by Cory Barclay
He and Annabel crossed the street together, holding hands.
Steve was just as surprised as Annabel when they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. They glanced at each other but said nothing.
Holding hands had come as natural to them as breathing. It was the first time it had happened, though, so it was kind of a big deal. If it was a sign of things to come, neither of them commented on it. Neither of them apologized, either.
Steve considered it the second win of the afternoon.
They climbed the stairs up to the fourth floor, walked down the open-aired hallway, and came to room 432. Steve knocked.
The door swung open a minute later. Surprisingly, it was not Henry who answered the knock. It was a woman.
It was Shannon Barton.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Steve said, not for the first time that day.
Shannon smiled politely. She was heading out, again, and déjà vu played itself over in Steve’s head. He stepped to the side to let her pass.
“Jeez, we seem to be running into each other all over the place,” Shannon said, still smiling.
“Yeah,” Steve said, less enthusiastically. “One could even say I’m following you . . .”
Henry’s face popped into view from behind Shannon. He came to the door dressed in brown slacks and a half-buttoned, collared Hawaiian shirt. Very un-lawyerly.
“Oh, you two know each other?” Henry asked.
Shannon and Steve both nodded.
“Excellent!” Henry said.
Shannon turned and said, “Bye, Henry. I’ll call you if I hear more.” Then she walked by Steve and headed down the hallway.
“I’m not following you, by the way,” Steve called out when she was halfway to the stairs, sounding a lot creepier than he’d intended.
Shannon stopped and turned around, a baffled look on her face. “What?”
Steve shook his head at his own stupidity and waved her onward. “Never mind. Have a good day, Mrs. Barton.”
Shannon smiled, nodded, and kept on walking.
Once she was out of sight, Steve turned to Henry and put his hands out wide, like Henry had done something wrong—something that should have been obvious.
“What?” Henry asked.
“That’s the girl who almost killed me! The one in the car crash I was telling you about when we were at the meet—”
“Meeting at the lineup at Windansea?” Henry said, eyeing Annabel cautiously. Steve had forgotten that Henry liked to keep his AA attendance a tight-knit secret. And since he was a surfer, “When I saw you in the lineup” was his first go-to.
“Y-Yeah,” Steve mumbled.
“What about it?” Henry said. “I’m representing her insurance claim.”
“Against whom?” Steve asked.
“Honda.”
“On what grounds?” Steve asked, growing more incredulous by the second.
“Automotive malfunction,” Henry said with a wry grin, air-quoting the words.
“Didn’t look like there was much of a malfunction to me . . . other than her driving over the sidewalk and crashing into the goddamned wall. And killing someone.”
“This was just a preliminary meeting, in case the insurance hounds from Buddy’s Diner come calling. I assumed you weren’t going to try suing her since there was no damage to your studio.”
Steve nodded slowly.
“And because you’re sort of a pussy.”
Steve’s eyes went wide. “What the hell, man!”
An ear-to-ear grin was on Henry’s face. “I’m just playing, Remi,” he said, stepping inside his office room and waving them toward him. “Come in, come in.”
Steve stepped inside. Annabel followed, and Henry gave her a hug, which is what he did with every pretty girl he met. That and probably more.
Once he finished hugging Annabel, then ignoring her as if she were still living on her own plane of existence, Henry turned to Steve and said, “That Shannon was a nice piece of ass though, eh?”
Steve was quickly learning that “Henry the AA Sponsor” was a much different human being than “Henry the Lawyer.”
Henry motioned to a beat-up old couch in the corner of the room, waited for Annabel and Steve to sit, and took a seat in a chair opposite them.
“You must be the infamous Annabel Lee,” Henry said, smiling. “Wicked name.”
“Infamous?” Annabel replied, chuckling nervously. “I’m not so sure . . . but yes, that’s me.”
“All right.” Henry vigorously rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Steve reached into his jacket and pulled out the stapled contract. He put the pages on the table and pushed it along to Henry.
The lawyer took the paper, reached into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, and took out some reading glasses. He had a frown on his face as he read the pages, but it wasn’t an angry frown, it was just his normal reading face.
Five minutes passed. Steve felt like smoking another cigarette.
Then Henry put the pages on the table. “It’s a pretty cut-and-dry, by-the-book mechanical license contract,” he began. “You’ll split royalties with the publisher and record label, which in this case is the same entity.”
“Imminent Records,” Steve said, trying to be helpful.
“Right,” Henry said. He furrowed his brows and leaned forward to inspect the pages again. “Although there are a few strange things I’m seeing. Now, I’m no entertainment lawyer, as you know . . . but it seems like you’re getting Jewed here.”
Steve let the anti-Semitic remark slide. Hopefully, Henry and John Levi would never be in the same room together.
Henry was pointing to a certain line on the third page of the three-page contract. He turned the pages around so Steve could read the line.
Even after reading it three times he couldn’t decipher what it meant. It was something about songwriters and publishers and rights.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?” Steve asked. He had signed several mechanical licenses before which spelled out how royalties would be split between the publisher and songwriter, but nothing that was an Artist Deal and Profit Split contract, combined.
