by Lauren Rowe
“But you have other favorite games, too?”
I chuckle, but say nothing. Oh, little Georgina. You’ll learn soon enough about my other favorite games.
For a long moment, we walk in near silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional car driving by and our brisk footfalls on the cement sidewalk.
Finally, Georgina says, “You said Bryce’s status as a football star also figured in, although not like I think? What did you mean by that?”
I chuckle. “Man, you really picked the right major, didn’t you?”
She makes an adorable face. “Sorry. When something fascinates me, I can’t help asking a million questions.”
She looks earnest and adorable right now. Beyond beautiful. Which makes me feel bad I suspected she was lying to me earlier about not wanting to be a pop star. Maybe Josh was right. Maybe Georgina is nothing but fascinated by me. Maybe she wants nothing but a hot night of sex with a baller. And who could blame her for that?
“Don’t apologize,” I say, just as we reach the parking structure. “I meant that as a compliment.” We come to a stop in front of the elevator. I press the call button. “To answer your question about how Bryce’s football-star status played into my thinking, I’d rather show you than tell you.” The elevator doors open, and I lead her inside the box. “Do me a favor and call up Bryce’s sister’s Instagram, baby. I’m gonna teach you how to be a music scout for me.”
Chapter 14
Georgina
After getting Bryce’s sister’s Instagram handle from Reed, I call up her page on my phone—trying desperately, as I do, not to let on that I’m a hair’s breadth away from having a nervous breakdown. All night long, I’ve been filled with anxiety about how and when to tell Reed about Alessandra’s music. And now, he wants to teach me how to be a “music scout”? Good lord, if I can’t find a natural opening to mention Alessandra now, then I’m officially hopeless.
Shit. I feel like the stakes are higher now than ever. After that scorching hot, best-kiss-of-my-life kiss with Reed in front of Bernie’s Place, I’m especially determined not to blow my chance to have sex with him tonight. But I can’t help worrying Reed is going to feel betrayed when I finally pull out that flash drive. Will he think Alessandra’s demo was my singular motivation this whole time? Will he view it as proof that I am, indeed, Bobby Fischer? Or has that amazing kiss worked the same kind of magical swooning spell on him that it worked on me, such that he’ll be nothing but sweet and receptive when I finally pull out Alessandra’s music? In short, I’m wondering if Alessandra’s demo will provoke the same kind of benevolence Reed showed to Bryce... or the kind of wrath he showed to that cute little blonde at the bar.
“Well?” Reed says. “Did you find the sister’s account?”
“Uh, yeah.” I survey the endless selfies on Bryce’s sister’s page. “She’s really pretty. She looks like Aloha Carmichael.”
I show Reed my screen, and he nods his agreement.
“Okay, so, that’s strike one against her.”
“Against her?” My stomach drops. “I meant she looks like Aloha as a compliment.”
The elevator doors open on the fourth floor of the structure, and we step out into the near-empty garage.
“I’m parked over here,” Reed says, pulling me to the right.
My heart is thundering. “Reed, Aloha is gorgeous and one of the biggest stars on the planet, as you well know. How could looking like her be anything but a good thing?”
“Think, Music Scout. Why would I want to sign Aloha Two-Point-Oh, when the original is already one of my biggest earning stars? I owe it to Aloha to put all my Aloha-shaped eggs into Aloha’s basket, not the poor man’s version of her. There’s only so much Aloha-style marketing and songs to go around. I would never want to dilute Aloha’s market share.”
I’m dumbstruck. I open and close my mouth, not sure how to respond. Now I really don’t know what to tell him about Alessandra. Whenever I tell anyone about her, I always say she sounds like the lovechild of Adele and Laila Fitzgerald. But Reed is saying that would be a bad thing?
“But, still, Music Scout,” Reed continues, “we’ll press on. She’s not ‘out’ after only one strike. There could be other factors weighing in her favor. Next up, tell me about her numbers. How many followers?”
I look down. “Almost ten thousand. That’s good, right?”
“Is it? You tell me, Music Scout.”
“Yeah, ten thousand seems like a whole lot to me.”
