MY PHONE RINGS, waking me from a deep sleep on my tour bus. After six weeks of being back on the road, I’m fully adjusted to my late night schedule. A quick glance at the clock shows it’s only five-fifteen in the morning—I went to bed all of two hours ago after finishing my concert and after-party backroom action in Indianapolis. Who would call me at this ungodly hour?
I glance at the screen and groan. “Rose Morgan” is identified as the perpetrator. She can go to voice mail. Hitting “decline,” I toss my cell on the bed and am immediately lulled back to sleep by the MPB’s rhythmic movements.
The phone rings again. Really? Thank God, it was my turn to get the bedroom. Otherwise, she probably would have awakened the whole bus by now. “Decline.” I bury it under my pillow.
The fucking thing rings a third time. Swiping the screen to accept the call, I grumble, “Do you know what time it is, Rose?”
The culprit chirps, “Good morning! Do you know what day it is?”
In a sleep-laden voice, I reply, “What is this, twenty questions? I’m sleeping. Get yourself a calendar.”
She laughs. Despite the fact that I’m still more than half-asleep, the melodious sound registers deep within me, and I rouse more toward wakefulness. “I know exactly what day and time it is.”
“Bully for you. Now let me get back to sleep. It was a long night.” The bendy blonde made sure of it.
“The Grammy nominations came out this morning.”
“Wait, what?” Suddenly, I’m wide awake and sitting up in the rocking bed. “What did you just say?”
“The Grammy nominations were just announced.”
My heart gallops toward the front of the bus. Does this mean? Could her call mean? “And you’re calling me because…”
“Congratulations! You’ve been nominated for three Grammys: Best Pop Solo Performance, Best Music Video for ‘Prowling’, and Best New Artist.”
“I…” I shake my head. “What?” I swallow over the lump in my throat and try again. “Are you serious?”
This time, Rose’s sweet laughs grabs me by the balls. “Yes, I’m telling you the truth. Double-check online if you want. But, on behalf of the Greta VonStein PR Agency, I wanted to be the first one to congratulate you on your Grammy nominations.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “I can’t believe this. I thought the nominations were being announced next week.” Apparently, I’ve been too focused on the tour to keep my calendar straight. “Not that I expected—well, I hoped, but…”
“I figured you’d forgotten when you didn’t pick up the phone right away.”
“Sorry for being a dick earlier.” I replay what she said. “I really have three Grammy nods?” I hold up three fingers to no one.
“Yes. Three. Your tour will be finished before the actual ceremony, so you’ll be back in LA for it.”
This has to be the best day of my life. “Oh my God, I’m a Grammy nominee.” It’s as if my whole world has shifted on its axis. I’m one step closer to achieving all my goals. I collapse back onto the bed.
“Now I know that I’ve just sprung this on you, but do you have anyone you’d like to take with you as your date to the ceremony?”
I glance at the empty pillow beside me. “Date? I’m not dating anyone.” Well, not for more than a couple of hours anyway. “Do I have to bring a date with me?” This is way too much for me to process at five-thirty in the morning. “What were my categories again?”
“Best Pop Solo, Best Music Video and Best New Artist. Better get used to hearing it.”
“This is unbelievable.”
Rose murmurs, “You deserve it.” Clearing her throat, she continues in her normal tone, “And, yes, you really need to bring a date. The public eats it up.”
Still trying to get a grip on this news, I ask, “Who are the other nominees in my categories?” Rose gives me the names.
“Wow.” I can’t believe my name is listed with theirs. This is news I need to share with my family. And Dan. As soon as possible.
“Regarding your date, Greta wanted me to suggest that you bring your mother. Unless you want me to see if Mimi Barker is available.”
A noise like an arrested snort reaches my ears. It occurs to me again that she appears to think the whole MooMoo thing is funny. It’s a rare window into Rose as a person, and I find myself smiling a little as I answer her. “No way in hell am I ever escorting that woman to anything ever again. But I do like Greta’s idea. I’ll ask Mom to be my date.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Obviously nothing has been scheduled yet, but don’t be surprised if they ask you to sing during the awards show.”
“I’ll try not to be surprised.” But I do feel a little star struck.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep. Congratulations again, Cole.”
“Thanks, Rose. I think I’m awake now.” She chuckles as the call disconnects. I stare at my phone for a long while, trying to process the news.
I’m still in a daze when the door to the bedroom bursts open and my bandmates pile in, led by Jeffrey. I guess my shouting awakened them, but they all look excited rather than pissed. “Congrats, man. It’s totally cool to be touring with a Grammy-nominated artist!”
THE CLOCK FINALLY says twelve-thirty in the afternoon, which means it’s three-thirty in New Jersey. Mom should be done with the school day. Smiling, I grab my phone and dial her.
“There’s my Grammy-nominated son!”
“Hi, Mom. I have a question for you.”