“Well . . . the way I’m reading it, it sounds like Imminent Records will have the next five years of Annabel’s career, or three albums, all locked up. Whichever comes first.”
“Isn’t that pretty normal?” Steve asked.
“Sure, but the way it’s written, they’ll be her publisher and manager. Which makes sense. Because they’re planning on saddling her up with another artist, one Nersi Magdalin, who is already under their repertoire, it only makes sense they’d become Annabel’s manager, too. That way they’re managing both parties—songwriters and performers.”
Steve cocked his head and squinted, as if that would make him understand the words on the page better. Steve didn’t consider himself a “songwriter” on Annabel’s songs—he wasn’t over here asking for writing credits . . .
But the manager thing threw him off.
“Wait, what?” he said, a confused look growing on his face. “But I’m her manager.”
“Not if you sign this,” Henry said, shaking his head. “Sorry, bud, but your name isn’t mentioned anywhere on here. There’s no caveat making you her manager.”
“That . . .”
“If Annabel signs this contract, her songs and her persona—”
“Son of a . . .”
“—Become owned by Imminent Records for the next five years. Or three albums.”
“Bitch.”
Henry clicked his tongue. “Yeah, it’s a bad deal for you, bud. It’s a great deal for her, though.”
Steve leaned back into the couch, defeated. He sighed, long and heavy. All the energy and spirit seemed to leave his body.
Annabel was looking at him with her brows arched, like she felt utterly sad and ashamed.
“Go ahead,” Steve muttered, waving his hand at her. �
��It’s a great deal for you, Bel.
“Sign it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Are you sure you want to do this, Bel?” Steve asked.
They were at Buddy’s Diner, tucked away in a booth in a corner of the room. The place was relatively empty, which was pretty disconcerting considering it was 1:00 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon; peak lunch hour for the busy folk in PB.
Steve wondered how the place was ever going to stay open. It had taken management over six months after construction and the interior decoration was finished for them to get the proper licenses to open. The diner was beautiful, and a godsend for people like Steve who refused to cook unless on the brink of starvation, but it was practically always dead. And to add to the doom and gloom, it was open 24/7 in an attempt to cater to the drunk crowd, which it failed at because it was a few blocks too far from the bar scene.
Steve came back to reality as a waitress brought over their food: a French Dip for Steve, spaghetti and meatballs for Annabel. They both smiled at the waitress. Then she disappeared back behind the front counter on the other side of the restaurant, to hide behind her cell phone screen.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Annabel said, twirling a glob of spaghetti noodles on her fork. Steve could see the steam rising from the red sauce and he winced as she took a bite.
“Isn’t that hot?” Steve asked.
Annabel shrugged. “I can’t feel heat.”
Steve picked up half his sandwich and shook his head with a smile. Things were becoming less and less surprising these days, which he felt was a good thing. It had been nearly three hours since his last panic attack at the meeting with January Amos, and his blood pressure had successfully dropped.
He was going to try to play it cool from now on. So, when Annabel said something a normal person would think was a terrible condition or disease, Steve just shrugged it off as a boring new discovery.
Although an interesting factoid, nonetheless.
They ate in peaceful silence for about ten minutes, Steve glancing up to check out Annabel’s face every so often. When they were finished, Steve paid the waitress and the two got up to leave.
Steve cleared his throat as he put on his jacket. “Are you ready to see Mister Roboto?”
Annabel shrugged. “Ready as I’ll ever be. But try not to make a big scene, Mister Steve. Please, for my sake.”
Steve smirked. “You know I can’t make any promises, Bel.”
STEVE PARKED HIS LEXUS in the parking lot of Imminent Records. The lot was half-empty, and Steve wondered where everyone might be. Layoffs because of a dying industry? An extended lunch hour?
Regardless, Steve and Annabel both got out the car and trudged toward the front door of the building.
They were showing up unannounced.
When they were inside, a pretty front-desk secretary started to open her mouth to welcome them, but then realized her words were going to fall on deaf ears. Both Steve and Annabel had frowns on their faces and looked like they’d not be deterred.
“E-Excuse me, mister, missus, can I help you?” the secretary attempted anyway.
They ignored her, streamed past her desk, and beelined for John Levi’s office in the west wing of the building.
When they came to the door made of glass, like the dividing wall of the office, Steve could see through opened blinds that John was in a meeting with a woman.
The secretary had come from behind her desk and was waving her arms frantically at Steve and Annabel, trying to get them to stop their rampaging march. But her attempts were futile as she yelled, “Excuse me! Excuse me! You don’t have an appointment!”
Steve swung the door open and barged into the room, Annabel hot on his heels.
Both John and the woman sitting across from his desk shot their faces toward the door. The woman was a beautiful platinum blonde with high cheekbones and perfect makeup. She had been leaning over the table until Steve’s abrupt arrival, giving Steve the impression she and John Levi were actually flirting with each other.
Steve didn’t believe a generic cardboard cutout person like John knew what flirting was, much less how to do it.
“What is this?” were the first words out of John’s mouth as he sat up straight.
