Free Resurgence by M. M. Mayle Page A

Jesse—something he should have done straightaway—then brings up one of the finer points of the proposal.
    “I believe it goes without saying that if you’re willing to take part as Verge reunited, there can be no greater honor to Rayce Vaughn’s memory and his immeasurable contribution to contemporary music.”
    Amanda natters on about the likelihood of steamrolling bad publicity with good, and the possibility of turning the event into a fundraiser; she brings up television rights, marketing potential, subsidiary this and residual that, and she needn’t continue.
    Railroaded or not, lingering bitterness or not, he can’t refuse. Not when amazing little Amanda’s spot-on with all her assumptions, especially the one related to the chances of him not showing up if he’d known in advance what the meeting was about. A “Nate” touch, that; one that could raise suspicions if Laurel hadn’t warned him off thinking of Amanda as a puppet—anybody’s puppet.
    “Question.” Colin finds his voice and flips shut the glossy presentation folder. “When you were recruiting all these stellar people and organizations, did you just happen to mention that a Verge reunion could be in the offing?”
    Amanda wavers for a tick, on the brink of reverting to her former blushing and fluttery self, then clears her throat. “I may have,” she says, “but not in so many words.”
    Lane and Jesse are back to looking too cool for any space they occupy, and Laurel’s still giving no clue to her feelings on the matter. Amanda only appears expectant, not impatient, and before he can ask for it she suggests the three former band members take some time alone to mull over the idea.
    “Laurel and I have a few things to take care of, so you needn’t feel rushed,” Amanda says and spirits Laurel away as smoothly as she’s stage-managed everything else.
    “Proper pimped, we are,” Lane says once the women have left the room.
    “I was thinkin’ railroaded, but your description’s better,” Colin says.
    “Whatever you’re callin’ it, what’re we gonna do about it?” Jesse says.
    Although his mind’s already made up, Colin keeps them guessing whilst reflecting on the last time they were together in one room—a time when they couldn’t be sure he knew they were there, when their presence couldn’t be seen as other than perfunctory damage assessment. Then he reflects on the last time they shared a stage—a time when they no longer spoke to one another unless absolutely necessary. That puts him in touch with something said to Laurel not even two weeks ago when he stated unequivocally that Verge would never again perform as a band. But two weeks ago, who knew that Rayce Vaughn would be found dead on his bathroom floor and his friends and admirers left in great need of a means to express their loss?
    “What the fuck,” Colin mutters, “I say we do it.”
    “Fuckin’ A!” Lane immediately responds.
    Jesse chimes in with similar and they all start talking at once, with the first order of business their mutual desire to hear direct from Chris Thorne’s mouth that he truly is on board. But that will have to wait till Amanda provides them with a number where Chris can be reached, and a glance into the corridor shows no signs of where the women took themselves off to.
    “How much time’ll we have to get back up to speed?” Lane says, voicing another concern they all share. And again they’ll have to wait for Amanda’s return, because nothing in the printed presentation mentions a specific performance date. All then that’s left to discuss is where they’ll refamiliarize themselves with the Verge vibe. The obvious choice is Terra Firma, an easy enough commute from Lane’s farm near Guildford and not all that far from Jesse’s place in Farnham.
    That’s just been agreed to when the women return. Amanda, attempts to read their decision, darts glances from one countenance to another; Laurel asks flat-out what it