Reed shakes his head. “Nope. It’s not impressive. In fact, it’s anemic and highly un-impressive.”
Well, fuck. My stomach is churning now. Alessandra barely has a thousand followers. If this girl’s following is anemic and unimpressive, what’s Alessandra’s? Pathetic? Laughable?
Reed says, “But that’s not the end of the road for this girl, either, Music Scout. If those ten thousand followers are actual people—not bots or ghosts set up to make her look good—if it turns out they’re genuine, enthusiastic, and highly interactive fans—then that’s something to consider.”
“How do we know if they’re real or not?”
“You’d have to audit her account. Look at the interactions on each photo and video. Click on the profiles of the interactive ones and see if they come off like real people with real lives, or fake accounts. Once you start looking closely, you can usually tell fairly easily.”
I make a move to swipe at my screen, like I’m going to get started on what he’s just instructed, but Reed stops me with a gentle touch.
“Not now, Music Scout. I’m just educating you, for later. That job could take a while, so we’ll put it on the back burner for now. There’s no point wasting our time on auditing her followers if she’s got no talent. Or if she’s got talent, but she’s not a good fit for us. For now, we’ll put a pin in that, say she looks meh on numbers, certainly not great, but there could be extenuating circumstances that will give her more of a platform in the future than the average bear.”
Reed stops walking, and I follow suit, right in front of a breathtaking, gleaming black sports car. It’s the kind you’d see on an actual racetrack, or in a spy movie. And, suddenly, I realize... this is Reed’s ride. As in, the car he drove to get here today. On actual city streets. Holy shit.
“This is your car?” I blurt lamely.
Reed smiles. “One of them.” He presses a button to unlock it, and a gentle chirp echoes throughout the empty cement structure.
“What is it?” I ask, slack-jawed.
“A Bugatti Chiron.”
“A Bugatti... ?”
“Chiron. They vastly improved the Veyron with this model. It’s got exponentially more pick-up.”
“Well, thank God for that. I always say the Vey-whatever was a piece of shit.”
He snorts.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, in genuine awe. “A work of art.”
“It is.” He assesses his baby for a long beat. “If I didn’t already have a hard-on because of you, Georgie, I’d have a hard-on looking at this car. I’ve got a thing for fast cars.”
“And fast women,” I say, like we’re in a poorly written action movie. Because, come on, who could resist inserting that cheeseball line into this surreal moment, in front of this car?
Luckily, Reed gets my offbeat humor, apparently, because he laughs at my stupid joke as he leads me around to the passenger side. But just when I think he’s going to open the door for me, he slides his palm onto my cheek, pins me against his gorgeous car, presses his hard-on into my clit, and kisses me deeply—this time, with even more heat and greed than the last time. And, once again, I’m instantly ravenous for him. My heart exploding, I slide my arms around his neck and grip his hair and kiss him the same way I’m going to fuck him at his house: without holding back.
“You drive me crazy,” Reed whispers into my lips. “I can’t resist you.”
“Please don’t.”
His burning eyes scan my face for a long, heate
d, delicious beat. “Damn, you’re gorgeous, Georgie.”
I take a deep, steadying breath. “Damn, you’re... mildly attractive, Reed.”
He laughs—and so do I. Because, as we both know, Reed Rivers is drop dead gorgeous. His features aren’t objectively perfect, by any stretch, in terms of symmetry. But the way they come together, the way his face is animated by his intelligence and wit and charm and confidence... the overall package of him is like catnip to this particular kitty. And I’ve got to think any other kitty who happens to cross his swaggering, strutting path.
After one more kiss, Reed opens the passenger door for me, gets me situated in the luxurious leather seat, and shuts me in with a soft click. And the minute I’m alone in Reed’s car, as Reed makes his way around the back to his door, I quickly google the car name he mentioned... and then gasp at the crazy words on my screen: Bugatti Chiron. One of the fastest cars ever manufactured. Approximately 45 units sold worldwide per year. Price tag: $2.9 million.
Holy crap! I’m sitting in a car worth three million bucks? I suddenly feel faint.
