All brusque energy, their producer whirled on them at the door. “You’ve got two minutes to pull yourselves together.” He let his eyelids fall closed for a moment, trying to calm himself. “We’re out of time. You understand that, right? You get that if we don’t finish this album, you’re not only killing your reputation, but you’re killing mine.”
“Yes,” Gigi said. “We get it. We’ll do better.” She gave him an encouraging smile, but he wasn’t buying it. She didn’t blame him. The moment he and the sound engineer walked out, she turned to her bandmates. “Guys, nothing’s changed since they first signed us. They write the songs, and we play them. And, literally, as soon as this album’s done, we’re free to go off and pursue our own things.”
“We’re artists.” Tanya, the youngest in the group at twenty-four, had changed the most over their eight years together. She’d gone from an eager and malleable sixteen-year-old to a Patti Smith wanna-be. “We’re supposed to put our stamp on the songs.”
“Well, that’s the thing. We’re not supposed to do that.” It seemed insane that Gigi had to explain this to them yet again. “We have to meet our contractual obligations.”
“But we’re making it sound better,” the bass player said. “We don’t need to embarrass ourselves with this bubblegum crap anymore.”
“If it’s so embarrassing, you shouldn’t have signed the second contract.” Their first record had gone platinum, and they’d toured the world with it. So, of course, Gigi had re-upped when the label had offered a two-record deal. And, yeah, it was embarrassing. But it was a stepping stone. “And that crap not only made us rich, but it gave us tremendous fame. It’s given us a platform.” Fear bit into her jugular. She didn’t believe a word of it. She was a Lollipop. She’d have to fight like hell to reinvent herself. It wouldn’t be easy, but she couldn’t wait to get out there and start trying.
But, to do that, she needed to meet the terms of the contract.
“Fine. Whatever.” Tanya headed to the door. “Let’s just finish it.”
“Wait,” Gigi said. “Don’t let them back in until we all agree to play the music as it’s written.”
“This is so stupid,” the keyboard player said. “I’m not even changing anything. I’m just giving the songs more of an edge. That’s all.”
“But our label doesn’t want edge,” Gigi said. They’d signed with the Hallmark Channel’s version of record companies. “There’s no wiggle room here. Okay?” She looked at the others.
“Fine,” Tanya said.
“Whatever,” the bass player said.
“Great. I’ll get Harry.”
“Let me go to the bathroom first,” the bass player said.
Gigi wanted to say, Oh, no, you don’t. You are not getting high. But, just as the woman reached for the door, it swung open.
In strode the owner of Clean Beatz, followed by the producer and sound engineer. Their grim expressions made her stomach plummet.
Gigi flipped on a big grin. “Hey, guys. We just took a break, and we’re ready to get back to work.”
In her pink and white-striped cardigan, the owner, Dale Hopkins, looked deceptively sweet, like a TV mom from a Sixties comedy show.
“Ladies, have a seat.” Dale’s tone invited no argument. She tapped her knuckles on the recording mixer, as she waited for everyone to find a place to sit. “You guys knocked it out of the park on that first album. The second one was a little tougher, but we did it. We created something we can be proud of. But this third album isn’t working, and I’m not okay with that.”
“We know, and we’ve just had a conversation,” Gigi said. “We’re all on the same page now.”
“I don’t know why you always have to speak for us,” Tanya said. “You’re not the leader.”
Gigi shot her a look that said, Not now.
“We hired you for one specific reason.” Dale ignored them both. “And that’s to perform the songs we’ve given you. It was an opportunity any aspiring musician would be grateful for.”
Was? Did she just say was? “We are grateful, and we’re going to play the music just as you want,” Gigi said.
“Really?” Dale said. “Because I’ve heard the tracks.” She gave Gigi an accusing look. “You’ve rewritten the lyrics.”
Heat flooded her. She hadn’t thought anyone would notice. “No, no. I tweaked them a little, that’s all.” She hadn’t changed the meaning of the songs…she’d just…
She’d wanted to make the songs better. Less embarrassing.
And now she just felt stupid. She’d berated the others for doing exactly the same thing. For some reason, she’d thought Dale would appreciate the better wording.
Dale turned to the other women. “In addition to recording the songs you’ve been given, you had one other requirement, and that was to have faultless reputations.”
She dropped a gossip magazine on the mixing console. A collage of images covered the centerfold spread. A topless woman stood on a yacht. In some, an older man had his arms around her. The woman was young, slender, black hair…
A sickening feeling took hold.
“I didn’t know he was married,” the keyboard player said.
Oh, God. This isn’t happening.
Dale’s razor-cut silver bob shook with anger. “You had the world at your fingertips, and you took it all for granted. I’m deeply disappointed in your behavior.”
Gigi had no idea how to salvage this situation. Drugs, adultery… Even if she could get her bandmates to finish the record, she couldn’t fix their bad behavior. It was a clear breach of contract.
“Dale, I’m so grateful—”
The label owner gave her a pointed look. “If you were grateful, you wouldn’t have changed the lyrics. Ladies, if I didn’t have a tour booked, if I didn’t have marketing ready to go and outlets waiting to get their hands on the merchandise, I would release all of you and walk away. But I do have commitments. And this album is going to drop. It’s just going to be late, because...” She cut a hard look to the bass player. “You’re going to rehab.”
Everyone sucked in a breath. Shit just got real.
“And, while she’s away,” Dale continued. “I expect the rest of you to spend your time doing good work in the community. Whatever that means to you, I want to see you in the news for your philanthropy and not for your escapades on yachts. When Jess gets out, we’re going to finish this album, and then I’m going to be done with you.” With that, she strode out of the room.
They all looked to their producer, though Gigi didn’t know why. There was nothing left to say.
“You’ve got the next thirty days to make yourselves look like the sweet, cheerful musicians she paid you to be when she formed this band,” he said. “Or, I can promise you, you’ll have a tough time finding work in this industry again.”
From his fourth-floor window in the boutique hotel in Aspen, Colorado, Cassian looked down at the paparazzi swarming like bees on the sidewalk.