“Just because some reporter at some nothing magazine says I need to apologize —”
Ward holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, okay. Forget I said anything.”
“Oh, I wi—”
“Reporter?” A sharp voice cuts in from the door.
We glance up to find our stout band manager filling the doorway, fixing us with a stern look. Or maybe that’s just his face. Burke McKinley is one of the best in the business for a reason: He’s a no-nonsense hard-ass, but he also gets shit done for his acts.
“Shit,” I exclaim. “Sorry, Burke, didn’t know you were here.”
“Clearly,” he says curtly. “What’s this about a reporter?”
I roll my eyes and groan, sinking deeper into the couch like the rebellious teenager who still very much lives in my brain.
Ward shakes his head at me. “Some chick who writes for a rag called Rock Scene. She used to be West’s ‘biggest fan’” — Ward uses a cutesy voice that makes me glare at him — “but apparently thinks he needs to formally apologize for his piss-poor behavior.”
Burke’s eyebrows jump so high they nearly hit his receding hairline. He steps inside and shuts the door, grabbing a black metal folding chair from the stack against the wall and setting it backward in front of the couch. He sits down, straddling it to face us.
“I know that magazine. Small but well-respected.” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “You know, she may be on to something.”
I give him a disbelieving look, but he holds up a hand.
“Hear me out. It’s been a while since you’ve interacted with the fans directly, at least publicly. And if we’re going to tour, it can’t hurt to get all the good press we can. So how about an apology tour? You go around apologizing, kissing babies, holding puppies, that sort of shit?”
I lean forward on my arms to respond, but Ward beats me to the punch.
“He’s a musician, not a politician. That’s ridiculous.”
Burke narrows his eyes at Ward. “You think they don’t do that for good reason? Image, son. It’s all about image.”
“We’re a hard rock band,” I cut in. “Isn’t that kind of the exact opposite of the image we’re going for? I mean, rock stars bite the heads off bats and kill chickens on stage —”
“Dude, that last one wasn’t the band, that was the audience,” Ward points out.
I roll my eyes. “You get my point though. We’re not all babies and puppies and ‘I’m so sorry for succumbing to the rampant sex, drugs, and alcohol that pervade the industry.’”
“Kristoffer,” Burke starts in his best dad voice, “if there’s a reporter out there willing to say it to your face, there are a hundred who aren’t. I think it’s the conservative approach to take this seriously.”
Ward and I exchange unimpressed looks. I turn back to Burke.
“If I took everything reporters have said about me seriously, I would’ve offed myself by now,” I reply. “But look. I get what you’re saying. Image. Press opportunities. We can do that. How about ‘Win a Date With West?’ Or something like that. Something the fans really want.”
Ward groans and rolls his eyes so hard I whack him on the back of the head.
“Come on, man,” he laughs. “You have to admit that was a pretty douchey suggestion.”
“And backwards,” Burke adds. “You have to create desire before you fulfill it.”
“Fine. What do you propose, then?” Ward counters.
“I’m hearing you,” Burke assures us. “No babies. No puppies. But I think this apology idea could work. It plays on people’s sympathies.” He glances at me. “And you can be charismatic when you want to. Work that to your advantage. Make sure the fans are back on board ahead of the tour announcement. It can’t hurt album sales either, and we’ve got to start hyping any way we can ahead of the tour.”
I purse my lips, trying not to give in just because he’s using his best attempt at flattery. I do love some good flattery.
“Would it really be that bad?” Ward asks me directly.
I shoot an annoyed sidelong glance at him. “Not for you,” I point out.
“One way or the other, I’m talking to PR about this. So what’s it gonna take to get you on board, kid?” Burke asks flatly.
I throw up my hands. Burke is like a dog with a bone when he latches onto something. Goddamn Maxi Marshall and her stupid grudge.
Maxi Marshall. That’s it.
“I want the reporter who suggested the idea to be there the whole time.”
I ask knowing she’ll never agree to it. There’s my out.
Burke looks impressed. “That’s fucking brilliant. I love it.” I didn’t mean it to be brilliant, but hey, two birds, one stone. “I’ll get with Ford and we’ll make it happen.” He rises. “Oh, and I heard you guys practicing from my office. Sounding good. We’re going to nail this tour, guys, you’ll see.”
He absently waves over his shoulder as he leaves, and I’m still silently absorbing what the fuck just happened. After a couple of minutes of silence, I look over at Ward.
“What the hell did I just sign up for?” I lament.
Ward snorts. “A public flogging led by a reporter who hates you?”
I groan and slump backward into the cushions.
“I’m so fucked.”
Ward laughs and sinks next to me, patting me on the leg.
“Yes. Yes, you are. And not in the good way, either.”
4
Don’t Make Me Do It by Huey Lewis and the News
* * *
Max
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m sorry, did I stutter? N. O. No.”
“I’m sorry, did you forget that I’m your boss?”
I glare across the messy blue metal desk at Jason. “Did you forget how much I hate Kristoffer Westberg?”
“Can’t you just get over it? At least enough to do this project?” he presses.
