by R. E. Blake
Which is all fine and good, but takes every bit of self-control I have.
“When does she leave?” I ask. At least there’s a positive in all this. No more Lisa to worry about – not that I doubted Derek. I just don’t trust her, obviously for good reason.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Derek, I know this has been hard. But I want to tell you that you’ve been honorable all the way through, and it makes me really proud of you.”
“I don’t feel all that honorable.”
“Maybe being good isn’t as easy as everyone pretends.”
“You got that right.”
“Derek?”
I can hear him breathing on the line, three thousand miles away. “Sage?”
“Fly here as soon as you can. I want to celebrate, and what I have in mind only works if you’re with me.”
“I’m working on it.”
I blink back tears of relief – and something else – and wipe my face with the back of my hand. I sniff, and my voice is thick when I say the next words.
“Work harder.”
Chapter 14
I wake up the next day to a host of messages from Melody. The first one pretty much sets the tone for the rest.
Mel: You owe me ten bucks.
I text her back: I’ve never been so happy to lose money in my life.
Her response pops up moments later: Have you seen the coverage?
Me: No. Just getting up.
She sends me three URLs with a short message: Call me once you’ve read them.
I roll out of bed and decide to shower later. I wander out to the living room and sit down with my tablet and phone, and go to the first of the sites. On it is the infamous photo of Lisa holding the baby out to Derek, with a superimposed hand giving her the bird. The headline says it all:
Lies, Damned Lies, and DNA. Derek Not Pops!
Apparently someone at the lab – or more probably Derek’s manager, in an effort to boost his publicity and keep him in the headlines – leaked the test results. There’s a picture of Lisa from her FB page holding up a red plastic cup, looking wasted and throwing a peace sign. The article, if you can call it that, is sparse.
I almost feel sorry for her. It’s got to suck to believe you found your child’s father, only to be publicly humiliated. Then again, the way she went about introducing Jason was about as below the belt as possible, so my pity only goes so far. Live by the limelight, die by it, I think as I go to the next site, which is more of the same.
I try to imagine what she must be going through right now – heading back to a home life that’s got to be terrible, a laughingstock and a reputation as a slut cemented online, no prospects and no father in evidence…suddenly my morning isn’t so bad after all.
The coffee maker hisses and pops, and then finally erupts the last of its payload into the pot as I read the third site, which is even less detailed than the last. But the comments are scathing, and I marvel at how mean fans can be. Everything from “I hope you die” to “That’ll teach you to ho around, now get a job, bitch.” I shake my head and pour myself a steaming cup of brew, glad I’m not involved in this brouhaha. Although a part of me feels sorry for the child, who hasn’t done anything to deserve any of this.
When I call, Melody sounds about as happy as I’ve ever heard her.
“Did I tell you, or what? Boom! Buh-bye, biatch!”
“Morning to you too, Melody.”
“Tell me you’re not doing the Rocky victory dance. Just tell me that with a straight face.”
“I’m just relieved that we can put this behind us.”
“Save that for the talk shows. I know you. Ten bucks, baby. Come to Mama!”
“Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“I’m just glad she got what’s coming to her. Payback’s a bitch!”
We continue on like this until she runs out of ways to chortle, and once she settles down, she starts in on me.
“So now what?”
“Now what, what?” I ask.
“When do you and Derek hook up again?”
I take a long sip of my coffee. “Not soon enough.”
“Do you have any plans? Tickets bought? Weekend getaways?”
“They’ve got me booked solid for the next two weeks, and I’m working with the band, trying to take it in a new direction. So I can’t take off.”
“What about him? Come on, I mean, you flew all the way there. You can’t tell me he’s busier than you are.”
“I think the problem is that he’s just as busy, but he doesn’t have as much clout with his manager or the label, so he can’t get away.”
“God, that’s terrible. I’d be going apeshit if I was in your panties.”
“I’m not super happy about it,” I concede.
“Well, then, do something. Move the mountain, baby.”
“Speaking of which, when will we be seeing more of you around here?”
“I so want to come down there. I’m bugging my mom every day. Using you as the excuse, of course. I miss my good friend and want to spend quality teen spirit time with you.”
“You left out the hot twenty-something producer, huh?”
“She might take it the wrong way.”
“Yeah, like an older lecher taking advantage of her delicate hothouse flower?”
“Something like that. Don’t want my innocence spoiled.”
I almost snort coffee through my nose. “That bus left the station a while ago.”
“See, that’s the kind of cynicism she wants me protected from. That Hollywood perspective, where everything’s just ugly.”
“Uh-huh. I’m a bad influence.”
“Damn right. But I’m willing to fly down to see you anyway.”
“Big of you. When was that again?”
“I have to see how Sebastian’s schedule looks.”
“Wait. I thought it was all about me.”
“No point in flying there if he’s locked in the studio all day and night.”
“Especially night.”
“Glad we’re on the same page. I worry about you sometimes.”
“Have you thought about this any further? I mean, beyond ‘Sebastian’s hot and I want to get busy with him’?” I ask.
