“Yeah, Lacey’s…” I glance across the deck and sigh. She’s waist deep in the pool, wrapped around the blond guy like an octopus.
“Enjoying the party, it would seem.” Clay’s teeth flash brightly in the growing darkness. “Not to mention the bassist from Hot Shot.”
My brows lift. “I didn’t know Hot Shot was signed with Red Machine.”
“One of our few remaining punk bands. Unfortunately, I can’t sell Emo anymore. I keep trying to get them to transition to a lighter sound, but…” He shrugs, as if he can’t fathom why an artist would be averse to completely revamping their entire musical identity. “Anyway! You’re here. Have a drink.”
I lift my full glass of whiskey.
“Oh, you’ve got one already. Good, good. That’s excellent.”
“Listen, Clay.” My throat clears. “I’m grateful to be here. Really. But there’s one thing I’d like to discuss with you before we start.”
His brows lift. “Oh? What’s that?”
“I tried to get in touch with you before I left Nashville. Several times, in fact. I don’t know if you received my voicemails, but I wanted to discuss my bandmates—”
“Sure, sure. Of course! But we don’t need to talk business rightnow!” He laughs and settles back against the couch cushions with a sigh. “You need to relax, Ryder! Have some fun. This is a party.”
“Oh, I’m having a great time,” I lie. My teeth grit in a smile that feels more like a grimace. I take another gulp of my drink.
“Glad to hear that. We certainly want you happy!” He’s so energized it’s almost off-putting. Granted, I only met him that once, at The Nightingale, but his eyes are a bit more wild than I remember, his whole demeanor more frenetic. It doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s been indulging in something stronger than the white wine in his glass.
“Are you excited for the showcase? Nervous?Don’t be.” He leans in, as if to confide in me like we’re the closest of friends. “You’ve got tomorrow to yourself to explore, but we’ve got you and Lacey booked in the studio bright and early Monday morning for some sound checks, followed by headshots in the afternoon. Don’t worry about those bruises — our makeup department could make you look like Gwen Stefani given enough time and resources, and what they can’t cover up can be airbrushed out.”
Clay’s habit of asking questions and barreling on without waiting for answers is enough to set my teeth on edge. He does it so seamlessly, it’s hard to realize you’re being handled.
“Clay, about the showcase—” I interject, but he cuts me off.
“Oh, don’t stress over the showcase. Merely a formality. You’ll swing by our annual board meeting on Tuesday, sing a song for the big wigs, and they’ll give the green light for us to officially make you an offer. They like to feel like they’ve still got their hands in the shit, so to speak, though truth be told they’re figureheads. We’re the ones who make all the decisions when it comes to talent.” His eyes shift to Becca abruptly. “Speaking of, did we hear back from the new girl’s agent yet? Who’s she using for representation? God, I hope it’s not Cynthia Firestone. I swear, she’s half woman, half pit-bull. Total ballbuster…”
Chris, Clay, and Becca begin to discuss another artist they’re hoping to sign, the runner-up from the latest season ofAmerica’s Got Tunes, the most popular singing competition in the country. I find myself tuning out after a few seconds, looking around the party in vain for any signs of intelligent life.
How the fuck did I end up here?
This isn’t how I imagined it would be. Not at all.
Of course, when I imagined it, I always assumed I’d have Aiden and Lincoln with me to enjoy every moment. I try to tell myself it’ll improve once we actually get into the studio. Once I have that record deal in my hands. Once I get up on stage and start doing the only thing I’ve ever been halfway decent at: putting on a show.
I hold onto that thought with both hands, because it’s all I have left to clutch. My only lifeline. I’m drowning in a storm of shame and self-loathing so strong, it’s threatening to drag me under.
Record deal.
Los Angeles.
Freedom.
I’m living the dream.
Why am I so fucking miserable?
* * *
Two hours,three whiskeys, and four cigarettes later, I’m staring to feel better. Or, if not better, at least… numb. I watch vacantly as Chris finally puts down his phone. I was beginning to think the damn thing was surgically affixed to his hand. He pulls out something that looks almost like a Zippo lighter from his back pocket and spins off the cap. I watch as he shakes out a pile of cocaine onto the glass table and starts cutting thin lines with the edge of a credit card.
“Yo, boss!” he calls, signaling Clay from the terrace railing. “Need a bump?”
Clay walks over, a girl in a bikini trailing after him. She’s about half his age — closer to a daughter than a conquest — but no one bats and eye as they both sit down, snort short rails, and start making out on the couch.