I smush my lips together. I haven’t told him about West’s visit. I didn’t think he needed to know. But now …
“I … there’s something you should know.” Jason looks at me expectantly. “He came here last week.” I give him the quick rundown on why he came and what was said. The highlights, anyway.
“Shit.” Jason leans back in his chair.
“Yeah.”
His dark eyes flick back up to meet mine. “I still need you to do this.”
“Even though he’s basically stalking me now?” I retort hotly.
He glances nervously at his office door. “You know they’re going to be here any minute. I already told his manager you’d do it.”
My jaw drops. “You did not,” I gasp.
Jason levels a look at me. “I did. Because I’m. Your. Boss. This is huge, Max. Just what we need to raise our profile and attract new readers. We couldn’t say no.”
“But why meeeeeee?” I whine.
Jason runs a hand through his inky hair, his eyes soft and apologetic.
“The deal was contingent on your involvement.” I start to protest but he holds up a hand “Don’t worry. They are hiring you for a professional project, as a representative of Rock Scene. I’ll make sure everything is on the up and up. You’re not going to be stalked by a rock star on my watch.” He smirks playfully.
I fold my arms over my chest and try my hardest not to pout. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. So exactly what kind of professional project are we talking here?”
“We’ll find out in —” he checks his watch. “Well, anytime now. They’re late.”
Figures. I groan and let my head slump down onto the close edge of his desk. I take a deep breath and sit back up. Then I take a moment to mentally put my big girl panties on.
“I’ll hear what they have to say. That’s all I can promise right now.” Wow, that even sounded convincing to me.
Jason’s relief is obvious. “Good. Let’s go get set up then.”
He rises and opens the door, gesturing for me to prece
de him out with an encouraging look. I roll my eyes and walk, huffing all the way down the hall to the conference room. Pointedly not stopping at my cubicle for something to take notes with. I know I’m being childish, but I find myself unable to stop.
Jason says nothing about my lack of preparedness, but before we can make it to the room, Ashley, our receptionist, intercepts us.
“They’re here,” she whispers to Jason like West and his posse are going to hear us all the way across the building. I refrain from rolling my eyes at the reverent wonder in her voice. I’ve already rolled them about a thousand times in the last ten minutes. Wouldn’t want them to pop out. Jason, on the other hand, responds by following her back to her desk.
I head into the conference room to give myself another minute to prepare. I choose the same seat as last time, at the foot of the table. I’ve barely begun to contemplate all the ways this could go wrong when I hear multiple voices, including Jason’s, approaching.
My insides tumble as four men file into the room. Jason, West, Burke McKinley — a broad, short man with little hair and lots of presence whom I’ve never met but would have to live under a rock not to recognize — and a fourth guy who looks way too young to be invited to this party.
I rise from my chair and slap on the least-fake smile I can muster.
Until my eyes connect with West’s as Jason and the other two men talk. He winks at me nonchalantly, and my smile melts into surprise as a jolt runs through my body like he just threw a live wire at me. He holds my gaze until I hear Jason introducing me.
“And this is my best and brightest, Max Marshall,” Jason says, gesturing toward me as he steps around West to allow everyone comfortably into the room.
I catch a small smirk on West’s lips as I force myself to look away.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them.
The younger one who I don’t know steps forward and offers a hand. Up close he looks not a day over twenty-five, is around West’s height, and has light brown hair and blue eyes. He’s not bad looking.
“Ms. Marshall, I’m Ford Nelson, West’s public relations manager,” he greets me importantly.
I watch West roll his eyes as he slumps into the chair behind Ford. My eyes flick back to Ford, mentally banking the fact that West clearly does not like Ford. Suddenly I find Mr. Nelson quite intriguing.
“A pleasure,” I reply sweetly. My eyes move to Burke McKinley, who is settling into the chair across the table from West. “And Mr. McKinley, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“Call me Burke,” he responds gruffly, sliding a piece of paper each to Jason, at the head of the table, and me. “And sign these while you’re at it.”
I glance down at the page. It’s a nondisclosure agreement. My eyes flick up to Mr. McKinley’s — Burke’s — but it’s Ford who pipes up.
“Standard NDAs. The lawyers won’t even let us talk until you sign, I’m afraid.”
Jason signs without hesitation. I, however, actually read it. Thankfully, it’s not long. And Ford wasn’t lying, it is all pretty standard. No disclosing anything we’re not permitted to for the rest of our lives or they take everything we own and make us pariahs in the industry, blah blah blah. The usual. The ink hasn’t even dried on my signature when Burke reaches out and whisks it away.
“So,” he puffs. “It’s actually thanks to your idea, Ms. Marshall, that we’re here today.”
I cock an eyebrow. “It’s Max. And I’m sorry, did you say my idea?”
West is tracing circles on the table with a finger, but I don’t miss the small smile at my question.
“I did,” Burke affirms. “You suggested it would be prudent for West to apologize publicly. And that’s exactly what we plan to do. A series of apologies, actually. An apology tour, as it were.”
Whatever I was expecting to hear, it sure as shit wasn’t that. They’re turning his repentance into a fucking PR opportunity. Awesome. I don’t know how they think this will work, but real remorse can’t be choreographed.
