First order of business: make sure the others keep their mouths shut.
“Xander, good to see you again.” A confident woman breezes toward me, and I rise to shake her hand.
“Hi, Sam. Thanks for taking the time to help us out.”
“Of course. Did Marlon explain to you what’s happening here today? You understand that everything we’re about to discuss is for the sole purpose of your success?” Her eyes search mine with a sincerity that eases some of the tension in my shoulders. For a split second, she makes me feel like I’m not the only pillar supporting this crumbling mausoleum.
“If White Flame hates us so much, why did they sign us?” Matty mutters, and I shoot him an icy look. “What? We all know why the single flopped. It fucking sucks after what they did to it.”
“Matty, not now.”
“And the next one is even worse,” Elliot chimes in. He exchanges concurring nods with Liam and Matty. “Matty’s right. Why sign us if they just wanted to ruin our music and make us something else?”
“Not now,” I snap.
Matty shrugs and holds up his hands. “Okay, just sayin’.”
“Yeah, well, don’t. We’re here to listen today, got it?”
He rolls his eyes, but returns to his more helpful role of pen-clicker.
“Sorry,” I direct back to Sam and Marlon, who exchange a look. Shit.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Xander?” Sam asks, waving me toward the door.
Sucking in a breath, I follow her into the privacy of a neighboring office. She closes the door and studies me.
“Xander, I make one ironclad promise to my artists: honesty. So I’m going to be perfectly honest with you now.”
My heart slams against my ribs at her pause.
“When Marlon asked to take you on as clients, I was reluctant. Typically our firm only works with more seasoned artists. I had concerns Falling Back North wasn’t ready for this level. You know why I said yes?”
“Our stage presence?”
A brief smile flashes over her face. “One of your strengths, for sure, but no. I said yes because of you. I believe in you, Xander, but again, full honesty? I’m not sure about Falling Back North. Does your band have the talent? Yes. The charisma? Yes. You even have a unique crossover sound that could set you apart in two separate markets. But none of that matters if the four of you can’t get your footing.”
She sighs, probably noticing the shards of heart tissue sprinkled over my face. “Look, what I’m saying is that I’m doubling down on you right now. I don’t fail, which means, I’m not going to let you fail, but I can’t do it alone. In just a few minutes we’ll be throwing our Hail Mary, so I’m asking you for the same honesty in return. For this to work, I will need you guys to give me your minds, bodies, and souls over the next few months. Can you do that? Can you promise me that if I go all in for Falling Back North, they’ll go all in for me?”
I almost buckle under the weight of the question. Her sincere, stern gaze slices into me, demanding an answer. The truth? I want this too much for the truth.
“You have our word, Sam. Whatever it takes.”
She breathes out a sigh and squeezes my arm. “Good. Then let’s go meet the team that will turn you into something extraordinary.”
Cold needles surge through my body as I force a confident nod and fight to project everything she wants to see in me right now. A Hail Mary. Our last—and only—chance. If I can’t get the others to run up the field, I’ll just have to carry them.
Matty is a different man when we re-enter the conference room, and in two heart-stopping seconds I see why. No. Fucking. Way.
As if the universe hasn’t been messing with me enough, there, seated in what should be the chair of our new marketing guru, is the Pink Tuxedo Siren herself, Lydia Carmichael. To say I’ve thought about her since our encounter this past weekend is an understatement. No, my body hasn’t stopped thinking about what she did to me in those few beautiful moments. Torture. Pure unadulterated torture in the four lonely nights and five lonely showers since.
This can’t be happening. I glance around for the hidden cameras and reality show production crew. This is a joke, right?
“Xander, we’d like you to meet Donna Ross and Lydia Carmichael from The Ross Agency. Lydia is the associate director of marketing in charge of your campaign. Ladies, please meet Alexandre Silva, drummer, songwriter, and business manager for Falling Back North.”
I blink at them, pleading with my brain to form some kind of response.
“Alexandre, so nice to meet you,” Lydia says, approaching with her arm outstretched. How long has she known about this? At least enough not to be a bumbling train wreck like I am right now.
I stagger forward a few steps and shake her hand on autopilot. We’re playing this as a first encounter, I guess. Okay, I can work with that.
“Nice to meet you too. You can call me Xander,” I say, recovering with a quick smile. I greet Donna as well, and take my seat across from them. Matty is full-on beaming, the others curious. I’m re-teaching my lungs how to process oxygen.
“Right, so, I think we’re clear on why we’re having this meeting,” Sam says. “Lydia, why don’t you jump into your deck, and then we can open things up for discussion. Sound good?”
Lydia assumes her role like a seasoned pro. Is it possible she doesn’t recognize me? Maybe that entire, explosive exchange only detonated on my side. It sure seems that way when she directs us to a screen on the conference room wall without a pause.
“I’ve already researched your online content and social footprint. I’ve also done a competitive analysis using similar bands at your level. If you look at this chart, you’ll see where you currently stand versus where the typical artist in your situation would be.”
