Page 184 of Off Limits Mogul

“Thank you,” I say, dropping back in my seat.

He sits in the chair next to me and swivels it so he’s facing me.

“I see my assistant took good care of you.” His eyes drop to the cup and plate in front of me. “Is your latte cold? Do you want a refill?”

“No, thank you. Your assistant brought these…”—I point to the coffee and half-eaten donut—“not long ago.”

“Good. How do you like the donut?”

“Oh my God. It’s insane. I swear, it’s the best donut I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m a little partial, but I agree, they’re the best,” he says.

Holt’s ocean-blue eyes are a deeper shade than Rhys’s, but equally mesmerizing. They both wear their dark brown hair a little long on top.

“There’s a lot about Lucky Break on the internet,” Holt says. “There’s also quite a lot about Chelle. She seemed to be the one who got the most press… not always for the right reasons.”

“It was always a three-way love-hate relationship between my best friend, the fans, and the rags. The months preceding her death, the press, and social media were intent on going after her.”

“The tragedy surrounding your two group mates resurfaced because of your surge in popularity,” Holt says. “I’m sorry about your best friend.” Sincerity shines bright in his eyes.

“Thanks for saying that.”

“Since it’s sometimes difficult to tell between real and fake news, why don’t you fill me in?”

“Okay.” I launch into story mode.

The downside of the media buzz is I can’t escape my past life. A couple days ago, it came colliding full force with my current life.

First, Joey contacted me to warn me my old recordcompany was hunting me down. I knew I couldn’t dodge the bullet forever. I took my courage in both hands and made the difficult call. They’re demanding the balance of the money I owe them in one shot. According to my SCORE Yours contract, I won’t see a dime for another few months because things weren’t supposed to launch with the speed of a rocket. I could ask Rhys to loan me the money, but I’d hate for him to think I see him as an ATM machine. This is my mess. Not his.

Second, a number of British rags are on a witch hunt to fuel Chelle’s haters’ insatiable appetites. No thanks. I won’t be part of that. Things might’ve been sour between us in the end, but I won’t be a traitor to her memory.

“Without Flint Guthrie, we would all still be oblivious to your incredible voice,” Holt says when I finish my story.

I beam with pride.

A compliment like that coming from a guy like Holt means a lot.

“Flint gave me wings to fly,” I say.

“I love the way you framed it,” Holt says.

“I owe him a lot.”

He nods. “You know my background as a bassist?”

“I do. You’re one of the best.”

“Thank you.” He bows. “I may be wearing a suit these days, but at heart, I’m still a musician and an artist. My mission with Ritual of Rhyme Records is to shine the spotlight on kickass talent and make sure they’re treated with respect. I know firsthand what it’s like to be screwed over. I never want that for my artists.”

“Rhys speaks highly of you.”

“I understand your hesitation…” I expect him to continue, but instead, he looks me in the eye. “You have a deep, smoky, soulful voice that begs to be heard. I want to be your ally. Plain and simple. Lucky Break was a great steppingstone, but the poppy tunes didn’t showcase you as a vocalist with a mean set of pipes.”

His frank talk is refreshing.

The execs at my former record label would never entertain this kind of conversation with an artist, regardless of their success.