Starting From Scratch (Starting From Series Book 2)

by Lane Hayes

  And just like that, I was back in the pool with Ky. His tongue was in my mouth and his hands were everywhere. If I wasn’t wearing an ancient pair of undies and a pair of shorts I think I purchased my senior year of high school, I might have thought I’d imagined the whole episode. But it happened, and I couldn’t wait to do it again.

  The twinkling lights above the outdoor patio and soft strains of Italian music set the scene for romance. I eyed the gay couple lovingly gazing at each other over the single votive candle on their table with envy as I followed the maître d’ to a private section at the far end of the dining area. Sorrento’s was one of my favorite LA eateries. I loved the authentic food, the sophisticated ambience, and quite honestly, the people-watching couldn’t be beat.

  Hollywood royalty came to Sorrento’s for quiet dinners with family and friends while everyone else came to get noticed, or at the very least, to get a quality selfie. And the real world tended to overlook the hypocrisy of paying thirty dollars for a plate of pasta after lamenting hunger epidemics in poorer countries for a photo of their favorite social media personality hobnobbing with a beloved actor or singer. It might seem shallow and opportunistic, but entertainment ruled at all costs in LA, where image was everything. It was hard not to get swept away by the glamour and the glitz.

  The thing was, I saw through the BS faster than most. Wining and dining a prospective client on two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine and imported artisan cheeses smacked of something my dad would do. So I couldn’t decide if I should be glad the execs from Sandstone chose one of my favorite places or wary of the blatant schmooze move.

  We’d been given a generous round table shielded from view of the restaurant by long white privacy curtains and large potted olive trees. This particular table was usually requested for big-name celebrities who liked being able to come and go via the discreet pathway leading to a back alley. Perfect escape route to avoid the paparazzi, Hollywood hopefuls who didn’t get the part, or pesky exes. The first two didn’t apply, but I thought I spotted my Clark Kent ex when we first walked in. I couldn’t remember his name…Mason or Myron maybe. But he was built like Superman and was kind enough to leave his glasses on during sex.

  The important stuff was all in the details, I mused as I sipped my Brunello and surveyed our party of eight…Zero and me plus the founders of Sandstone, Ray and Neil. Oh…and Daria, the beautiful brunette they hoped to assign as an account manager to the band. She was tall and had green eyes, straight long hair she parted to one side, and a body that wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t be any gayer if I tried, but even I had to admit Daria was stunning. Better still, she was smart, levelheaded, and seemed to have a better feel for Zero’s music than her bosses, which might have been a generational thing.

  Ray and Neil were former bandmates in a ’90s grunge group turned respected studio musicians who’d pooled their resources to form their own record company a few years ago. Their focus was primarily on giving indie artists a platform that was a hundred times more professional than recording on YouTube with more transparency and fewer layers of bureaucracy than a big-name firm. On paper, they were a perfect fit for Zero. But in person…they were a couple of oddballs.

  That was a major statement coming from me. I grew up surrounded by “movie and music” industry people. There were days I came home from school to find a posse of A-list actors lounging by the pool or reading their lines in the living room over a pitcher of margaritas. Creativity reigned in our house. Scripts were everywhere, live music played till dawn. I distinctly recall drinking orange juice at our kitchen island as a famous actress rehearsed a scene from a film that won her an Academy Award the following year. I had a rarefied upbringing, to say the least. And though I didn’t have an ounce of talent, I had a true appreciation for those who did. Like Ray and Neil.

  Ray looked like a cross between Slash and a psychedelic priest, with his wild curly black hair, pink-tinted glasses, and colorful brocade smoking jacket. He had to be six foot five. His hand practically swallowed mine when he shook it. And other than saying a brusque hello when we first met, he left all the talking to his extremely loquacious partner. Neil was literally Ray’s opposite. He was short, skinny, balding, and he dressed like a banker. I surreptitiously googled a twenty-year-old photo of him under the table to make sure I was talking to the same hunk who’d wielded his bass like a badass almost thirty years ago.