Matty snorts a laugh at the disturbing graph, but I’m immediately sobered by the image. We can deal with the Lydia problem later. If her numbers are correct, we’re in more trouble than I thought.
“That includes followers on all social media platforms?” I ask, squinting at her graph.
She nods. “From my initial review, I’ve identified several areas where we can make improvements, but I won’t be able to get a full picture until I have the chance to observe you directly and conduct some in-depth interviews. For now, let’s break this down with a look at my initial concerns. After that we can discuss the plan and schedule for adjustments.” She clicks to the next slide. “First and most obvious: branding.”
Over the next twenty minutes, she guides us through a series of slides, explaining each one in a calm, authoritative voice. Some don’t surprise me. Others leave me cringing. All have me rigid with a mix of devastation and hope as she discusses each concern and possible solution. Her presentation on “Brand Voice” and “Social Content” follow a similar pattern. I didn’t even know there were so many things that could be wrong with a band, but apparently we’re the iceberg of them all. Still, she never wavers, never changes her inflection enough to suggest there isn’t a manageable solution somewhere in that gorgeous head of hers. It’s not until she pulls up a slide labeled “Narrative” that we see the first flicker of doubt.
“You all are related, correct? Xander and Matheus, you’re brothers?” She drills a look at each of us.
“Yes, ma’am. Bros to the max,” Matty says. His playful grin makes it obvious he’s missed the gravity of this entire meeting. Me? I’m ready to throw up.
“We are,” I answer more severely. Given the responses, I’m not surprised when Lydia directs her follow-up to me.
“Well, I’m curious, and maybe slightly concerned, about the fact that after hours of research, I have almost nothing about your story.”
“Our story?”
“Yes.” She clicks to the next slide, which is noticeably bare with only two bullet points. She points to the first. “The four of you are related.” The second: “Xander and Matheus seem to have some level of Brazilian heritage.” She scans the room in clear di
sapproval. “That’s it. That’s all I know about the members of Falling Back North. As a fan of the band, I have nothing to relate to. Nothing to humanize you as individuals. I have no way to incorporate you into my personal narrative, which means I will never be the kind of rabid fan you need to support and promote you.”
“Huh?” Liam asks.
“She means, the fangirls need a reason to want us to be their boyfriends,” Matty says with a snicker. “Did they see my spread in Songset Magazine? That should give them incentive.” Elliot and Matty exchange several enthusiastic “bro” gestures, while Liam looks even more confused by the whole thing.
We are so freaking screwed.
I snap a glare at my band before turning my attention back to Lydia. “Sorry about that. So what does this mean in a practical sense? More favorite food and birth sign posts? Coxinha and I’m a Virgo.”
She cracks a smile. “Something like that. We’ll put together a comprehensive action plan, don’t worry. But for now, just understand that we’ll need to communicate a clear narrative on who you are as individuals and as a band. Remember those personas we talked about earlier? They’re your target audience. We need to reach those people and establish a connection. They’ll want to know: where did you come from? How should they understand you and your music? We need people to know you so they care about you and want to take this journey with you. Make sense?”
Makes total sense. Also, our narrative is a hellhole that will turn her action plan into a horror film. This lack is a freaking gift for a publicist. Another problem for later.
“Got it,” I say with a tight smile.
I have almost nothing left by the time Sam draws the meeting to an end. My head is spinning; my chest is tight. Every muscle in my body feels seized into a coil that has me slouched and staring into the shiny tabletop. Despite the constant affirmations that followed every but over the last two hours, I’m no closer to believing we have a prayer at making this work.
Matty pauses beside Lydia on his way out and watches for a moment as she packs up her materials. “Hey, so we’re gonna grab a drink if you’re interested.”
She looks almost startled by the invitation, then recovers with a polite smile. “Thanks, Matheus, but I still have a lot of work to do to get ready for tomorrow. Remember, we have the meeting with the stylist at nine AM.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He barely flinches at the rejection, and I’m probably the only one who can tell he’s wounded from the way his shoulders drop. He looks over at me. “What about you, Lex? You in?”
The protective gene in me demands a yes. I have to make up for that rejection, even though I can’t think of anything worse than going to a bar right now. For once Liam’s distracting snicker comes as a blessing.
“Yeah, bro. You definitely look like you could use a drink,” my cousin says.
“Right? What he really needs is to get laid,” Matty jokes. His shoulders return to their normal stature, and some pressure releases from my lungs.
I roll my eyes, but at least they’re heading toward the door.
“Dude, let’s hit that new club on Eighteenth,” Elliot says, swinging his arms around their shoulders and guiding them into the hallway. Do they even notice I’m not following? Probably not. Thank god because I have zero energy left to pretend right now.
As their banter fades out of auditory range, I rest my pounding head in my hands. Raking my fingers into my hair, I close my eyes and visualize my imaginary cellblock. I scan the six-level wall of cells and wait as three barred doors slide open. As soon as I shove “fix your image” into one of them, the door slams shut behind it. The next open cell gets “establish clear branding,” followed by “execute effective promotional campaigns” in the next. I already feel the tension start to lift once they’re secure and ready to be managed. But my prison is loud tonight now that it’s filled to capacity. Plus, I haven’t had time to organize the initial rush of new inmates that have been pouring in lately.