“I want to move down there as soon as I can. The only problem is I have no money, I’m still in school, and my mom says absolutely not.”
“Then you’re practically here.”
“That’s how I look at it. The rest is details.”
“Love will find a way. But maybe not a GED or a job.”
“I was hoping you’d hurry up and get rich and famous and then keep me around as entourage. Every star needs an entourage. Don’t you know anything?”
“Kind of a personal manager.”
“Exactly. Someone to keep all the celebrity from going to your head. Keep you out of rehab.”
“You’re perfect for that. A grounding influence.”
“So what’s the starting pay?” Melody asks.
“Considering I’m making nothing, you can have…five percent of nothing, for now.”
“I want at least ten percent of nothing, or the deal’s off.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a hard-nosed businesswoman, too.”
“My ability to surprise is all part of the package. No extra charge.”
We both crack up. I must be giddy from the rush of caffeine. I finish my cup and lean back, swinging one leg as I look at the time. “Hey, I have to get going. Places to go. People to see.”
“How quickly they forget their real friends.”
“Seriously. Let me know when you want to come down. You’ve always got a bedroom…as long as I’ve got the place. Which won’t be much longer, so better take advantage of it.”
“I’ll send you my flight info when I have a ticket.”
Chapter 15
Saul is back in his office, and he’s asked Terry and me to come in to discuss my difference of opinion with his creati
ve gurus. More like summoned, but nobody’s using that word. We wait on the couch in the lobby area of the executive studios, where a glacial blonde receptionist fields a never-ending stream of calls from behind her desk.
Terry’s multitasking, replying to emails on her phone as she reads a spreadsheet she extracted from her messenger bag. I wonder what it must be like to be her – whether she’s got any kids, a husband or at least a boyfriend, any kind of life outside of work. I’d ask, but it’s none of my business and I don’t want to come off as nosy, so instead I content myself with reading a copy of Billboard from the pile on the steel and glass coffee table.
“Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?” the receptionist asks, when she has a break from the muted warbling of the phones.
“Oh, no. We’re good,” Terry says without asking me or looking up. I shake my head to preserve my illusion of choice and go back to reading about who’s breaking big and who’s sliding down the charts.
Ruby appears five minutes later and invites us to follow her to Saul’s office. When we arrive, I’m surprised by how cluttered it is. I had sort of pictured him being in a mega corner office large enough to land a plane in. The reality is a moderately sized space with a credenza heaped high with paperwork; a desk with a screen, keyboard, and mouse; and nothing else. Countless framed gold and platinum records adorn the walls. He’s finishing up a call as we enter and points to two seats in front of his desk. There’s no third seat for Ruby, and I exchange a glance with Terry, who acts like she sits in these chairs a dozen times a week.
“Yeah, don’t give me that. I said make it happen. You don’t, we got nothing to talk about, understand?” he barks, his tone ominous, and slams the handset into the cradle before fixing us with a stare that could freeze fire. “Sage. Terry. Thanks for coming. What’s all this I hear about you giving my creative team the finger?”
“That’s not quite how it went down, Saul. There was a difference of opinion. Sage explained what she wanted. Nobody had asked her, apparently, so there was a disconnect. I thought we resolved it,” Terry says, her tone measured and reasonable, with not a trace of fear.
“Screw that. I spent a fortune on this campaign. What’s the problem with it? It’s sexy, it’s fun, it’s got everything,” Saul says, as though the matter’s decided.
“What it doesn’t have is anything resembling Sage,” Terry explains. “You’ve got her turned out like a Sunset Strip hooker on a Saturday night. It’s not going to fly.”
Saul’s eyes narrow dangerously, and I have a moment of doubt as to how Terry’s handling this. I glance over at her, and she might as well be knitting for all the concern she’s exhibiting.
“Sage, why don’t you explain to me why my million-dollar team doesn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground?” Saul says.
I’m so flustered by his tone I almost choke on my own saliva, but when I speak I sound calm and in control, which surprises me as much as it apparently does him.
“It’s not that they don’t know what they’re doing. It’s just that they don’t seem to have any idea why I won the contest, or why anyone might be a fan. Other than trying to force a round peg into a square hole – because that’s what they’re used to doing – they did great.” Saul’s listening, although turning a little red, unless it’s my imagination; but now I’m committed, so I forge on. “What I mean is that my appeal’s kind of an unspoiled thing that’s based on my street days. People are rooting for the kid who plays guitar on the sidewalk, not a media creation. And that’s not the kind of record we made, so if that’s what they’re expecting, they’ll be really disappointed. The look’s got to match the album, don’t you think?”
Terry takes over. “Saul, Sage is a special artist. She can cross over into country, into rock, and she has strong followings with both males and females. Because of who she is and what she accomplished. She’s the underdog that everyone wants to root for. You put lipstick and lingerie on her, and that all goes away. I think it’s a bad idea to throw your advantage out the window without a fight. Which is why I’m glad you’re paying personal attention to this. I know how busy you are. Believe me, we both appreciate it.”