  I wasn’t one to judge a book by its cover, but—okay, fine. I totally did that…and this cover didn’t give me the clues I was hoping would instinctively let me know I could trust this rather colorful duo with Zero’s future. I pasted a smile on my face as Neil talked about Sandstone’s vision for the future.

  “We love your sound, man. Love it. You’re great musicians, your chemistry is off the charts, and you’ve already got a head start building your brand. We don’t want to change a thing. We want to help package you and get the word out to the masses.”

  Justin brightened beside me. He leaned his elbows on the table and cocked his head. “So how would this work? Hypothetically speaking. What exactly would you handle? Shows, recording, promotional stuff?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah…all that,” Neil said excitedly.

  “But who works for who? I mean…Charlie’s taken care of the detail work for Zero on his own for months. Would he be employed by us or you?” Ky asked, winking slyly at me from across the table.

  I ripped a ciabatta roll in half and shot a death glare at him, wondering if he thought his playful query might distract me from noticing that his eyes had been glued to his lap all evening. Unless he was getting a stealthy blowjob under the linen tablecloth, he had to be on his cell. No one else either realized or cared, but I did. I’d been hypersensitive to Ky’s every move since he walked into the restaurant. And I had to give him credit…the skater boy cleaned up well. He wore basic dark jeans and a plain oxford shirt like the rest of the guys, but he looked especially sexy tonight. Ky’s longish hair brushed his collar and curled enticingly at the ends. I wanted to run my fingers through it, undo the top button on his shirt, and examine his neck to see if I’d left a mark when I bit him the other day. Fuck, just knowing I’d had my mouth on him made me feel tingly all over. Not okay.

  “Zero would remain its own entity and would employ whatever resources required…including your own manager. However, we would help with PR needs, like advertising for concerts and strengthening your social media presence,” Daria explained.

  “We don’t need social media assistance. I have that covered,” I assured her.

  She furrowed her brow slightly and tapped something on her phone. She cocked her head and smiled. “Wow. I’m impressed. Great page. Zero has a ton of followers too. How’d you manage that so fast? Did you buy followers?”

  “Excuse me.” I lowered my chin and gave her my best “come again” look.

  “Charlie’s the real deal. He’s a professional…” Justin snapped his fingers. “What’s the term?”

  “Enabler?” Ky offered.

  “Influencer.” I didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking, but I willed myself to fixate on Daria. I rattled off a few of my sponsors, then glanced at Neil who looked like he desperately wanted to get back to chatting about hypothetical profit margins. “It’s not something I do anymore, but the contacts are invaluable,” I said.

  “Absolutely. We’re always looking for ways to increase traffic and visibility. I’d love to discuss this further with you,” she replied earnestly.

  “Another time, another time,” Neil chanted with a dismissive wave. “There’s nothing to promote without the music. You boys gotta record your album and take it for a spin. And I don’t just mean in LA. You gotta promote the old-fashioned way too. Travel up and down the coast before hitting the East Coast…New York City, Boston, DC. We’ll pop you in at a few hot spots like Miami, Nashville, Denver, Dallas. And we’ll get you radio and TV gigs. First time outta the gate, you gotta get your faces out there so people who’ve never he
ard of you before can’t fuckin’ forget you. We want them to talk about you, buy your singles, go to your concerts. We wanna see you conquer the US of A…and then Europe, Australia, Asia…the whole damn world.”

  “Really?” Johnny asked.

  “Yeah, man. You’ll be bona fide rock and roll stars!”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Tegan commented dubiously.

  “It’s not easy,” Ray finally piped up. “It takes hard work, sacrifice, grit, determination. Luck helps too. We’ve backed a few heavy-hitting artists on a few memorable songs that still get airtime on the radio. Not every story is going to be a success, but we have a fuckton of personal experience in the business, and we know potential when we hear it.”

