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Josh laughs. “Hi, Georgina.”
“Hi, Josh. Nice to meet you. And, for the record, I have no idea how to play chess.”
Josh indicates the mess of drinks in front of us. “Looks like you know how to make drinks, though.”
“I fake it pretty well. Reed figured out a clever way for us to hang out during a busy Thursday-night shift.”
“That’s Reed for you,” Josh says. “The Man with the Plan.”
“Oh? Wikipedia says he’s The Man with the Midas Touch. Gasp. Is Wiki wrong?”
Josh chuckles. “No, he’s that, too.” He bats my shoulder. “Come shoot pool with us whenever you’re done chatting up the bartender, brother. Take your time.”
I open my mouth to tell Josh I’ll follow him in two seconds, just as soon as I say a proper goodbye to the lovely bartender, when a female voice shrieking my name behind me splits my eardrums. It’s a voice I don’t recognize. Not at all. But I know, instinctually, it’s attached to someone I’m going to loathe, whoever the fuck she is.
Chapter 11
Reed
The woman shrieking my name is, indeed, a stranger to me. A young, blonde, high-strung one with a flash drive in her hand. After shrieking my name, she launches into an elevator pitch about her music, saying all the same things I’ve heard a million times before. She’s a UCLA music student who saw me at today’s event, she says. And, surprise, surprise, she’s the next Adele.
“I don’t accept unsolicited submissions,” I say, putting up my palm. “No exceptions. And just a tip, Courtney. Don’t compare yourself to Adele. Nobody is ‘the next Adele.’ You sound like a fucking amateur when you say that. Also—”
“Excuse me,” Georgina says, and off she goes to the other end of the bar.
Fuck.
I’d forgotten Georgina was standing there, watching this entire exchange. Fuck! From Georgina’s tone and body language, it’s clear she thinks I’m being too harsh with this girl. But what am I supposed to do? Sit here smiling every time someone ambushes me during a relaxed night with friends? And more to the point, when I’m hitting on the hot-as-fuck bartender? If this girl hadn’t bombarded me, I would have had a tantalizing “see you later, Cinderella” moment with Georgina. I’d have walked away from her on my own terms, leaving her wanting more. As it is, though, this girl is in my personal space, elevator-pitching me, while Georgina is standing ten feet away, looking upset.
“Enough,” I say sharply to the blonde, cutting off her rambling. “When I told you I don’t accept unsolicited demos a minute ago, that was your cue to fuck off.”
The girl’s mouth hangs open, just as Josh shifts his weight next to me, letting me know he thinks that was too harsh.
But fuck it. What this girl and Josh and Georgina don’t understand—what nobody could understand, unless they’ve walked a mile in my shoes—is that I’m not on this earth to give out participation medals. I’m here to find and disseminate rare musical greatness, while also living my best life. And guess what? Pretending to give a shit every time some wannabe ambushes me with a demo isn’t living my goddamned best fucking life!
I’m pissed as hell this blonde torpedoed my “see you later” with Georgina. And in the process quite possibly outed me to Georgina as the asshole that I am. But those aren’t the main reasons I just told her to fuck off. In truth, the far less prickish reason for my behavior is that I’m helping this kid out. Teaching her something. If she truly wants to make it in music, she’s going to encounter assholes far worse than me. On a daily basis, she’s going to discover nobody will hold her fucking hand in this business. Not even if she’s “the next Adele.” Which she’s not.
I glance at Georgina at the far end of the bar, making sure she’s not overhearing anything, and to my relief, she’s busy serving a customer. “Courtney,” I say, “I’m doing you a favor here by not sugarcoating anything. Music is a brutal business, filled with savage, endless rejections that are going to crush your soul and disembowel your spirit and make you question your talent on a daily basis. And, to be perfectly honest, I can already see in your eyes you’re not built to withstand any of that. Do you honestly think you are? Tell the truth. Swear on a stack of bibles you’re up for that kind of abuse.”
It’s a test. If this kid caves, then my instinct about her is right: she’ll never make it in the cruel world of music. But if she tells me to fuck off, if she says I’m wrong about her, and that she’s going to hustle until her dying breath to prove me wrong, then, hell, maybe I’ve misjudged her. Maybe, if she pushes back like that, today will be her lucky day and I’ll do something I never do: listen to her stupid fucking demo.
