulce de Leche – super caramel. It makes this taste like water. I’ve never had it anywhere else that was even close.”
    “That’s kind of the other side of the world, isn’t it?”
    “It’s all the same when you’re on tour. Just another plane ride. This one longer. They’ll usually take you through Buenos Aires, then to Chile, then up to Peru, then Colombia, maybe Panama, and you’ll finish up in Mexico, depending on the tour.”
    That all seems impossible. He’s talking about these exotic places like they’re nothing – like he’s done it all a million times.
    “You go there often?”
    “I wish. Hardly ever, actually. But one of my acts insisted I spend a week on his South American tour, and it coincided with a break in my schedule, so I went for it. I’m glad I did.”
    “You really must like that ice cream.”
    “It’s my best memory from the tour.”
    We slurp away, and then an idea strikes me. Melody would kill me if I didn’t ask.
    “Hey, let’s get a picture. You and me, eating ice cream. My girlfriend will freak. She’s pretty impressed by you.” I pull my phone out and lean closer to him, noting that he smells really good.
    “Sure.” He holds up his cup of half-eaten black death and smiles, and I take a selfie and then another, just in case. I look at the two shots and show him the second. He nods.
    “Very impressive camera skills. And one-handed, with a cone in the other, no less.”
    “I’m going to send it to her. I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Nah. Do your