I swear I’m not going home with Reed because of his money. But, holy crap, it’s not every day a girl sits inside a three-million-dollar machine. For God’s sake, I’ve never been inside a three-million-dollar house, let alone a three-million-dollar car. Suddenly, I feel nervous to move a muscle inside this car. To breathe. What if I spontaneously combust—or barf or pee? The driver’s side door opens and Reed slides into his seat. “Have you been dutifully scouring the girl’s page to find a video for me, Music Scout?”
“Uh. No. But I will.” I flip back to Instagram, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Here. Plug in,” Reed says, holding up a cord. “We’ll listen to her through my speakers.”
My hands shaking, I plug my phone into Reed’s offered cord.
“You okay?” Reed asks.
I wipe the flop-sweat off my forehead. “Yeah, I’m great.”
But I’m a liar. I’m not “great.” I’m feeling a bit sick, actually. Being in this car has made me realize just how successful Reed is. How big a deal it is that I’ve not only got his undivided attention, but we’re organically talking about discovering new music, thanks to Bryce. What if I blow this chance for Alessandra? I can’t do that. Not even for one night of the best sex in my life.
Reed starts his car, and its expensive engine purrs like a kitten. “Listen to that,” he says lovingly. “Beautiful.”
“Yeah, beautiful. At least, I think so. Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I grew up driving my dad’s 2004 Volvo, and I haven’t needed a car of my own since I’ve been in school.”
Reed chuckles. “I feel you. In college, I drove a ‘95 Honda Accord with a transmission that slipped and a passenger window that wouldn’t roll down.”
I chuckle, and he does, too. And, just like that, something passes between us. Something real. And sweet, believe it or not. Something that makes both of us smile like school kids with mutual crushes on a playground.
“Okay, cue something up already, Music Scout,” Reed barks playfully, backing his glorious car out of its parking spot. “I’ve wasted enough time on this girl. I’ll give her one more minute of my precious time, and then I’m going to focus on nothing but you until I have to drag my sorry ass to the airport.”
“Okay, I’m looking... ” I look up from my phone. “Actually, can I ask a quick question? What did you mean when you said ‘extenuating circumstances’?”
We’re headed down a ramp toward the garage exit now, but Reed glances away from the windshield to look at me quizzically. Clearly, he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“You said her Instagram followers aren’t impressive, but there might be ‘extenuating circumstances’ to give her more of a future platform than the average bear?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He turns out of the garage and we take off smoothly into the night. “This is what I mean about Bryce’s football-star status coming into play. Assuming Bryce doesn’t get injured this coming season, he’ll almost certainly get drafted pretty high, and then quite possibly play in the NFL. Which means there’s potential for him to have a huge, national platform in coming years, if he doesn’t fuck it up. And you know who he’ll almost certainly feature on his social media? His baby sister, the wannabe pop star. So, even if his sister’s numbers aren’t all that great now, she’s got huge growth potential. Plus, she’s young. Even putting her brother aside, I always keep in mind the young ones almost always need time to grow and develop.”
I sigh with relief. Alessandra’s nineteen. Would Reed consider Alessandra the kind of “young” artist he’d give a chance to grow and develop? “Interesting,” I manage to say, even though my heart is crashing. “So, let’s say a singer-songwriter has, I don’t know, a thousand followers, and they’re, say, nineteen... Then it’s not totally impossible for you to want to sign them?”
“There are lots of factors to consider. That’s precisely what I’m trying to teach you, Music Scout. In the end, it all hinges on talent.” He smiles. “Unless, of course, the wannabe happens to look like you. I swear, I could Auto-Tune the shit out of you and make a mint. In fact, I think that’d be a fun experiment. You wanna try it?”
I laugh. “No, thanks.”
“Worth a shot.”
I bite my lip, trying to decide how far to push my luck. “So, um, a nineteen-year-old with a small social media following, but amazing talent, would still have a chance?”
