thinking and I could tell she wanted me, too.
"So," she smiled, "about what just happened. It didn't mean anything, okay? We can still, you know, work together."
If any other girl had said that to me after any other fuck, I'd have been jumping for joy. One fewer woman I needed to let down lightly. From Alicia, it was like a gut punch. For some reason, with her, I wanted to hear that it meant something. What was happening to me?
In the background, I heard the raging screech of an incoming telephone call, and the unpleasant sound mirrored my mood. I put a brave face on things and smiled back.
"Don't worry about it." I couldn't have her knowing that she meant more to me than the others. After all, I still had a reputation to uphold. But I couldn't look at her, couldn't see that face, because all I wanted to do was press her against the wall and have her once again. I looked away, through the recording booth window, and saw Mike furiously gesticulating at me to join him.
"What the hell?" I asked the air, and jogged over, Alicia following close behind.
"Okay, Fred, I'm going to put your speakerphone – okay?" Mike said, pointing at the comfortable leather chairs set around the small boardroom table and indicating that we should sit.
Alicia looked nervous, and she didn't even know who Fred was. But it didn't take a genius to read Mike's facial expressions right now. He was worried, and so he should be. Fred Peters was the new CEO of Atlantic Records, and he was a hardass. Worst of all, judging by the miserable look on Mike's face, he wasn't calling to congratulate us on the new contract.
"Is he listening?" The speakerphone crackled.
"Mr. Peters," I said, injecting as much false friendliness into my voice as I could without throwing up, "how you doing?"
Alicia shot me a look – clearly surprised at my tone of voice. She was right to be. Dealing with record labels didn't suit me at all. I hated it.
"How am I doing? How am I doing? How do you have the nerve to ask me that?" the incensed music executive screamed down the phone. I met Mike's eyes and we shared an oh shit moment. This wasn't good. Hell, that was the understatement of the year.
Still, I couldn't help but feel pissed off that this good-for-nothing desk jockey was about to chew me out. Hell, I'd made hundreds of millions of dollars for Atlantic Records – and he'd only just joined. Who the hell was he to talk to me like that?
"You're a mess, Hunt – you know that? It was bad enough when you plastered your dick all over the gossip pages…"
How the hell was I supposed to know someone had snuck onto the island to snap a photo of my cock? It was a fucking private island!
"…that was a mess that took us a while to clean up, but it pales in comparison to this, Clay. Mike, when we spoke a couple of hours ago you told me you had a handle on your boy!"
Boy?
"I don't suppose," Mike ventured, "you could tell us what the problem is, Fred?"
Fred started spitting feathers. "Oh, that's right, your boy's such a mess that you don't even have any idea, do you? You had your chance to get a grip on him, Mike. You've forced my hand. This video's the final straw – we're pulling the plug on this little experiment."
Little experiment? I was Atlantic Record's highest grossing artist two years ago. I made that company!
"Fred," Mike began with a note of panic in his voice as he watched his meteoric rise as a top music manager coming to an end, "tell us what happened. Maybe we can fix this…"
"The fucking video, Mike. It was bad enough that your boy was getting in fights, but at least he had the good sense to do it behind closed doors, at white collar fight clubs or in dark alleys, but now he's gone and got himself caught on camera. We can't have this, we just can't have Atlantic Records’ name dragged through the mud like this."
Mike punched the mute button on the speakerphone. "Fucking hell, Clay – I thought you said no one filmed it!"
I cast a quick glance over at
"So," she smiled, "about what just happened. It didn't mean anything, okay? We can still, you know, work together."
If any other girl had said that to me after any other fuck, I'd have been jumping for joy. One fewer woman I needed to let down lightly. From Alicia, it was like a gut punch. For some reason, with her, I wanted to hear that it meant something. What was happening to me?
In the background, I heard the raging screech of an incoming telephone call, and the unpleasant sound mirrored my mood. I put a brave face on things and smiled back.
"Don't worry about it." I couldn't have her knowing that she meant more to me than the others. After all, I still had a reputation to uphold. But I couldn't look at her, couldn't see that face, because all I wanted to do was press her against the wall and have her once again. I looked away, through the recording booth window, and saw Mike furiously gesticulating at me to join him.
"What the hell?" I asked the air, and jogged over, Alicia following close behind.
"Okay, Fred, I'm going to put your speakerphone – okay?" Mike said, pointing at the comfortable leather chairs set around the small boardroom table and indicating that we should sit.
Alicia looked nervous, and she didn't even know who Fred was. But it didn't take a genius to read Mike's facial expressions right now. He was worried, and so he should be. Fred Peters was the new CEO of Atlantic Records, and he was a hardass. Worst of all, judging by the miserable look on Mike's face, he wasn't calling to congratulate us on the new contract.
"Is he listening?" The speakerphone crackled.
"Mr. Peters," I said, injecting as much false friendliness into my voice as I could without throwing up, "how you doing?"
Alicia shot me a look – clearly surprised at my tone of voice. She was right to be. Dealing with record labels didn't suit me at all. I hated it.
"How am I doing? How am I doing? How do you have the nerve to ask me that?" the incensed music executive screamed down the phone. I met Mike's eyes and we shared an oh shit moment. This wasn't good. Hell, that was the understatement of the year.
Still, I couldn't help but feel pissed off that this good-for-nothing desk jockey was about to chew me out. Hell, I'd made hundreds of millions of dollars for Atlantic Records – and he'd only just joined. Who the hell was he to talk to me like that?
"You're a mess, Hunt – you know that? It was bad enough when you plastered your dick all over the gossip pages…"
How the hell was I supposed to know someone had snuck onto the island to snap a photo of my cock? It was a fucking private island!
"…that was a mess that took us a while to clean up, but it pales in comparison to this, Clay. Mike, when we spoke a couple of hours ago you told me you had a handle on your boy!"
Boy?
"I don't suppose," Mike ventured, "you could tell us what the problem is, Fred?"
Fred started spitting feathers. "Oh, that's right, your boy's such a mess that you don't even have any idea, do you? You had your chance to get a grip on him, Mike. You've forced my hand. This video's the final straw – we're pulling the plug on this little experiment."
Little experiment? I was Atlantic Record's highest grossing artist two years ago. I made that company!
"Fred," Mike began with a note of panic in his voice as he watched his meteoric rise as a top music manager coming to an end, "tell us what happened. Maybe we can fix this…"
"The fucking video, Mike. It was bad enough that your boy was getting in fights, but at least he had the good sense to do it behind closed doors, at white collar fight clubs or in dark alleys, but now he's gone and got himself caught on camera. We can't have this, we just can't have Atlantic Records’ name dragged through the mud like this."
Mike punched the mute button on the speakerphone. "Fucking hell, Clay – I thought you said no one filmed it!"
I cast a quick glance over at
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