Six months ago he signed my favorite artist out from under me. The musicians I work with are probably meant to be like my nonexistent children—I’m supposed to love them all equally in spite of their shortcomings or attitudes or how prolific they are. But Maya was a gold mine. She was driven, and professional, and she had a sound unlike anyone else out there. She was my favorite, and I was just as upset as she was that her last album didn’t hit the way we wanted. But I had a plan. A strategy to make sure her next one would succeed. Only she didn’t give me the chance—she took Adam’s bait and wouldn’t even come to the table to renegotiate. Now he’s standing here looking to do it again, and he’s actually going to make me introduce him.
I clench my jaw, then suck in a breath and smile big as I lean back in my seat. “Guys, this is Adam Shaw. He’s an A&R rep at Exeter Records. Adam, this is—”
“You guys need no introduction,” he cuts in to say, already offering his hand first to Freddie, then the others. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks, man,” Ralph says.
“You said you’re with Exeter?” Fiona asks.
“That’s right. Eleanor and I worked there together before she left for Blue Sky. But I’m actually a manager now.”
And doesn’t he look the part? An expensive, perfectly tailored wool suit has replaced the ill-fitting poly-blend polos he used to wear to work. Back then, Adam looked like he was playacting at being a grown-up. His hair was always shaggy, so the ends curled over the shells of his ears, but now he’s got a big-boy haircut, styled with pomade and everything. His jawline is sharper, his shoulders broader, and it’s hard to ignore the fact that this definitely qualifies as a glow-up.
I run my tongue over my teeth. “Manager, huh? Congratulations.”
“Thanks. So far, so good—I’ve got some exciting stuff in the pipeline.”
Now he’s just poking the bear.
Fiona’s eyes narrow. “Adam Shaw…”
Wait for it…
“Aren’t you Atlas Shaw’s son?”
And there it is.
“I am.” Over the years, Adam has perfected his reaction to this question. A casual smile, like the fact that his father was a goddamn legend is neither here nor there. He evenmanages to look a touch embarrassed, like he can’t believe Fiona figured out the connection. Which is hilarious, because the fact that he had a famous father was one of the first things I learned about Adam when we met.
“I was sorry to hear about your old man,” Freddie offers. “He was a hell of a guitarist.”
Adam nods, a bit stiffly. “Thank you.” He clears his throat and gestures over his shoulder. “I’m actually here with an old friend. You guys know Chris Edwards?”
For fuck’s sake. Is he serious? Rock & Roll Hall of Famer Chris Edwards. Of course that’s who he’s having dinner with.
Sheridan and Ralph scramble to get a better look, both of them elbowing Curtis out of the way as they try to turn in the booth.
Even Freddie lets out an awed laugh, which is somewhat alarming. Unlike Ralph, who is and always has been an overexcitable puppy, or Curtis, who is so impassive all the time I low-key suspect he might be a robot, Freddie has curated a too-cool-for-school persona since getting a taste of fame.
“He’d love to meet you all if you have a moment.”
Oh, he’s good. Positioning it as a favor they’re doing him, even though Dempsey has cited Chris as an influence in more than one interview. I’m more certain than ever that Adam planned all of this. I’m generally great on my feet, but right now I’ve got nothing.
Especially when Ralph turns to me with his mop of blond curls and big doe eyes, like he’s waiting for my permission. What am I, his mother? Dinner is over. I’ve made my pitch. I’m in no position to tell them they can’t go over and meet their idol. The best I can do is attempt to intervene by tagging along.
“I’d love to meet him, too, if that’s cool.”
“Of course.” Adam steps back to give everyone room to slide out of the booth.
With a promise to be in touch tomorrow, Fiona takes the opportunity to make her exit. Though she’s only a couple of years older than me and the band, she’s a new mom and I can imagine the peace and quiet of a hotel room is more appealing to her than partying with a bunch of other industry folks. We wave her off, and the rest of us trail Adam across the restaurant like some perverse game of follow the leader. At the bar, he introduces each of us to Chris. Conversation flows easily between all the musicians, leaving Adam and me decidedly on the outside. Adam orders an old-fashioned and lifts the glass toward me in a silentcheersbefore he takes a sip.
“How did you know I’d be here?” I ask, quiet enough I won’t be overheard by the others.
He swirls the ice around his glass. The sound makes me want to smack the drink out of his hand. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Really,” I say flatly. “You expect me to believe it’s a total coincidence?”
He smiles blandly at me, exuding don’t-give-a-fuck energy. “Honestly, I’m not very concerned about what you believe.”