  Neil thanked our waiter and discreetly handed over his credit card, then sat back with a satisfied nod. “We want to expand our portfolio and we’re here to help. We know things aren’t perfect in the beginning. It’ll take some time before you give the Stones anything to worry about, but that’s okay. Hell, we just signed on a very ragtag band who still need a bass player and a drummer who’s worth a shit. Their whole rhythm section is in shambles. But man, the lead singer can play guitar like a champ and he’s got star quality. Just like you guys.”

  “Who is it?” Justin asked conversationally as he pulled out his cell.

  “Funny name,” Neil mumbled. “Deck something or other.”

  “Declan McNamara. The band is Jealousy…I think,” Daria chimed in.

  “Declan,” Tegan repeated before turning to me. “Did you know about this?”

  “No, of course not.” I shook my head as though the gesture was proof of my sincerity.

  “Is that a problem?” Daria asked.

  “Yeah. It’s a big problem.” Justin stood slowly. He extended his hand to Neil and then to Ray and Daria. “Thank you for dinner and thank you for your interest. It was nice to meet you all.”

  “What’s your hurry?” Neil shook hands with each band member numbly. “Is something wrong?”

  “You could say that,” Justin replied. “We aren’t sharing a label with Declan. Ever. There’s bad blood and a whole lotta bad history between us. I’m not going to pretend to like him for the sake of selling a coupla records, and I won’t give you the power to pit us against each other for sales, notoriety, or popularity.”

  “We wouldn’t do that. Hell, we didn’t know there was any animosity between you at all.”

  “Bullshit,” Justin hissed. “If you’ve paid any attention to the LA indie scene over the past year, you know all about it. And if you haven’t paid attention, you probably aren’t the right fit for us after all. Thanks for your consideration and uh…good luck with Dec. You’ll need it.”

  Justin pulled back the curtain and made a dramatic exit worthy of…well, me. Tegan and Johnny followed closely behind him. But Ky didn’t move and I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was when the band unceremoniously walked away from a meeting. And I should have known by now. This wasn’t the first meeting Justin had stormed out of. He was a hothead with a short fuse. This time, however, it was entirely my fault. I’d been so concerned about avoiding the big firms and doing this my way that I’d forgotten to ask a few key questions and had neglected my research. No one in their right mind would sign an unformed band. If Sandstone signed Declan, it had to be with the intent to cross-promote him with Zero.

  Neil made a production of signing the bill before putting his credit card in his wallet. Then he stood and motioned for Ray and Daria to join him. I swiped my clammy palms on my khakis as I stood. When snappy repartee eluded me, I decided to stick with the truth.

  “Um, that was uncomfortable.”

  “What can we say? Neither of us knew Declan McNamara would cause a problem tonight.” He shrugged nonchalantly before offering me his hand.

  “If I’d known you’d already signed him, I could have put it together,” I admitted.

  “Ah.” Neil tapped his forefinger against his temple and twisted his lips into a condescending smirk. “Due diligence is crucial, Mr. Rourke. That contract was signed twenty-four hours ago. We posted a video, didn’t we, Daria?”

  “We did,” she confirmed, casting an unreadable glance from me to Ky, who chose that moment to finally look up from his cell.

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” I said, pursing my lips unhappily.

  “Look it up on our website. It should be all over social media too.” Neil parted the curtain and held the fabric in a lazy grip. “We’re still interested. Give me a call. You probably know better than most that a little competition is the best form of publicity. There’s really no reason we can’t work together.”

  I watched the drapery fall into place, then gazed unseeing at the crystal chandelier over the table. My head ached, my hands shook, and the bowl of tagliatelle Bolognese I’d devoured sat in my stomach like a bowling ball. I couldn’t believe I’d fucked up so spectacularly. I wasn’t sure what to do next.

  “Well, um…”

  “I recorded it,” Ky said matter-of-factly.

  “Why?” I knit my brow as I gingerly reached for my wineglass.

  “So we’ll have leverage if they release any footage of Justin exploding. I doubt they will, but we’ll want to back up our side of the story.”

  I gulped my wine and winced. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he asked, rounding the table. He stopped a couple of feet away from me and narrowed his eyes.

