I put my hands on my hips. “You really need to mind your business.”
Jon’s shoulders sink. “I’m your friend, P,” he says. “I care.”
“When we’re in London,” I say. “I’ll go get them checked then.”
It’s a promise, sure, but not to myself. Only promises to myselfreallycount.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Jon says with a smile that does remind me how handsome he can be. And that, when all is said and done, he is actually a good friend. “Even if you did interrupt my Cassie Everard fantasy and didn’t even suck my cock to say sorry.”
And there I am, back to feeling noticeably nauseated by him. What was I even thinking coming in here for him to fuck me? Maybe I really have turned a corner.
“Speaking of which,” I say as I head back to the bed and grab the magazine. “You won’t mind if I steal this.”
Jon laughs. “See, you totally get it! You want to get in her frilly silk knickers just as much as I do!”
“Can’t hear you!” I joke and blow him a kiss before disappearing into my own room with ten pages of Cassie Everard under my arm.
CHAPTER 2
CASSIE
One Month Later
“Cass! We need you back in here!” Freddie’s voice carries over the internal speaker. I glance up from the contract on my lap, over the sound deck and through the glass that divides the control room from the studio. Vik, Steph, Clarence, and George are all plugged in and waiting in the studio with cigarettes in their mouths and various levels of patience, or rather, impatience on their faces.
“Right, sure, yes, on my way.” I carefully set down the stack of papers that is a draft of the record label’s proposed contract for another three albums, and I make my way into the recording studio.
I try not to think about how I only managed to read two pages of the nine-page document, and even that was only after skimming passages I really couldn’t make any sense of. I wish I had more time. Time to send it to my brother. Time to find a lawyer. Maybe even time to ask Steph to read it to me, if he can stay sober long enough. Kevin would do it for me, but as our manager, it’s in his interest for me to sign this deal, and it’s not that Idon’ttrust him, I just don’t know if Ishould.
“Did you sign it?” Stephan calls out to me from his stand as I put on my headphones.
“Not yet,” I say with a smile that I hope will buy me some compassion.
“Jesus, Cassie.” He puts the lit cigarette he’s holding in one hand to his lips. “Ronnie’s been chasing us for weeks.”
“Leave her alone,” Clarence says from the organ, where he’s stretching his fingers and looking pretty pissed off with all of us. His dark eyes are kind when they meet mine, but still I can see he’s impatient to start too.
With ten years on all of us, Clarence was an addition the record label made last year to try and give the lads a more mature influence (which failed), so I don’t blame him for being pissed off. I can’t imagine still doing what I’m doing right now for another decade.
“Yeah, let’s just get on with it,” Vik says with a cigarette between his lips. He’s sitting behind his drums, looking restless, which is actually how he normally looks these days. Like he always has somewhere better to be. “Ronnie can wait. We’ve earned him enough money this last year.”
Ronnie is Ronald Hutchins, the owner of Haven Records, a label that pretty much only exists because of our success, but I am reluctant to draw people’s attention to that.
“Kev said they needed it signed a week ago, or they’re not going to pay for all of this.” With his cigarette still in his mouth, Steph gestures with the neck of his Gibson Les Paul guitar around the state-of-the-art studio. “God knows I can’t afford it right now. Can you?”
Too easily, I recall the kinds of studios we recorded our first demos in. Converted garages and storage cupboards in student digs all over Oxford. George’s parents’ cellar with egg boxes all over the walls and ceiling. A tech college’s music studio where the fuses would blow if we had more than three guitars plugged in at once. It was a constant struggle and so far from the luxury we are now surrounded by, but it was fun. We had energy and enthusiasm, and so much potential. Now, all I think the boys care about is money and drugs and getting laid.
“I know I can’t,” George pipes up and I resist the urge to tell him that he should try not drinking his money away or snorting it up his nose, but I’m the last person he’d want financial advice from.
“They’ll pay,” Vik says, doing a quick drum roll as if to punctuate the sentence. “Let’s start already. I’ve got somewhere to be later.”
“Yeah, me too,” George slurs before hiccupping. He’s staggering on his feet even though he’s not actually moving. My guess is that he hasn’t been to bed yet after last night, which tells me we really should get this show on the road and finish this recording before he falls asleep or does another line to stay awake.
“Guys…” Freddie’s voice comes through in all our headphones. “The clock is ticking.”
I look up and smile at Freddie Rogers, who is my favourite producer we’ve ever worked with. He’s in his fifties, has grown-up kids that he talks about often, and he gave me his home telephone number after we first met, just in case I ever needed someone in LA. Maybe I’ll ask him to read the contract out to me if he has time.
“I’ll sign it after this,” I say, and give each of my fellow band members a smile big enough to hurt my cheeks.