By the end of the meeting, Saul and Terry are joking like nothing confrontational happened. Saul assures us that he’s on board with our idea, and Terry winks at me as we leave the offices.
“That went well, didn’t it?” I ask as we’re waiting for the elevator.
“It was all for show. He’d already decided to let us do it our way. I know Saul. He just wanted to remind us who was boss, so we didn’t get any big ideas.”
“I was pretty clear on that before.”
“Now you’re even clearer. How are rehearsals going?”
“I’m super happy with the band. We’re going to kick some major ass.”
“Good. I’ll have your first local gigs confirmed tonight. Hope you’ll be ready in a week.”
“A week!” I swallow hard. That’s sooner than I’d been thinking. “I thought we had more time.”
“No point in waiting. The more hours you have in front of a real audience, the sooner you’ll find out what works and what doesn’t. By the time you hit the big stage I want you bulletproof. Only one way I know of to do that.”
“Wow. Okay, then. I’ll tell the guys.”
“Just make sure you’re happy with what you take out on stage. The first couple performances will be low-key, surprise appearances opening for bands I manage who’re slumming it around town. But once word gets out, you can expect to be mobbed at the shows, and with Twitter and Facebook and all that, your performances will be online before you’ve walked off stage. What I’m saying is, get ready, because it’s all going to hit hard once people know you’re doing local shows.”
I remember the adrenaline rush of the talent contest, thousands of people in the audience, and smile. “That’s cool. I can’t wait.”
“Good. Because I’m telling you that you won’t have to. A week, week and a half, and you’ll have a gig every other night. My goal’s to have you clock fifteen before you go on tour.”
“We’ll be ready.”
She studies me with hooded eyes and nods. “I believe you will.”
Chapter 16
Two days later I’m more confident in the band than ever before. Terry is at rehearsal and tells me she’s blown away at how improved it is over the last time she saw us. Which is good, because we have our show dates solidified, and we’re six days from the first one, out in the San Fernando Valley – no publicity, no advance notice, only whoever happens to be there to see the headlining act.
Terry keeps complaining about how it’s impossible to make a living from downloads, so it’s been a return to musicians playing for their supper, which is fine by me. After learning more about the business side of things, I appreciate how Terry held onto our merchandising rights – it looks like our T-shirt and hat sales will be worth far more than anything we’re likely to make off our downloads, unless we go huge, which only happens with a tiny fraction of records.
She’s got a friend who’ll operate the merchandising company, dealing with shipping, inventories, profits and expenses, and the logistics of getting all our swag from city to city without it falling off the back of the truck. Terry’s done a joint venture for the first six months with her friend’s company, until our profits are high enough that we can hire our own full-time staff and reinvest our cash into product.
The idea that I’m an industry is slowly sinking in, and after rehearsal she breaks down the finances for me so I can grasp what’s at stake.
“Take a long-sleeved concert shirt. That’ll sell for around thirty bucks. It costs about nine to manufacture. But now you have to take it into inventory, which costs. Then you have to transport it from city to city. You have to pay people to sell it for you. Someone has to reconcile the inventory to the cash receipts. Someone else has to do your taxes and corporate filings. By the time you’re done, your shirt will cost you, say,
fifteen bucks. So you just made fifteen, right?”
“That’s awesome. We sell a couple hundred shirts every concert…”
“Right, but you didn’t pay to have the shirts made, which is where my friend comes in. He fronts the money, has the staff to deal with the logistics, handles the cash and the filings. So your fifteen is in reality seven-fifty.”
“That’s still good. I mean, what, that would be a few thousand dollars a show, right?”
“Correct. Actually, that could be low. Might be more like five to ten if your fans are big on merchandise, which hopefully they are. There’ll be other costs, of course, but in the end, the merchandising will fund your tour. And if you go big, the money gets silly.” She mentions a six-figure number that has me do a double take.
I try to imagine the sums she’s throwing around, but I can’t. It’s all surreal. There’s no connection between that kind of money and my reality, which is my bedroom at Jeremy’s and my monthly expenses, which have yet to exceed a couple grand a month, including airline tickets.
We say goodbye when she drops me off at the apartment, and I head down the street to grab a bite before calling it a night. When I sit down to eat, I check my phone messages, and see that Derek’s texted me three times. I call him while I’m munching on an egg roll, and when he answers his voice sounds strangely distant.
“Whassup, rock star?” I say, mouth half full.
“Have you heard?”
I stop chewing. “No. What?”
“It’s Lisa. She was in an accident. Drunk. Wrecked her mom’s car and almost killed herself.”
“No…when did this happen?”
“I just know what I’ve seen on the web. One of the sites picked it up, and now it’s all over Twitter. Apparently she was at a party and was complaining that her life was over, that she didn’t know what she was going to do…they’re speculating it was a suicide attempt.”
“Oh, my God…”
No wonder Derek sounds tormented. My first thought is that he probably feels responsible for her actions, as illogical as that is. He didn’t do anything but uncover the truth.
