by L. Philips
I drink about half the beer in one gulp. “So?”
“So?” Victor cries, like he cannot fathom how I’m so oblivious. “So that had to have been Cameron’s people, telling them to back off. Maybe even paying them to. I’m telling ya, they had ‘bodyguard’ written all over them. They’ve probably worked for Izzy James. I should have run out and asked.”
I wince at the name. Izzy is a pop princess with no talent except for dancing provocatively and breathing heavily into a microphone on occasion. She is the personification of everything that’s wrong with the recording industry.
“Probably,” I say. “She’s a Paradise artist, of course. Just like Haylee Jones and Taylor Huffman. They’re all the worst.”
“Geez, Taylor Huffman. What a crock.” Victor sips his beer. “Though I suppose if I looked like a living Ken doll, I might have a recording contract too.”
“Nothing sells better than a clean-cut boy and bubblegum pop. Especially if he seems troubled.”
I polish off my beer in a few large gulps and wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. It’s decidedly un-Nate of me, but then, so are paparazzi at my house. I check to make sure I haven’t left a stain on my shirt, which has tiny little whales all over it. I’ve paired it with navy Bermuda shorts and a pink bowtie. If not for the Converse, I’d look like a spokesman for a yacht club. A geeky yacht club, perhaps, but yachting all the same.
The Converse. Ugh.
“Think it’s safe to go back home?”
Victor burps and doesn’t bother excusing himself. “Doubtful. Cameron’s people may have shooed away some of the paps, but I have a feeling that was just the first round. Luckily, Tonya wasn’t home. No sign of her.”
“Probably out drinking or something,” I say. Hopefully she misses it all. I’m not sure how she’d handle knowing that Richard Pierce’s son is searching for me, but I do know it wouldn’t be great. She’d probably make my life even more of a hell if she found out.
The thought makes me so stressed, my fingers feel itchy. “Hey, Vic, is it okay with you if I go play a little?”
“Sure, man. You heard Mom. Gabriel’s room is all yours if you want,” Vic says. “Who knows how long you’ll have to hide out.”
I don’t know how long I’ll have to, but I know that there is no way I’m going to stay in L.A. if that’s the case. But I don’t say that to Victor. Instead, I take my guitar case up to his brother’s bedroom and plop down on the bed. Gabriel is at college, so I truly have the place to myself. My guitar is out and tuned in minutes, but I don’t play. I thought I wanted to, but it really wasn’t about the playing. It was about missing someone.
So I get out my phone. I have a YouTube playlist for when I’m feeling like this. It has all the best music I’ve ever heard, the most skillful guitar playing I’ve ever seen, the most incredible stage charisma of the last few decades.
It’s a playlist full of Dad.
I watch him in video after video. Whether he’s in front of a crowd, or with a band, or just by himself in front of our cheap old computer camera in Brooklyn, he’s a star. He’s a genius.
These videos, and a few of his guitars, that’s all I have left of him. There are bootlegs of some of his homemade recordings, rough and low quality. There are videos of him playing at bars, shaky as the fans recording them clapped and cheered. But he never got to complete an album, never got to complete a whole musical thought like that, never got to tour, never got to show the world what he could do. It wasn’t until after he jumped that the world realized what they’d lost. His videos went viral. The bootlegs made the internet rounds. People desperately drank up every drop they could find of his talent.
But it’s gone now. And it’s gone because of Richard Pierce and Paradise Entertainment.
An hour later, I turn off my playlist and go find Victor again. He’s stretched out on the couch, playing a video game but clearly half-assing it. When his character gets shot and dies, he doesn’t even curse.
“I need to go.”
Victor pauses the game and sits up. “I don’t know. I think they’ll still be there and you’ll have to go through them to get inside, and you know that will be all over the internet tomorrow.”
“Not that,” I say. “I mean I have to hide. Go where Cameron and his minions can’t find me. Summer break just started. We have weeks that we could be anywhere but here. By the time I have to get back to school, Cameron will have forgotten all about me.”
Saying that makes my chest tighten, but it’s the truth.
Victor doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”
I growl in frustration. “Please stop asking that. You know who these people are, Vic. You know what they did to my dad and what they probably do to every legitimate musician they meet. Which will include me if I get close. All I need is a job, some place far away. But how?”
In response, Victor takes his phone out and starts texting because of course he does. I don’t ever want to know what kind of connections he has (deniability is of the utmost importance), but he really can work miracles sometimes. Within a minute he has a reply text, and an answer. “Well, I have something for us, but I’m gonna owe him big. I’m talking huge. Like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Literally.”
He’s up and grabbing my duffel bag off the floor, where we’d both left it, and all I can do is follow behind out of curiosity and hopelessness.
“Where, Victor?”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone? Even Tonya?”
I pause. “She’s going to need to know where I am.”
Victor doesn’t regard this as an answer, and keeps looking at me as if I haven’t spoken. I sigh. Deeply. “I guess I can just tell her I won’t be around for a while. Like she’ll care. But can I know where I’m going?”
