I tried and failed to hide my disgust. Okay, so I didn’t really try very hard—or at all, in fact—but the thought was there. For a nanosecond. I’d zoned out of the introductions earlier: managers, A&R people, number crunchers, bean counters. ‘Colins’ and ‘Adrians’ that I didn’t want to need to know. My mind drifted back to the morning’s activities with Carolina, and I told myself that was what was giving me the hard-on from hell, not the sidelong glances I was giving Quincy Copeland.
Five, maybe ten, minutes in, my attention was abruptly brought back into the room by the scrape of chairs as King and James jumped from their seats with shocked and angry expressions on their faces.
“No!” King’s voice was firm and clear, if not a little too loud, bouncing off the polished concrete walls of the self-consciously urban meeting room.
“No. Fucking. Way.” He was as angry as I’d ever seen him.
“Dude, what did I miss?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth.
“Fuck, Rome, can you not concentrate on anything other than your dick for more than ten seconds?”
Clearly not, because when I’d spaced out on whatever the fuck had just gone down in the meeting, that was exactly what I had been thinking about. I held back a grin. As angry as King was, a smug look from me would likely throw him over the edge.
“These geniuses, in their infinite wisdom, are suggesting that because she”—he jerked his head toward the Sonata Awards slash car-park chick—“is a classical musician, and so are we, we should collaborate—given that post-merger, we are essentially label-mates.”
“What?” I’d heard, but couldn’t believe my ears. “What does she even play?” I may have banged her, but I clearly hadn’t been concentrating enough to retain all the details.
“Violin.” She and King spoke at the same time.
“There’s a clue in the title. Que. Violin. What do you think I play, the accordion?”
I shot her a look that had her clamping her mouth shut.
“She does covers and rearrangements of soul and r ’n’ b hits. She’s like Rihanna, but with strings,” King jumped in, clearly trying to avoid an outbreak of all-out war.
“Apart from my skin tone, I’m literally nothing like Rihanna, unless you’re suggesting that all black women are the same?” She squared up to him like she was ready for a fight. So much for his diplomacy skills.
“What? Jesus. No, that wasn’t what I was saying at all.” He looked like she’d slapped him in the face.
“Good, I’m glad. And for the record, the covers thing wasn’t my choice. It was a decision made in a meeting not dissimilar to this. I fought against it and lost, so here we are. I write, and I have about ten album’s worth of originals that will probably never see the light of day.”
“Whatever. The point is that, apart from the fact that we don’t play fucking Vivaldi, we have literally nothing in common musically. They’ve just assumed some kind of similarity or cohesion, based on the fact that we all play strings, and don’t have the traditional classical music repertoire. It sucks.”
Chapter 6
Quincy
* * *
“Well, that’s one thing we can agree on at least. It’s like saying that because Gordon Ramsey is in food service, and so is Ronald McDonald, they should work together.”
“Wait. So who’s Ronald McClownface in this equation?”
The other one spoke this time. Rome. The one I’d drunkenly and regrettably fucked when I was at my lowest ebb, and who, until this point, had made it clear that he was not only totally disinterested in the meeting, but also utterly above even pretending to take part in it.
He’d sat back in his chair, feet up on the reclaimed-wood table that had probably cost more than my car, and blatantly ignored everything that was going on around him. Except me. If he thought he was incognito while he kept sliding glances my way, he was sadly mistaken.
Now it was my turn to return the favor, and look at him like he was shit on my shoe.
“If the clown cap fits…” I bit my lip as I watched the realization of what I’d just said dawn on him. His dark brown eyes blazed with anger, and I considered us even for the parking lot stunt. Good. “But, that’s beside the point. The point is that, musically, we’re as different as Gordon and Ronald, and there would be little or no overlap in our audiences. A collaboration, or worse still, a tour like they’re suggesting, would be suicidal for both parties.”
“Well, that’s convenient, as that’s how this whole conversation is making me feel.” This was King, the—ostensibly—more level-headed one of the two. At least, he’d seemed that way at the start of the encounter, though now I wasn’t so sure. He appeared to have lost his mind a little since the announcement of the collab plans. Not that I could really blame him. It was the dumbest idea I’d heard since those stupid stick-on bras.
“Listen. Let’s all settle down here and not get hysterical. I agree that on the face of it, this doesn’t sound like the best fit or suggestion for either party, but maybe we need to take a step back and listen to the offer being put on the table, and then consider our options.” Their manager was the voice of reason.
“Thank you James; that’s a mature approach.” This was one of the label execs, Marty Somebodyorother. “The thing is, we’ve already told you all of the options. Either the collaboration goes ahead, or both acts are in breach of contract and will be shelved, and, more than likely, litigation will ensue. We don’t have room for two modern classical acts, now that the rosters have merged, and this is the only way to retain both.”
“Why do we need to retain both? We’re the bigger act, with the bigger label. You do the math.”
I swear to God, if it hadn’t been a business meeting, I would have knocked his cocky head clean off his shoulders. What a raging asshole.
“Contractually, it’s not as simple as that. Trust me, the choices you’ve been given are the only options. Not to sound like we’re issuing an ultimatum, but we’ve already looked at this every which way, so… ”
Carson finally found his voice. “Well, gentlemen, I have to say that this is an incredibly disappointing turn of events, not the least of reasons being that we’ve all been totally blindsided, despite trying to find out what this meeting was about beforehand.” I knew my gut had been right—I’d had a bad feeling about this meeting from the moment it was scheduled.
“Quincy and I aren’t going to enter into further discussions, or make any decisions, right here and now. I suggest we draw a line under the subject for the moment, and we will come back to you when we’ve had a chance to discuss.” And that was why I loved him.
“What he said,” the other manager piped up. “When do you need an answer?”
“Twenty-four hours.” Marty was as cold as ice, while the other executives seemed to be nothing but table decoration at this point.
“Really? That’s not a long time for an artist to make a decision of this colossal nature. Ninety-six hours.” I loved it when Carson was in negotiation mode.