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“Of course not. Which is why I told you to keep it to yourself, Austin.”
“Dad, you might’ve had a good ROI if you’d just spent a little on a social media manager for them. Their records can still rank in the charts.”
“Know when to cut your losses, son,” he replies. “Sure, I could’ve given them one more record, but what happens after that? No, we need artists with that organic reach. Spending money on an act that will soon be past its prime is pointless.”
My brows rise, knowing there’s nothing I can say or do to counter his opinion.
“You ready?” he asks.
Staring at my untouched soft drink, I lift my shoulders. “Sure.”
As I rise from the table, I roll up my sleeves, feeling a little more at ease. Following my father out of the restaurant to our car, I hear someone call out his name from behind us.
“Mr. Richards. Mr. Richards!” A guy who’s around my age runs over to us. He looks like he’s in some kind of rock or punk band. His black hair is combed over his face, and he’s wearing black, torn skinny jeans. Both of his wrists are covered with black leather bracelets with little spikes on them.
“Yes?”
“Bret.” He offers a nervous smile, motioning to himself. My father quirks an unsure eyebrow. “Wilcox. Bret Wilcox. You signed my band, Skum Bucket, to that provisional—”
“Oh, yes. What can I do for you?”
Bret shakes my father’s hand furiously. It’s another public display I’ve seen. Artists eager to meet my father, sign a deal with him, or keep a deal with him.
“Yeah, so I’ve left a couple of messages with your office. I wanted to let you know my band is ready to record, sir. We don’t want to squander this opportunity you’ve given us. I don’t. So, let us know when—”
“Son … Burt, was it?”
“Bret.”
“Right. Bret, it’s still touchy right now with your girlfriend. You know as well as I do that that’s the provisional part of your contract. Once that gets squared away, your band will be in that studio recording your EP.”
“Right. No, of course, you’re right, sir. Don’t worry, she’ll definitely be on board.”
“Well, we don’t have much yet.”
“I know, sir.” His repeatedly calling my father “sir” earns a chuckle out of me that I have to hold back. This guy wants a record contract bad. “She’s already recording, sir. You’ll have no problems there. I’ll make sure.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” My dad smiles, but I can’t tell if it’s earnest or he’s playing him. “We have to go. I’ll be in contact when I’m more confident about—”
“Of course. Of course, sir.” Bret cuts him off, shaking his hand vigorously again. “Thank you again for the opportunity, sir.”
My dad nods his head toward me, and we enter the car.
“Who the heck was that?” I ask, finally letting out the chuckle.
“Just some kid dreaming of a record deal. Like all the others.”
“You said you offered him an EP deal, though. Why an EP and not a full record?”
He shakes his head, pulling out his phone. “It’s provisional. We’re working with another artist to make sure he gets what he wants. Plus, I already listened to his demo. They don’t have what it takes. But his girlfriend would be a major acquisition for Rich Records.”
I laugh again, only this time, feeling bad for the guy. “Way to go, Dad. Dream crusher at the lunch table and side hustler on the streets.”
“Life is a hustle. The only way to win is to make sure you’re the one dealing the cards. Remember that.”