“We’re going,” Victor gently corrects. “Remember my cousin who’s friends with Jack from the Jacket Zippers? He’s looking for help. He can only get us work for about two weeks. Think that’s long enough?”
I, quite literally, feel my heart skip a beat or two. “Long enough? Are you kidding me? We’re going to be roadies for the Jacket Zippers! It could be an hour for all I care.”
Victor shakes his head, and my disappointment is instantaneous and crushing, until he says, “No. Not the Zippers. They’ve got a few weeks off from touring, so Martin’s helping another band out for a while, and they happen to be playing San Diego tomorrow, so we can catch them down there and spend a few weeks on the road with them. Sound cool?”
“Victor, who? What band?” Impatience doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling. Impatience and a gigantic dose of anticipation.
“Liquid,” Victor says, then grins like the cat that caught the canary.
“Liquid,” I say, and that’s all I say because I’m speechless. Liquid is nearly my favorite band of all time. Well, my favorite behind bands like, you know, the Rolling Stones.
“I thought you might like this plan.”
I don’t even acknowledge that because of course I like this plan. Traveling with Liquid on a tour? Um, this is bucket-list-level awesome. This is once-in-a-lifetime awesome. And not only that, but I’ll be untraceable to Cameron Pierce, and to any paparazzi who might want to linger over this story. Oh, and there’s one other major bit of awesome that I haven’t mentioned. I take a deep breath, steady myself, then speak.
“I can’t just take my acoustic. I’m going to need my Strat too.”
Victor raises an eyebrow, and it’s my turn to grin, all arrogant and know-it-all-ish. “There is no way I’m going to be out on tour with the Travis Blake, the guitarist Rolling Stone has predicted will be the guitarist of the decade, and not jam with him. At least once. Two or three times, if I have any say in it.”
Victor nods, eyes sparkling. “All right. Looks like I’ve gotta brave the paps one more time. God, what has happened to our lives?”
/>
“Maybe Cameron Pierce just did me the biggest favor ever. Maybe trying to avoid him will lead to the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had.” I can’t help myself. I giggle. Actually giggle, like Heath Ledger’s psychotic Joker. But it’s okay, because Victor gets it, and he joins me.
“You know,” I say to him, “on second thought, grab my dad’s Strat, not mine. Much more fitting for the occasion.”
Victor meets my seriousness with his own and nods. “Of course. Give me a half hour. I’ll get the guitar. Pack my stuff while I’m at your house? My best stuff, Nate. Not what you would wear. No suspenders.”
“And I want all the suspenders you can fit in my bag.”
Victor pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re so hopeless.”
And with that, we go our separate ways.
Chapter Six
Cameron
This time when I’m summoned to Father’s office, I’m not alone. I don’t think it’s going to help, though. I have a feeling it might make it worse.
Tess is already sitting when I enter, and I notice she’s done her best to look modest. She’s wearing jeans, flats, and a sweater set Mom would have worn. I have to wonder why she didn’t throw on some pearls too, just for the added effect.
I take a seat next to her. Father’s chair is empty, but his desk looks imposing even without him there.
“How much trouble do you suppose we’re in?” I ask Tess.
Tess shifts. Her leg, which is crossed over the other, bounces. I put my hand on her knee and she stills. She takes to biting at her manicure instead. “Depends on how much he knows.”
“Tess, come on,” I say. “He may not read the rags himself, but you can damn well be sure everyone in this building reads them for him, and he’s briefed every morning. Usually he needs to know about his artists. I can only imagine his surprise when he finds out what his own children have been up to.”
“Ugh, you’re right.”
Then the door swings open, and in walks Father. Strides, rather. The brisk pace does not bode well.
“Tess. Cameron. I don’t have much time, so I’ll get right to the point.” He sits at his desk and shuffles some papers around, carefully aligns some ink pens, then folds his hands together as if praying. “I am leaving for a while. There’s a small label in the Emirates I’d like to acquire, as well as one in London. I will need a couple months to close the deals on both, and while I am gone, Barnett will be fulfilling my duties here.”
I nod. It makes sense. Maxwell Barnett, who is ten years older than my father but probably a lot less stressed- out, has been my father’s right-hand man for ages.
“As for the both of you . . .” Father stands up and walks to the windows, looking out to the fire-burnt hills in the distance. “It’s time we figure out what part you’ll play in the future of the company.”
Tess and I quickly exchange a glance and then look back down at our hands, folded neatly in our laps.
“We’ve taken on a handful of new artists lately, one of them at Richie’s suggestion,” Father says with a slight nod to me. “So far you’ve just been observing, but from here on out, I want you two to take an active role. You will be involved in every step of the process with a few of these new artists, shadowing the staff in each department, from marketing to production. I want you to learn all you can. Then, perhaps, we can see about you taking on more responsibilities, like scouting, perhaps.”
Tess leans forward, eager. “I don’t suppose I could work with Luke Miles, could I?”
