“I have enough.”
“‘Enough’ isn’t good enough. This is a multi-million-dollar tour, not some roadside bar gig.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s just posturing.
If he really went to NECM—and if bands are lining up to play for him here—Patty is probably more qualified than half the engineers working stadiums.
The corner of his mouth twitches, but I don’t get the satisfaction of a full smile. “I have experience with names even bigger than yours. But let me remind you that you came to mebecause you’re desperate. I’m not looking to impress anyone for a job I didn’t apply for.”
“But you’ll take it if it’s offered? Because I need an answer tonight. And we’ll pay double the going rate if you’re half as good as you say.”
I can almost see him counting the dollars.
He pauses.
And then heshrugs.
Who does this guy think he is? How can he manage to make agreeing look like an argument? And why isn’t this a red flag?
“Patty, are you serious?”
“It’s Patrick.”
I file away that correction—the first thing he’s offered on his own—and continue. “I really do need someone, and I have a lot of stipulations to keep the tour free of distractions.”
He folds his arms across his broad chest. “Why are you telling me this? You worried I’m going to cause a distraction?”
My spine stiffens. He wasn’t flirting. Not even close. Was he accusingmeof flirting? “No,” I snap. “I need to know you’re taking this seriously.”
“I take everything seriously.”
“You must be fun at parties.”
One side of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. It’s gone as fast as it appears, but not before I catch it.
He got the joke.
And for some reason, that lands harder than if he’d actually laughed.
Pull it together. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. You need him to do a job, and he can do it.
“Can you sign a contract stating you won’t touch drugs the entire tour?”
He answers slowly, firmly. “That won’t be a problem.”
“You’ll have to talk to my tour manager.”
“Who’s your tour manager?”
“Manny Ortiz.”
“What label?”
“Third Street Records.”
A muscle in his jaw flexes. If the tiny twitches and blinks are any indication, this jaw movement is practically a yell. Yet his response gives away nothing except that he’s annoyed he missed the context clues.
“Right,” he says. “You’re playing with Connor Nash.” He nods. “I can talk to your tour manager. I can talk to anyone you need.”