“I’m still not quite sure I understand,” I admit. “A tour? Like he’s going to go to cities around the world and apologize to the fans? Like, that’s it? And I, what, document it all?”
“We were thinking something more focused. Pre-chosen people or groups of people. We haven’t nailed that part down yet, but the vision is to format it something like a reality TV program.”
“We don’t do extended video pieces. A few minutes here or there for interviews, but we’re no production company,” Jason interjects.
“We have a production company in mind for that part. What we need is someone to host, after a fashion,” Burke explains. “Someone to go with West on a series of prearranged visits, to ask him questions before and after, then to document it in a multipage spread and online article that will go live at the same time as the finished video piece.” He holds his hands up like he’s writing a billboard. “West’s Road to Redemption.”
A snort escapes before I can stop it.
West sighs and looks up at the ceiling.
Ford raises a brow. “You don’t like it?”
I press my lips together and shrug. “I just … I don’t think I’m your girl.”
“You’re our girl because West says you are,” Burke says flatly. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? That’s all this is. Reporting on a tour.”
I shouldn’t be surprised in the least that it was West particularly who brought me into this. Payback for not bowing and scraping, I suppose. And I don’t bother correcting him that I’m not a reporter, I’m a journalist. I doubt he cares about the difference, even if I do.
I lean forward, knitting my fingers together as I choose my words. Finally, I look up, between Burke and Ford. “I presume you want everything done in a light favorable to West. Which is why I’m telling you: I’m not your girl.”
A sly smile unfurls on Ford’s face. “Ah, but that’s the catch. We want honesty. Well, to a point. On the tour especially, we want someone who will ask the difficult, real questions. We’re looking for raw moments that will capture the fans. Mind, they’ll be edited later to ensure the desired effect, of course. And the article … well, maybe a little softer there, but no less honest. Though not unfavorable. The idea is to show enough of the man he is in the fans’ eyes trying to become the man they want him to be. And by the end, we really want to get the fans feeling that he’s changed. Do you think you can work within those terms?”
Do I think I can contribute to deceiving fans into thinking any of the bullshit they orchestrate is reality? That West has really changed when I’m not convinced he has? My eyes land on West, who has returned to messing with the table. But like he feels my gaze, his eyes snap up to meet mine.
“I can’t control what you edit to make things appear the way you want, but I also can’t participate in something that’s all for show,” I say to Ford while keeping my eyes on West. Then I tip my head to West. “Are you going to really do this?”
West tilts his head to the side and his brows pinch together.
“Why else would I be here?” His first words since he showed up.
Despite their surface meaning, his words don’t sit right with me. I give him a long, hard look and he smirks back at me. It just underscores my sense that West still has a long way to go before he’s ready to earn that redemption he thinks he’s entitled to.
“I’m not sure that I can,” I admit, tearing my gaze from West to meet Ford’s eyes. The disapproval there is obvious.
I glance over at Jason, who has been suspiciously quiet this whole time. All he does is shrug. Great. Guess I’m on my own.
“Let’s reframe,” Ford offers. “The current plan is to announce the album tour at the end of next month. How successful do you think ticket sales will be, Max?”
I give him a funny look. “What the hell do I know about ticket sales?”
“I think you know what I’m really asking,” Ford insists.
I purse my lips. Ah. Yes. Yes, I guess I do know wha
t he’s really asking. The same thing West was asking the first time he showed up here.
With a heavy sigh, I decide not to shy away from the truth this time. “I’d noticed album sales were weak, and I wasn’t surprised. Not because the album isn’t good. It is, actually. But because, like me, I think a lot of people aren’t willing to overlook the past. West burned a lot of fans with his actions. The cancelled concerts. Showing up so stoned off his ass he could barely play. The end was rough enough, even without the little public incident that landed him in rehab and broke up the band. He pretty much obliterated their trust. And if he doesn’t earn it back, I wouldn’t be surprised if the tour bombs even harder than the album.”
I keep my eyes on Ford, who is nodding like he knew I was going to say exactly what I did. But I don’t look at West. I can’t. As much as I’m disappointed in him for what he’s done, I still don’t want to hurt him. Because I’ve been on the other end of that hurt, and it sucks.
“And there’s the real issue at hand,” Ford says firmly. “Critic reviews have been just okay. The fan response hasn’t been a fraction of what was expected. The album is not proving out, on social media in particular, which, as you know, is everything these days. We couldn’t figure out exactly why, much less come up with a solution until you provided one.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” West’s angry words are directed at Burke.
“Sorry, kid, I didn’t know how. I knew what it would mean to you.”
West’s eyes flick between Jason and me. “Can we have a moment, please?”
Jason practically shoots out of his chair, and I realize just how superfluous he must have been feeling during this discussion. “Yes, of course. Max?” He tilts his head toward the door.
I nod and rise, leaving before I can give in to the urge to mouth to West, “I’m sorry.” Because despite my own feelings toward him, I am. I never wanted to be the one to deliver such a harsh truth. Thanks to me, West has just been clued in to exactly how broken his life still is.
Finding His Redemption Page 3