My father, in a rare display of warmth, smiles back at her. “I was hoping that would be agreeable. Along with the Jacket Zippers. Because the two are at opposite ends of the spectrum, musically speaking, it would be good for the two of you to understand how to manage both. The staff here is extremely knowledgeable, so ask a lot of questions and try to understand the reason behind all the decisions your mentors will make about the artists.”
Father returns to his seat and looks at Tess and me in turn. “If this arrangement sounds agreeable, we’ll meet tomorrow and go over everything: schedules, contracts, general protocol, and meetings. After, Parker will meet with each of you, as he will be your assistant while you’re working here.” Father eyes my black jeans and Aerosmith tee. “And perhaps I’ll see to it that Jillian can get the tailor here. You’ll need suits.”
“I have a suit.”
My father does the closest thing he can to a wince and still be dignified about it. “You will need more than one, and they will all need to be impeccable.”
“And me?”
Father’s face instantly softens as he looks at my twin. “Teresa, my dear, you always dress well. Just make sure your skirts are an appropriate length. And, Tess, I know you have . . . other aspirations, but I hope you’ll learn all you can about this business, and you’ll keep an open mind about it being an option for the future.”
Father gives her a meaningful look, and when he stands again, making for the door, she turns her face to me and sticks out her tongue. “See?” she whispers. “Daddy likes how I dress. You should let me pick out your clothes.”
“Over my dead body,” I shoot back.
“Well, your corpse would be very fashionable, then.”
Richard Pierce opens the door wide, expectantly. Our cue to leave. “I’ll see you both tomorrow morning so we can get started. I . . .” He pauses and, oddly, seems apologetic. “I won’t be home until late tonight. There are too many loose ends here to tie up before I leave. I’ll miss dinner.”
Missing dinner in the Pierce household is a Big Deal. Even if the world has dissolved into a zombie apocalypse, if we’re in town, we’re expected to have our asses in our assigned chairs at exactly eight p.m. We meet, we eat, we make polite small talk. As boring as it sounds, it’s our tradition, and it’s the only time of the day that our family is just a family, not a business.
Something compels me to put my hand on my father’s shoulder. “We’ll make sure someone saves you a plate.”
Father nods. He gives me a brief smile, which he then turns on Tess. “I trust you both. Oh, and please keep your names out of the Star until I return?”
My sister and I barely make it until the elevator doors close behind us to laugh. She blows out a breath and pushes the button for our floor.
“Not a single lecture. Do you suppose he’s feeling well?” Tess says.
“As long as I’m not cut out of the will, I’ll take it,” I say, smiling. “Also, I told you so. He wants you in the business, Tess.”
Tess puts her nose in the air. “Uh-huh. You and I will have the same training, then he’ll hand over the keys to you. Maybe, if he’s generous, he’ll let me be your secretary. He might even let me have seventy-five cents to every dollar you make.”
Anger flares within me, but I quickly realize it’s toward the wrong thing. Or person. I sigh. “I’ll tell him right now I don’t want this if it will make you happy.”
Tess slumps, her willowy frame practically folding. “No. And I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for this, and it’s not your fault Daddy is the way he is. Besides, he’s right. I have other aspirations.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t want him to recognize your talents and treat you as an equal. God knows you’ll be a whole lot better at this than me.” I touch my forehead to hers. “Just tell me how to help you take down the patriarchy, and I’ll kick its ass.”
Tess laughs. “Thanks, Cameron.”
“Of course, if you’d just tell me what your other aspirations are, specifically, I could start helping now.”
“Nope. Not yet,” she says with a wicked gleam in her eye. The elevator arrives with a ding and Tess steps in. “You’re just going to have to be patient.”
“A hint? Come on.”
“Not a chance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”
“For Paradis
e?” I ask, feeling a bit left out.
“Nope. It has to do with my secret aspirations.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “See you at dinner!”
Before I can follow her into the elevator, she’s pressed a button and the doors are closing, leaving me stuck to catch the elevator on its next journey down.
I sigh. That girl is going to take over the world someday.
Nate
When Victor and I step into the venue, which is a step above the Crown and a step down from something like the Ryman as far as quality goes, I gape like a fish. Already the place is bustling, even though it’s about four hours from showtime. I set my bag at my feet and stare.
The stage is small, but it’s loaded down with equipment. I can see that Liquid’s keyboardist, Vanessa, has already unpacked her massive setup and has it arranged the way she wants it. Murray’s drums are set up too, and even though Murray is probably the weakest link in the band, he knows what he’s doing with that setup. It’s perfected to enhance Liquid’s dark, almost Depeche Mode–esque sound. There isn’t any sign, however, of Brendon’s basses, or most importantly, Travis Blake’s guitars.
“That was fast.”
I turn and recognize Martin immediately. If it’s possible, he looks even more road-worn than he did a couple of days ago at the Jacket Zippers concert. A couple more days without a close shave, perhaps.
Victor shakes his hand. “Surprised I didn’t get a speeding ticket.”
I go back to watching a bunch of guys dressed in head-to-toe black shift some sound equipment around on the stage. “They set up so early?” I ask.
Martin nods. “They like to. Then they run a sound check and disappear to do whatever it is they do for a few hours before they play.”