The secretary came bounding in after Steve. She was panting, probably from running from her desk in stilettos, which Steve imagined took quite a bit of effort.
“I’m sorry, Mister Levi, they wouldn’t stop.”
“It’s all right, Pam,” John lied. Steve could see the first signs of emotion starting to show on John’s face, though he couldn’t be sure what the emotion was. The levee of monotonous fastidiousness was breaking all around John’s face.
Pam apologized one more time, shot Steve a wicked glance, and escaped out the door.
“Steve, Miss Lee, what brings you two here . . . unannounced?” John asked, gaining control of his facial expression and flattening it into an emotionless mask. Then he gestured to the woman across from him, saying, “Miss Magdalin, I’m very sorry for the disturbance.”
“Oh, it’s no bother,” Miss Magdalin said in a smooth, silky voice. She seemed more interested in what Steve and Annabel had to say than whatever boring fluff John had been talking about.
“This may be opportune, in fact,” John said, trying to play off the moment like it didn’t bother him they’d come barging in full of fire and brimstone. He held his palm out toward Annabel. “That is the girl I was telling you about. The one who may be opening for you in the future.”
Nersi Magdalin turned her head and studied Annabel a bit harder. Annabel got immediately anxious and seemed to be shuffling behind Steve, toward his shadow.
“You’re the singer siren?” Steve asked.
Nersi laughed condescendingly. “Singer-songwriter, young man,” she corrected. She spoke with a haughty attitude, calling Steve “young man” even though she was probably younger than he was. It rubbed Steve the wrong way, which only added to his near-constant feeling of being rubbed the wrong way all day.
Nersi waved a hand at Annabel, waited for her to come out of the darkness, and said, “Let me take a look at you, girl. Oh, my goodness, you’re such a frail, slight thing!”
Annabel probably would have blushed if she’d been able to. Instead, she just stared at the ground. Things were already uncomfortable for her and, for whatever reason, it pissed Steve off.
“Had our lawyer go over the contract, Johnny boy,” Steve said.
“Did you, Steven?” John asked, his voice tight.
“Yeah,” Steve said. “I was wondering when you turned into such a fucking vampire”—he glanced at Annabel and quipped—“no offence.” Then he took out the rumpled contract from his jacket and held it up to the light in the room.
John leaned back in his seat, as if preparing himself for the verbal onslaught he knew was to come. The one good thing about having a cyborg like John Levi working in the PR department, from a company’s perspective, was that he never let his emotions get the better of him. His face was cool as a cucumber, even as Steve’s looked ready to explode like an Indonesian volcano.
“What are you talking about, Steven?”
Steve slanted his brows and pointed at a line on the page. He walked toward the desk and said, “It says here you’re a cocksucker and a greedy fuckwit. Was this part of the original contract, or was it a revised stipulation you added just to this one?”
Nersi covered her mouth with her hand, as if she hadn’t ever heard such vile language before, even though she was a Millennial, so . . .
John frowned and sighed. Even the icy-cool demeanor of Mister Roboto could only take so much before cracking. He was well on his way.
“What is the problem, Steven? If you have a dispute, just let it be known.”
Steve smacked the contract onto the desk and leaned forward with his palms down. He stared over John and snarled, “I’ve just aired my problem, Johnny. And my dispute is this: did you think I wasn’t going to find your little
confusing, backstabbing play on words? That I wouldn’t uncover your treachery?”
“What on earth are you talking about, Steven?”
Steve read John’s face, thinking, He has a pretty mean poker face. I’ll give him that.
“You’re a traitorous little assnugget, John. That’s what I’m talking about.” He spun the contract around and pushed it at John, so he could read it.
“Okay, Mister Steve, I think you’ve made your point.” It was Annabel who had spoken. She’d emerged from the shadow of her livid friend and had a hand on Steve’s back. It was enough to calm him down almost immediately.
So much for playing it cool.
He took a deep breath and muttered a few calming words to himself.
John read over the third page of the contract and when he was done his brows jumped up to his forehead. It was the first look of surprise Steve had ever seen from the man, in all the years he’d known him.
Steve didn’t want to admit it, but it looked genuine.
Maybe my anger was misplaced . . . Steve started to think. Then he threw the thought to the wind and shook his head. No. Fuck that.
“Bill must have added this in . . .” John muttered, shaking his head. He looked up from the contract and stared into Steve’s fiery eyes. “I apologize, Steven. This should not have been in there.”
Steve snorted and stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sure, Johnny. I don’t believe you. It was you who took an interest in us, man, not your boss. You should have known what the contract stated.”
John stared past Steve, at Annabel. There was a moment of brief silence, then he had the audacity to ask, “So you won’t sign it how it is, then?”
Steve’s mouth fell open. So did Annabel’s.
Steve’s feet jerked like they were going to involuntarily launch him over the desk so he could throttle the music rep.
“No, you idiot!” Annabel gasped, amazed John would even ask that. “Mister Steve and Mister Fats have given me everything! I wouldn’t be anywhere without them.”
Steve’s heart melted a little at hearing that.
“Is there nothing I can do to rectify this issue?” John asked.