Lydia Carmichael.
Hail Mary.
We own your mind, body, and soul.
It’s all on you, Xander.
And of course, the mother of them all: “Narrative.”
With no time to process or prepare, they were all shoved haphazardly into a holding tank in the center of the room. There they swarm, screaming bitter obscenities that echo throughout the cavernous space.
Narrative. Where the hell am I supposed to put Narrative when that story already occupies an entire wing of cells?
“Xander?”
I flinch at the voice. Shit. I pull the mask back in place before freeing my head from my grip.
“Hey.” I manage some kind of twist of the lips.
“You okay?”
“Fine, yeah.” My tone is too bright, and her jaw tightens. “By the way, thanks for agreeing to help us,” I rush out before she can probe further. “We appreciate all the work you’ve put in and will be doing on our behalf.”
I can’t read her expression as she studies my face.
“Of course. It’s my job.” Her chuckle sounds as forced as my enthusiasm. She glances toward the door and pulls out the chair beside me. “Look, I get that this is weird,” she continues in a low voice. “But I promise I didn’t know we’d be working together when I came up to you at the bar. I never would have done that if I’d known. They didn’t call me until after you left.”
The way her eyes search mine, the slight pleading in her tone… yeah, I believe her. I pull in a deep breath.
“We’re adults and nothing happened, right?”
“No. It definitely didn’t.” Is there a hint of bitterness in her response?
My body is already rebelling again at the memories of that night. And each one after. And this morning. And damn. My cell door is rattling furiously right now. No way it holds if I don’t get this rogue prisoner under control.
Lydia clears her throat. “I just want to say one thing to you, and then we don’t ever have to mention it again.” She pauses, a flash of vulnerability skating across her face before the controlled woman returns. “I want to assure you that my behavior that night will never be reflected in our current relationship. I fully accept that you have no romantic interest in me. Over the coming weeks, we will need to work together in a way that will require close, and sometimes intimate, situations. I just wanted to assure you that what happened that night is forgotten on my end, and you don’t need to have any concerns about me pursuing you again. Assuming you can accept that, along with my apology, I’d still like to continue our professional relationship. Are those terms agreeable to you?”
Wow. Did she script that out? I can picture her dictating each word as she recites them back to me. How many rounds of edits? How many hours of wordsmithing and practicing in front of a mirror to make sure it had just the right amount of sympathy and severity? Now is not the time for humor, but after the circus of my life this past week, what else is there?
Her lips press into a firm line at my slow smile, which only makes it grow into a grin. Her arms cross over her chest; mine reach up to run a hand over my face. I feel like I can breathe freely for the first time in hours. This is too funny.
“Oh my god. You’re serious, aren’t you?” I say.
“You’re laughing at me again?”
“Not at you, just—and I never laughed at you that night either.”
She returns that adorable annoyed-but-amused look I remember so well. And love. And love to remember. Shit, Xander. Get a grip.
“Yeah? Well, if I’ve learned anything through all of this, it’s that some people are impossible to read,” she says.
Ouch. Also: fair. Not that I can defend myself. It’s better for all of us if I don’t anyway. Better she thinks I bailed on her, that she remains bitter and maybe even hates me for it. Isn’t this the best case scenario for this shitty situation?
Shrewd eyes search mine, daring me again. For what, I’m not sure this time. “So you heard my speech. What’s th
e answer? Should I assume this amusement right now is a no, you can’t work with me?”
I shake my head, trying not to laugh again. There’s no way she’s as good at what she does, while being bad at reading people. It must just be me she can’t figure out, and thank heaven for that.
“No, Ms. Carmichael. It’s an of course I’m going to work with you. Because if I’ve learned anything through all of this, it’s that you’re probably our only hope.”
CHAPTER 4
LYDIA
Lies. All of them. Of course I rehearsed my speech to Xander in the conference room—and practiced for the three days I had to prepare for the meeting. How could I not when most of my monologue was a lie? I’m an intelligent, analytical woman. I knew the second I was standing in front of him he’d turn those intense hazel eyes on me, and then all bets were off. Because yes, it’s true that I won’t pursue him. It’s true that I’ve accepted he has no interest in me. The lie is the entire premise that I’m not still suffering over it.
If anything, I’m more attracted after yesterday’s reunion. I’m a problem solver, and that man clearly has an endless supply of baggage that needs sorting. Seeing him there with his head in his hands, it was everything I could do not to rush over and touch him. It would have been innocent at first. Compassion in the form of a brush of my fingers through his dark, chin-length hair. Then maybe a firm squeeze on those broad, tense shoulders that looked like they bore the weight of the world. But there’s no way I could have touched him, breathed in the scent of forests and clean linen I remember so well from our first meeting, and not have wanted to taste him too. To run my hands from his shoulders down his chest as I explored his neck with my lips and…
Falling North: A Turner Artist Rocker Novel (The Turner Artist Rocker Series Book 2) Page 3
