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“Okay,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. “Which file do you want me to play next?”
Shit. Fuck. He stopped Ally’s video at exactly the one-minute mark—precisely the length of time he’d promised to listen. If he loved her, wouldn’t he listen longer, despite what he promised? “That one.” I point to his screen. “It’s an audio file. No video. But her voice on this one is especially—”
“We’ll let the song speak for itself,” he says bluntly. “The time to try to charm and sell me is over, Georgie.”
Holy fuck. I shoot him a look that says, Well, shit. No need to be rude about it. But he’s not looking at me. Indeed, without so much as a glance at me, Reed clicks on the file I’ve indicated. And, once again, Alessandra’s voice is wafting from his laptop speaker.
It’s rinse and repeat. Reed listens, stoned-faced and impassive, for exactly one minute, before pausing the song and moving on to the third file. Another audio file. Which he then listens to for exactly one minute, without giving away a damned thing.
And that’s it.
The room is filled with nothing but the sound of my anxious breathing now. Reed has listened to all three songs on Alessandra’s demo, as promised. And he’s right: the time for scheming and negotiating and flirting and middle fingers raised to the sky is over. Alessandra’s music must now speak for itself, without any help from me. I let out a slow exhale, feeling nervous and frayed.
Reed slowly closes his laptop. He purses his lips. And, finally, looks at me, his dark eyes intense and giving nothing away. “She’s talented,” he says matter-of-factly. “She’s got good vocal control. A nice texture to her voice. There’s no doubt she deserved her spot at Berklee.”
I nod, feeling like I’m going to pass out.
“One day, when she figures out who she is as an artist, as a person, I’m sure she’ll blossom. But, as things stand now, she’s not there yet. Not even close, if I’m being honest. I’m sorry, Georgie. She’s a pass for me.”
It’s worst-case scenario. Way worse than I could have imagined. A truly gut-wrenching disappointment. Without meaning to do it, I whimper and then clutch Reed’s arm with urgency.
“If you saw Alessandra perform live, I know you’d be able to see how special—”
“No, Georgie. Don’t. It’s over. I’m not on the fence about her. Not in the least. She’s not for me.”
I can’t believe my ears. I feel physically sick. Like the room is spinning. “But... when you listened to Bryce’s sister, you said young artists always need room to grow and develop.” Tears begin welling in my eyes, unbidden, despite my fervent desire to keep my eyes dry as a bone. “Ally just needs a little professional guidance. If she could get some coaching to help boost her confidence, I know—”
“Georgie, stop. Please. My answer is no.”
I blink and the tears welled in my eyes squirt down my cheeks.
“Aw, Georgie. I knew this would happen.” He reaches out to wipe my cheek with this thumb, but I jerk my face away, too ashamed at myself for crying in front of him, for doing exactly what I promised I wouldn’t do, to let him comfort me. Actually, he’s the last person I want comforting me right now. I hate that I’m reacting like this. In fact, I’m livid with myself for it.
But when I jerk away from Reed, it’s immediately clear he’s misinterpreting my body language. He doesn’t know I’m angry with myself. He thinks I’m punishing him. Taking my proverbial ball from the playground after not being chosen for a team and marching home.
“So predictable,” he says, his tone turning acidic on a dime. “I don’t get to touch the merchandise if I didn’t pay your price?”
I’m shocked. Disgusted. Pissed.
Shaking his head, Reed retracts his hand from me and says, his voice low and intense, “Yes, Georgina. I told you young artists often need time to grow and develop. You might recall, however, that I made that comment when I thought we were having a conversation about music scouting in general. When I didn’t have a clue we were actually talking about your stepsister, specifically. If I’d been privy to that information, then I would have clarified that, yes, I’m willing to help a young, wild bucking bronco of an artist learn to rein him or herself in a bit. To control their wildness. There’s nothing better than barely contained chaos. But what I’m not willing to do, Georgina, ever, is try to coax a painfully shy pony who’s afraid of her own shadow to poke her goddamned head out of the barn and take a fucking risk.”
I gasp. Asshole.
“Life is too fucking short to try to coax someone out of their shell.”
I’m aghast. Flooded with a whole bunch of emotions. Anger. Shock. Regret. Disappointment. Embarrassment. But, yeah, mostly…rage. At Reed, for being a dick right now. He doesn’t want to sign Alessandra? Okay. Fine. No need to be a prick about it.
