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Holy crap! I’m sitting in a car worth three million bucks? I suddenly feel faint.
I swear I’m not going home with Reed because of his money. But, holy crap, it’s not every day a girl sits inside a three-million-dollar machine. For God’s sake, I’ve never been inside a three-million-dollar house, let alone a three-million-dollar car. Suddenly, I feel nervous to move a muscle inside this car. To breathe. What if I spontaneously combust—or barf or pee? The driver’s side door opens and Reed slides into his seat. “Have you been dutifully scouring the girl’s page to find a video for me, Music Scout?”
“Uh. No. But I will.” I flip back to Instagram, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Here. Plug in,” Reed says, holding up a cord. “We’ll listen to her through my speakers.”
My hands shaking, I plug my phone into Reed’s offered cord.
“You okay?” Reed asks.
I wipe the flop-sweat off my forehead. “Yeah, I’m great.”
But I’m a liar. I’m not “great.” I’m feeling a bit sick, actually. Being in this car has made me realize just how successful Reed is. How big a deal it is that I’ve not only got his undivided attention, but we’re organically talking about discovering new music, thanks to Bryce. What if I blow this chance for Alessandra? I can’t do that. Not even for one night of the best sex in my life.
Reed starts his car, and its expensive engine purrs like a kitten. “Listen to that,” he says lovingly. “Beautiful.”
“Yeah, beautiful. At least, I think so. Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I grew up driving my dad’s 2004 Volvo, and I haven’t needed a car of my own since I’ve been in school.”
Reed chuckles. “I feel you. In college, I drove a ‘95 Honda Accord with a transmission that slipped and a passenger window that wouldn’t roll down.”
I chuckle, and he does, too. And, just like that, something passes between us. Something real. And sweet, believe it or not. Something that makes both of us smile like school kids with mutual crushes on a playground.
“Okay, cue something up already, Music Scout,” Reed barks playfully, backing his glorious car out of its parking spot. “I’ve wasted enough time on this girl. I’ll give her one more minute of my precious time, and then I’m going to focus on nothing but you until I have to drag my sorry ass to the airport.”
“Okay, I’m looking... ” I look up from my phone. “Actually, can I ask a quick question? What did you mean when you said ‘extenuating circumstances’?”
We’re headed down a ramp toward the garage exit now, but Reed glances away from the windshield to look at me quizzically. Clearly, he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“You said her Instagram followers aren’t impressive, but there might be ‘extenuating circumstances’ to give her more of a future platform than the average bear?”
“Oh. Yeah.” He turns out of the garage and we take off smoothly into the night. “This is what I mean about Bryce’s football-star status coming into play. Assuming Bryce doesn’t get injured this coming season, he’ll almost certainly get drafted pretty high, and then quite possibly play in the NFL. Which means there’s potential for him to have a huge, national platform in coming years, if he doesn’t fuck it up. And you know who he’ll almost certainly feature on his social media? His baby sister, the wannabe pop star. So, even if his sister’s numbers aren’t all that great now, she’s got huge growth potential. Plus, she’s young. Even putting her brother aside, I always keep in mind the young ones almost always need time to grow and develop.”
I sigh with relief. Alessandra’s nineteen. Would Reed consider Alessandra the kind of “young” artist he’d give a chance to grow and develop? “Interesting,” I manage to say, even though my heart is crashing. “So, let’s say a singer-songwriter has, I don’t know, a thousand followers, and they’re, say, nineteen... Then it’s not totally impossible for you to want to sign them?”
“There are lots of factors to consider. That’s precisely what I’m trying to teach you, Music Scout. In the end, it all hinges on talent.” He smiles. “Unless, of course, the wannabe happens to look like you. I swear, I could Auto-Tune the shit out of you and make a mint. In fact, I think that’d be a fun experiment. You wanna try it?”
I laugh. “No, thanks.”
“Worth a shot.”
I bite my lip, trying to decide how far to push my luck. “So, um, a nineteen-year-old with a small social media following, but amazing talent, would still have a chance?”
Reed’s smile fades. He turns away from the road and looks at me for a long beat with hard eyes, like he can read my damned mind. And I know I’ve messed up. Pushed too hard. Made him suspicious of me. But just as I’m about to throw my palms over my face and confess my sins, Reed returns his attention to the road and says, “That’s exactly right, Music Scout. Nothing’s impossible, if the artist’s talent is mind-blowing enough. Now, to be clear, I’d strongly prefer a potential artist have a shit-ton more followers than a thousand. I mean, in this day and age, if they don’t have at least 5k, then what the fuck is wrong with them? Are they stupid? Addled with crippling anxiety? See, the thing to understand is that the music industry is a business. You can’t sit alone in your room, writing songs for yourself, and not sharing them with the world. I mean, you can, but that’s what’s called a hobby. The business side of music is about selling that music. Which means you have to play your songs for other people and get them to connect with the music and you—which then makes them want to buy the songs, or a ticket to your show. The business side of music is about moving people with your art—or, at least, your charisma. One way or another, it’s about making people feel and connect. But not for art’s sake. But because, in the end, you want them to buy. And that means every artist today, whether they’re at the top of the game, or just getting started, is a salesperson, in addition to being an artist. If they can’t hang with that, then they’re not going to succeed. Not with me, or anyone else, and I don’t want them—unless, of course, they look like you and/or hit me like a ton of bricks like Laila or 2Real or Red Card Riot or 22 Goats.”
