1. KAT
WOW.
That’s all I can think when I stumble through the glass revolving doors leading to the offices of MCM Management. The interior is a specific shade of sterile white that probably hasn’t been handed down to the masses yet; the fixtures are of pure gold, sparkling against diamond-bright lights. Even the workers are shiny and manicured, like robotic supermodels.
It looks more like a plush five-star hotel than a standard workplace.
Briefly, I wonder if this has all been a terrible mistake. That the letter hadn’t been for me but for another Kat Galbraith.
Heels clip-clop toward me and a woman around my age but better peers at me through dark eyeliner from beneath perfectly cut blunt bangs. Her plum-colored shift dress manages to be boxy and fitted, like it’s been tailored exclusively for her.
“Can I help you?” she inquires.
I try not to gape at how perfectly presented she is, or compare my hot mess self to her. I realize I’ve been hovering at the entrance like a confused tourist for the past five minutes.
“I’m here to see, uh, Robin Merksworth?”
Although her expertly contoured facial muscles don’t change, there is a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She leads me to the smooth white reception desk and taps onto her keyboard.
“Name, please.”
“Kat Galbraith.” I begin to tug out my embarrassingly tattered copy of the letter MCM had sent to prove I’m not an impostor, but the receptionist nods.
“Please go right ahead, Ms. Galbraith. Floor 15.”
She buzzes me through the — glossy, slick — security gates until I’m standing in front of an elevator and a door to the stairs. Yeah... Floor 15? I’m taking the elevator.
The elevator ride is so smooth that I wish I could fiddle with the parts to understand the engineering behind it. Some folks probably think that’s sad, but I enjoy dissecting things and figuring out how they work. Comes with the territory when your dad runs his own electronics repair business. I’ve done it with old cameras, computer hardware, smartphones... Understanding the method behind something is a comfort to me.
A comfort I desperately crave just now. As I step onto Floor 15, it’s as though I’ve entered another world entirely. Gone is the sharp bright white. On Floor 15, the walls are black with neon animal print lining the walls. Blown-up photoshoots and magazine covers featuring half-naked women gaze back at me. One woman is screaming at the camera, her tongue rolling over ruby lipstick as she suggestively licks the head of an electric guitar.
Perhaps I have the wrong floor?
Nevertheless, I walk down the corridor, trying to ignore the curl of unease in my belly. More angry-looking, sexualized musicians stare at me from noisy portraits. MCM Management is a well-respected name in the music biz. They’re known for their annual easy-listening Christmas albums and quarterly pop hit compilations. They do all sorts. But I didn’t know they made music for the porn industry.
By the time I arrive at the entrance to the offices, I’ve become almost numb to hot young women writhing over instruments and music equipment. One of them even made me laugh — there aren’t many ways you can be sexual with a cymbal, but I guess wearing it as a bikini is one way.
But one portrait stops me in my tracks.
It’s not of a woman.
A leanly muscled man, his bulging arms folded, gazes toward something beyond the left edge of the frame. Dark blond hair curls beneath his ears, almost long enough to graze his shoulders. His expression is grim, his eyes fierce, as though he has no patience for this photoshoot. An acoustic guitar is pressed against his naked back, its black leather strap bisecting his body.
My cheeks heat in response to the portrait. Even though the portraits of the women are a lot more provocative, there is something different about this one that the others lack. It’s sensual, unguarded.
Also... I recognize him.
How could anyone not?
“Quite a fine figure, isn’t he?”
I jump. Behind me is an older man in a smart suit. His hair is slicked back and unusually dark for his age. I frown at him, wondering how he’d managed to sneak up behind me — had I been so distracted by the portrait?
“A recent addition,” he remarks. “We’ve been busy redecorating.” He looks me up and down. “Ms. Galbraith?”
Nodding, I extend my hand. “Yes, pleased to meet you.” He glances down at my hand with a small half-smirk and, just when I think he’s about to refuse it, grips my three middle fingers lightly and moves them up and down.
I’ve had stronger handshakes from a breeze on a summer’s day.
“Robin Merksworth.” He quickly drops my hand and moves through the office door. It appears to open automatically, but when I glance back, I notice another well-groomed worker silently holding the door.
Compared to them, I feel like I’m in shambles. I discreetly brush down my suit — if you can call my black jeans and too-fitted-from-disuse blazer a suit. At the same time, I spot Mr. Merksworth cleaning his hands with a sanitizing wipe. Charming. He ushers me into a large office, striding past his young, metropolitan, metrosexual workforce, who appear to bow slightly as he walks by. They shoot covert glances toward me, as though wondering, Who the hell is she?
So this is the famous Robin Merksworth, one of the heads of MCM Management?
Yeah. What am I doing here?
He shuts the door and gestures to a seat in front of a woman behind an ultra-polished desk. She is beautiful. Honey-colored curls snake down past her waist, her lips pink and plump, eyelashes thickened with mascara and her eyelids subtly glittering. I don’t wear much makeup myself, if any, which is why I admire women who do — I’d likely overdo it on the eye shadow and end up resembling a panda.
She smiles at me. It doesn’t reach her eyes.
Mr. Merksworth settles down beside the woman. “This is Carla, my daughter. Head of development and new media.”
I blink at her. Okay. Nepotism. Love it.
Though how the hell did she come from him?
He slides a wad of paper at me with a pen on top and says, “To start with, an NDA. Standard stuff. Sign please, before we continue.”
I nearly go cross-eyed trying to read the small print in such a short space of time. I sign it anyway. What’s the worst that could happen?
“It was quite difficult to get in touch with you,” Carla says, her tone bordering on accusatory. “My assistant tried your agent, but he couldn’t get through.”
I frown at her, sliding my signed contract across the table. “I don’t have an agent.”
“Then I suppose that’ll be why.”
Well, this isn’t weird or anything. Briefly, I wonder what it’s like to have an assistant. Or an agent. Or to look like Carla and have a rich dad. I sigh inwardly.
“I got your letter,” I say, drawing it out my pocket and placing it on the table. My one bit of evidence that I deserve to be here. It’s crumpled and the edges are frayed from how often I’ve looked at it, just to make sure I didn’t make its contents up in my head.
“We’re interested to hear more about your story,” Mr. Merksworth says, though his eyes drift toward the letter in distaste. “Your entry was... different.”
“The kind of different MCM would like more of. It’s fresh, spunky, edgy. We loved it.”