Reed’s smile fades. He turns away from the road and looks at me for a long beat with hard eyes, like he can read my damned mind. And I know I’ve messed up. Pushed too hard. Made him suspicious of me. But just as I’m about to throw my palms over my face and confess my sins, Reed returns his attention to the road and says, “That’s exactly right, Music Scout. Nothing’s impossible, if the artist’s talent is mind-blowing enough. Now, to be clear, I’d strongly prefer a potential artist have a shit-ton more followers than a thousand. I mean, in this day and age, if they don’t have at least 5k, then what the fuck is wrong with them? Are they stupid? Addled with crippling anxiety? See, the thing to understand is that the music industry is a business. You can’t sit alone in your room, writing songs for yourself, and not sharing them with the world. I mean, you can, but that’s what’s called a hobby. The business side of music is about selling that music. Which means you have to play your songs for other people and get them to connect with the music and you—which then makes them want to buy the songs, or a ticket to your show. The business side of music is about moving people with your art—or, at least, your charisma. One way or another, it’s about making people feel and connect. But not for art’s sake. But because, in the end, you want them to buy. And that means every artist today, whether they’re at the top of the game, or just getting started, is a salesperson, in addition to being an artist. If they can’t hang with that, then they’re not going to succeed. Not with me, or anyone else, and I don’t want them—unless, of course, they look like you and/or hit me like a ton of bricks like Laila or 2Real or Red Card Riot or 22 Goats.”
Fuck! This is so not good. Alessandra’s voice is sensational. Her songs incredible. But she’d be the last person in the world to try to convince anyone of either. In fact, I think it’s safe to say Alessandra is the worst salesperson who ever lived, when it comes to selling herself. Hence, the reason I’m such a vocal cheerleader for her. If I don’t scream from the top of every rooftop about my stepsister, then who will?
“As an example,” Reed says, apparently unaware I’m on the verge of having a panic attack mere inches away. “Let’s say an artist has strong content, but for whatever reason, I’m on the fence about them. Maybe I love their sound, but I’m concerned they’re too niche for the mainstream market. Or, maybe, I’m concerned they lack X factor as a performer. Well, in a case like that, a strong social media presence with diehard fans, even if their following is relatively small, like Bryce’s sister’s, might tip me over the edge to sign them, because tha
t will convince me they’ve got what it takes to attract an audience. Plus, I can use their current fans as a test group. I can tailor marketing and branding to include whatever’s been working for them, and expand on it.” He shrugs. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business—in life, really—it’s that the cult of personality—the ‘cool kid industrial complex’—is very real and very powerful and should be exploited at every turn. The influencer culture is exactly what made the fiasco of the Fyre Festival possible. Did you see either of those documentaries, by the way? On the Fyre Festival? I was totally obsessed.”
“Yeah, I watched them both. I was obsessed, too. I watched them back to back.”
“Me, too,” he says. “Which one did you like better?”
“The Netflix one, I think?”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I speak first.
“One more question, though. If that’s okay.”
Reed’s jaw tightens. Ever so briefly. But he looks away from the road and smiles at me. “Sure thing. Investigate to your heart’s content, Madame Journalist.”
My stomach clenches. My gut is telling me to drop this topic and loop back to it later, maybe after we’ve talked about the Fyre Festival at length—but I’m so close now to gathering the courage needed to mention Alessandra, I simply can’t leave it alone. “What if an artist is wildly talented, but super shy?” I ask. “What if she, or he, has virtually no social media presence, but their talent is out of this world? Would you still consider signing them?”
Reed shifts his hands on his steering wheel. “That’s an exceptionally rare scenario. But, yes, on the rare occasion when I’ve been struck by lightning, I’ve signed the person, or band, on the spot, with no consideration whatsoever of their following.” His jaw muscles pulsing, Reed shifts his car into high gear as we race down a long straightaway on Wilshire Boulevard. “Any other questions, Music Scout, or are you ready to play me something from Bryce’s sister now?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” I fumble with my phone. I wish Reed could see Alessandra perform in person, so he could experience the way her live vocals burrow into a person’s soul. The way she evokes emotion with the subtlest of inflections. “Okay, I’ve found a video of Bryce’s sister at a piano.”