  “Tonight. I should have been up-to-date on my sources. I should have known they’d signed Declan. At the very least, I should have checked their Instagram page,” I said, swirling my wine like a faux connoisseur.

  “Maybe, but it’s not the end of the world.” Ky glanced down at his phone when it buzzed in his hand, then typed a quick message and stuffed it into his back pocket.

  “Are you texting Justin?” I asked.

  “No. My sister. I’m late for a family…meeting. I didn’t want to call for a ride until I was sure this shit show was over.”

  “Where’s your truck?”

  Ky slipped my glass from my fingers before I lifted it to my lips. “Slow down. And relax. I didn’t bring my truck ’cause I can guaran-damn-tee you I’m gonna wanna get shitfaced afterward.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing. It sounds weird coming from you.”

  I didn’t argue, a true sign I was out of sorts. “Okay.”

  Ky reached for my chin and held my gaze for a moment. “Hey, Char…shit happens. There are other labels. We’re a kickass band. We’re gonna find the right fit.”

  “They were perfect,” I mumbled.

  “No. They were the first ones you got excited about. It’s like your first lay. You get all dressed up, wear cologne, stress about your hair and your clothes even though you hope they’re gonna get messed up. You choose a fancy restaurant, spend more money than you should, and try not to sweat when the bill comes. Then you go back to your place and you talk, you lose your clothes, you kiss, you fuck, and it’s just…meh. You connect, but not really.” Ky flattened his hand and wiggled his fingers in a universal mediocre signal. “All that fuckin’ buildup for nothing. But not really. You learn something new every time. Sometimes it’s physical, sometimes it’s mental. You just gotta keep showing up and paying attention.”

  “My first time sucked,” I agreed.

  “See? I know what I’m talking about.” He cocked his head and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Hey, what are you doing? You can’t just sit here all night feeling sorry for yourself, you know.”

  I quirked my lips wanly and sighed. “I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m having a quarter-life crisis. It’s been coming on for weeks. I think it finally hit. I’m a disaster. I need a new career, stat. I’ll look into the army in the morning.”

  Ky busted up laughing. “Yeah, let me know how that goes, drama queen. Back in the real world, I’m still waiting for your answer.”

  “What’s the
question?”

  He slapped his hand against his forehead and groaned. “I need a ride to BJ’s to meet Mona. Can you take me?”

  I stared at him for a long moment. “Did you say BJ? You know it’s going to be difficult to give a blowjob if I’m the one driving. Hand job might be doable.”

  “And he’s back,” he said sounding like a game show host.

  I snickered in spite of my crappy mood. “Where is BJ-town? This sounds like something I should know.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s off Wilshire…a ten-minute drive, tops.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled.

  Ky held out his hand for a high five. When I ignored it, he grabbed my wrist and smacked my palm against his before hooking his arm with mine. Then he moved the curtain aside and gestured for me to go first. I gave him an imperious once-over before sailing ahead of him with my shoulders back in a confident gait that in no way reflected how I was really feeling.

  Side street traffic in LA could be unpredictable, but it was almost always better than chancing the 405 or a major thoroughfare like Wilshire Boulevard at eight p.m. on a Saturday night. I cut down a quiet residential street in Beverly Hills to avoid slower-moving vehicles. I didn’t take the twenty thousand stop signs and speed bumps along that stretch into account. Ky shot a deadpan glance at me when I turned onto Wilshire again.

  “Hey, that was an exciting detour of a darkened city neighborhood, but I was kind of hoping to get there before midnight,” he snarked.

  I raised my brow as I adjusted the volume on the Metallica classic blaring through my speakers. “Keep your pants on, Ky. Tell your gal pal we’re almost there. I think.”

  “Mona isn’t my gal pal,” he huffed with a half laugh before humming softly to “Unforgiven.”

  “Is she an ex?” I prodded, quickly adding, “I know it’s none of my business, but I really can’t listen to the voices in my head, so just…humor me. Tell me about Mona or your favorite brand of shampoo or what you’re doing tomorrow. Anything. Please.”