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The crowd cheers wildly, much more enthusiastically than they did for anyone else. And, in a flash, I know Alessandra was right: everyone here has a music demo in their pockets they’re hoping to slip to Reed after the event.
The moderator says, “Reed founded his label eleven years ago, at the age of twenty-three, right after he’d obtained both a BA in business and an MBA from this fine university.”
The crowd cheers at the mention of our beloved school.
“In an early interview, Reed said he founded River Records with two goals in mind: one, bringing ‘stellar’ music into the world, and, two, making a ‘shit-ton of money’ while accomplishing goal number one.”
The room explodes with laughter and applause.
Chuckling with the crowd, the moderator adds, “I think it’s fair to say ‘mission accomplished’ on both counts. Would you agree, Reed?”
Reed smiles. “So far, so good. But, to be clear, I’m not even close to done with either of my stated goals yet.”
The moderator looks like she’s swooning at that response, but after taking a few deep breaths, she manages to return to the audience with a professional demeanor. “Let’s get started. I’ll begin with you, Reed. Your label is known for being particularly selective about the artists you sign. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Why is that?”
“Because we don’t stockpile our artists, the way other labels do. If River Records signs you, it means we’re committed to putting our full faith and resources behind you. Most labels sign a hundred acts, hoping one will have a hit, almost by chance. But while they play the odds like bean counters, we shoot for the stars, each and every time. But, of course, the flipside of that philosophy is that we need to be highly selective at the front end.”
“Have you ever experienced a miss, despite your best efforts?”
“We’ve had disappointments, sure. But a complete miss? No, not yet. Knock on wood.”
He raps his knuckles against the side of his head, a move he’s obviously not inventing—and, yet, every student in the audience laughs and swoons like they’re seeing the maneuver for the first time. And I can’t help thinking, Poor Isabel didn’t stand a chance.
As the moderator asks Reed some follow-up questions, I take a surreptitious photo of him, and quickly shoot it off to Alessandra. And, of course, within seconds, my stepsister sends me a gif of a nuclear explosion, with the caption: “MY OVARIES,” making me chuckle out loud.
After putting my phone in my lap again, I return to the discussion, just in time to hear the moderator say, “Thank you so much, Reed. I think you’ve shown us all why every aspiring artist I know would give their left kidney to get signed by your label.”
Reed leans back in his chair, the king of all he surveys. “Actually, our contracts require new artists to give their right kidney. I keep them in mason jars in my office and nibble on them whenever I’m low on protein bars.”
Again, everyone in the room, including me, laughs and swoons at Reed’s wit and charm.
“I stand corrected,” the moderator says, her face aglow. She clears her throat. “Moving on.”
And away we go. Question. Answer. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes, the moderator addresses the full panel. Other times, she talks to a specific panelist, like she did with Reed. But, through it all, nobody holds my attention like CeeCee and Reed. But mostly Reed, if I’m being honest, except for when CeeCee is the one speaking. And even then, I can’t help sneaking peeks at Reed to see how he’s reacting to whatever CeeCee is saying.
After about twenty minutes, while the moderator chats with the music composer, I find myself sneaking yet another peek at Reed—and then jolting like I’ve been electrocuted when I discover his dark, piercing eyes fixed firmly on me. My heart lurches as our gazes mingle, and then stampedes when he doesn’t look away.
Am I imagining this staring contest? Am I nothing but a horny woman projecting her fantasies onto an incredibly successful and sexy man? Surely, a man of Reed’s stature wouldn’t notice some random nobody in a crowded lecture hall... Yeah, I decide, Reed must be staring blankly, letting his mind wander, perhaps to the woman he banged last night, and I happen to be in what appears to be his sightline.
And yet... it really seems like he’s actively, and quite flirtatiously, checking me out. But how could that be? Yes, men frequently check me out. It’s part of the reason I became a bartender—because I realized I could channel some of that male attention into tips. That, and my father would kill me if I became a stripper. But, still, I think I’m being ridiculous to think a man who dates supermodels and actresses and literally parties with rock stars would notice me in this situation.
