"The shower is amazing," Eve said, and turned to the side, smoothing down her dress. "Is it too much?"
"For Morganville? Yeah. For Dallas? No idea. But you look fantastic." Eve smiled, that secret little smile, and her eyes glittered brightly. She was thinking about Michael, obviously. Claire yawned, slipped off the bed, and went to try the shower. Thirty minutes later, her hair fluffed into relative cuteness, she was clean, dry, and dressed in jeans and her best cute blue top, the one Shane said he liked. She even stopped for a little makeup, although she knew it was a lost cause, considering Eve's outfit. Shane rapped on their door ten minutes later, and when she answered, he looked sleepy but relaxed. Freshly showered, which was always a look she loved on him; his hair was even more insane than usual, as if he'd toweled it dry and then forgotten about it. She smoothed it down. He kissed her and called, "Yo, Eve? Crazy train's leaving the station!"
"I'm coming!" Eve yelled breathlessly, and came out of the bathroom, again, smoothing down her dress. Shane blinked, but he didn't say anything. "Michael's waiting. He's freaking out that he's going to be late."
"Well, he won't be," Eve said. "Do I look okay? Like a rock star's girlfriend?"
"No," Shane said, and when she looked hurt, he laughed. "You look much better than that, scary girl." She blew him a kiss and set off down the hall. Michael was pacing next to the elevators, crackling with nervous energy; his gear was piled next to the wall, and he had a strange, closed expression on his face that disappeared the second he saw Eve. Claire sighed in sympathetic happiness as Michael kissed his girlfriend and leaned over to whisper something in her ear--something that made Eve laugh and cuddle even closer. Shane rolled his eyes. "I thought you were in a hurry, man."
"Never in that much of a hurry," Michael said, and picked up one of the guitars. Shane picked up the other and offered him a fist to bump. "Let's go rock it, Mikey." Michael just looked at him for a second. Shane held steady, and said, "Michael. You can do it. Trust me." Michael took a deep breath, returned the fist bump, and nodded as he pushed the elevator call button. There was a car downstairs--a big black town car, like a limousine only not as fancy--with a driver in a black jacket. He gave Eve a hand in, then Claire; Michael and Shane took the facing bench seat. The guitars, Claire assumed, went in the trunk. Michael was looking pale, but then, when didn't he? He reached across the open space and took Eve's hand as the car began to roll. "Love the dress," he said. "Love you," she said, very simply. His eyebrows rose a little, and he smiled. "I was getting to that part."
"I know." Eve patted his hand. "I know you were. But you're a boy. I thought I'd just cut to the chase. You're going to be great, you know." They didn't say anything the rest of the short drive; the roof overhead was clear, and it gave them an amazing view of the tall buildings and the colored lights. Claire felt her heart pounding. This was really happening. She couldn't imagine what was going on in Michael's head--or heart. It seemed like a dream. Morganville seemed like a dream, one that had happened to someone else, and the idea that they'd leave this reality and go back to that one... Shane didn't have to, Claire thought again. Of the four of them, he was the one who could walk away, and there was nothing in Morganville to hold him. Nothing but her, anyway. At the studio, which was in a plain-looking industrial building at the edge of downtown, the driver unloaded the guitars and saw them inside, where two people waiting immediately focused on Michael. Claire, Eve, and Shane suddenly became his entourage, which was funny and kind of awesome, and trailed along as the two recording people explained the process to Michael. Shane carried both the guitars. He did it with a smile, too, that said clearly how proud he was of his friend. Michael looked fierce--he was concentrating on every word, and Claire could see him already putting himself into performance mode, that place that made him so different when he was onstage. At the studio door, one of the two studio guys turned and held out a hand to Eve, Claire, and Shane. "You guys need to wait in the box," he said. "Through that door." He pointed to a thick metal door with a window inset, and took the guitars from Shane. Then he flashed them a quick grin. "He'll be great. Trust me, he wouldn't be here if he wasn't."
"Damn right," Shane said, and led the two girls into the box--which, it turned out, was the recording studio's control room. A big man with frizzy hair was sitting at the mixing board, which looked more complicated than the inside of the Space Shuttle. He said hello and gestured for them to take a seat on the big, plush couch at the back of the room. It was an amazing place, the studio, full of people who were all just really, really great at their jobs. The engineer behind the giant, complicated mixing board was relaxed, calm, and very easygoing, and the two on the other side of the glass helped Michael get set up, did some sound checks, and then left him alone to join the rest of them in the control room. "Right," the engineer said, and nodded to his two assistants--if that was what they were; Claire wasn't sure. "Let's see what he's got." He flipped a switch. "Michael ? Go ahead, whenever you're ready." He started out playing a slow song, head down, and Claire felt the mood in the room change from professional to really interested as he settled into the music. It flowed out of him, silky smooth, beautiful, as natural as sunshine. It was an acoustic guitar thing, and it put tears into Claire's eyes; there was something so soft and sad and aching about it. When he finished, Michael held the chord for a long moment, then sighed and sat back on his stool, looking through the glass toward them. The engineer's mouth was open. He closed it, cleared his throat, and said, "What's that called, kid?"