He coughed into his hand and wiped the smile away. “July, a year ago.”
“Ding ding ding. Get the man a prize.” I injected a double dose of sarcasm into my voice. Let’s focus on Holden and not me.
He leveled his gaze at me, quick and incisive. It was the kind of look that made me lock my muscles, so I didn’t squirm. He wasn’t falling for it.
“What’s your point?”
He scooted to the edge of the table. “Maybe, just maybe, you’re not ready for things to be over with him.”
“Do you think I should get a burlap sack and kidnap him and force him to have dinner with me?” There were no options. Keyton didn’t want options. There were some things all the fame and money in the world couldn’t buy.
“All I’m saying is, you have people. Outrageously handsome, immaculately dressed, insanely charismatic, incredibly good-at-their-jobs people.” He straightened his imaginary tie. “Your people can call his people and set something up.”
“This isn’t about photo ops or a red-carpet appearance.” I looked over my shoulder at the door that had slammed closed behind him. “And I think I’ve lost my shot.” My body sagged into the chair like a battery giving up its last 1%.
“It’s been a long day. You’re right about the call. Let’s cancel. I’m going to bed.”
“We fly to Atlanta tomorrow. We need to be at the airport at five. Three days there and then back here.”
Another day, another airport. “Are we leaving my stuff here or do I need to pack up?” I dragged myself out of the chair like a slug on Ambien.
Holden’s head tilted. “Go ahead and leave everything you won’t need in Atlanta. I’ll clear the extra days with the hotel. Get some rest. You look like you need it.”
“Wow. Night, Holden.”
Back in my room, I changed into my pajamas. What a mopey pain in the ass I was. This was the fucking dream. I got to share my music with the world. People not only knew my name, but screamed it, surrounding my SUV and losing their minds when they met me.
So why was the hour I’d spent with Keyton one of the first times in a long time I’d felt like I was experiencing something real?
The lights in the booth were dim, with only a low wattage bulb over my spot behind the mic. Cream soundproofing panels were attached to the wall, a lot classier than the gray egg-carton type in some studios.
This was a long way from the dank basement recording studio I’d worked at in college, and way more advanced than Freddie’s place back in Greenwood.
I swayed, my head dipping, and stumbled back. Jerking forward, I grabbed onto the mic stand in front of me, nearly setting both it and me flying.
“Bay! Are you okay?” Holden’s insistent, concerned voice boomed through the soundproofed booth intercom.
“I’m good!” I covered my mouth, yawning so wide my jaw ached.
“Let’s call it.”
“No, I can go one more time.”
“You’re good. It’s the soundboard. Sorry you’ve been here so long. You should’ve told me you were tired.”
All the eyes on the other side of the glass were focused on me.
“Nope.” I stifled another yawn. “I’m totally fine.”
He hmmed before turning off the intercom.
I’d made the mistake of complaining that I was tired in my first touring year before my album came out. Double shows between opening for Without Grey and playing my own at smaller venues for thirty-seven days straight had culminated in a press tour and studio recording time. Naps were luxuries taken with a sweatshirt stuffed under my head on the floor, countertops, anywhere I could curl up and pass out for sometimes as little as twenty minutes.
Holden had wanted me to slow down, but we were both trying to prove ourselves. We’d pushed harder than ever before which had led me to the precipice of intense burnout right before the two months reserved for finishing my next album.
The stories that had floated around about my lack of professionalism and diva behavior had almost ruined all the goodwill Holden and I had worked on cultivating right before my album released. That was when I’d learned never to complain—at least not out loud. Always be ready to go for another take or another outfit change or another encore.
Somehow being at the center of attention in small settings like this was way worse than up on stage. On stage, the faces melded into one giant swaying organism that recited all my lyrics back to me. In here, I could see the dissection going on in everyone’s head.
The manager, Holden, trying to decide how much harder to push me.
The assistant, Emily, trying to keep up with Holden.
The storied producer, Leon—we’d come down here to talk to him about my new album.
The label executive running numbers on how many units and streams I’d need in my last album on my current contract.
The studio producer who was just happy to be in the room. I’d felt the same when I’d worked in the studios. Sometimes things were a drag, but there were those magical unicorn moments where you felt like you were flying above the clouds watching a group of people breathe life into a unique creation.
My dad would’ve loved every minute of it. It still felt pinch-myself surreal that this was my life. All he’d wanted to do was get up on stage and play. Some nights he’d been able to do it before heading into the office the next day. He’d have been to every show, listened to every album on repeat. I knew he’d have been proud. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I continued to be determined not to squander it.
My suggestions and my thoughts for the album were shot down with a word from Leon, dismissed as trite and unoriginal. They had been running through my head for months, and the first time I’d spoken up, a man with more production Grammys than almost anyone alive had told me exactly how they were absolutely shit.
Instead of crawling under the console, I’d kept my head up, deferred to the master, and gone to my place in front of the mic.
This side of the glass was rough between working with new people, trying out new songs, seeing how well we all worked together. Part zoo exhibit, part child stuck in the corner, I waited for the intercom to click on from the other side.
Leon shot up from his seat. The veins on the side of his neck bulged. He flung his hands up and stormed out of the room.
His reputation wasn’t overblown one bit. He might be a musical genius, but he was also a dick. But I’d work with him, if it got us the best new album for the fans.
My stomach churned, a cauldron of ill will at being subjected to his freak outs. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d put up with someone like that to get the job done. It’s what professionals did, right?
I slid my headphones off and looked to Holden.
The intercom clicked back on. Holden leaned over the console and looked straight at me, his lips pursed and jaw tight. “We’re good for tonight.”
Oh shit. The cauldron was overflowing with worry now.
I set the headphones on the mic stand hook. Rushing out into the hallway, I faced Holden. The studio door closing behind him.
“What happened? I said I could go for another, if we needed.” I stared at the now-empty hallway behind him. “Is he that pissed?”
“Leon is Leon and you’re tired.” His jaw was still tight, but not angry.