“Did you have that shiner last night?” Ralph asks with no small amount of concern.
“Uh, no. That’s a more recent development.” Adam smirks, the expression practiced and precise. “Long story.”
One of the bartenders nods to us. “Can I get you two anything to drink?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” To Freddie, I add: “I’m not staying long.”
Besides the unrelenting urge to flee, I cannot fathom drinking anything besides water right now. But apparently the revolting combination of coconut water and strip club meat did its job, because Adam orders a beer.
Once it’s in hand, Adam casually moves down the bar to strike up a conversation with Ralph and his wife, Jane, allowingme an opportunity to relocate to the nearest high-top, to speak with Freddie and Sheridan in relative privacy.
“Look, I’m going to be straight with you guys.… I don’t remember much of what we discussed after dinner last night.”
Freddie tips his head in acceptance. “You went after it pretty hard.”
“Yes. I did.” I shake my head. “The point is, Fiona mentioned you were having some second thoughts—”
Sheridan sits forward, about to say something, but Freddie speaks over her.
“It’s kinda funny,” he says with this sardonic little smile. “You and Shaw showing up here together, considering.”
My mouth opens and closes twice. “Considering…?”
He takes a big gulp of his beer, draining half of it in one go, and then sets the glass down on the table. “You said Adam was the best at what he does. That Exeter is a great label, and that you ‘got it’ and that if you were in our shoes, you’d sign with Adam too.”
My gaze flickers to Sheridan—whose lips are pursed, a tiny crease between her brows—then back to Freddie. “Well. Yikes.”
Freddie smirks and picks up his pint glass again. “You can see why we wanted to explore our options.”
Over at the bar, Adam is still talking with the others, though I catch him casting looks he probably thinks are stealthy in our direction. I take in his dorky boat shoes, and his bruised face, and I think about the squishy little Elvis tucked safely in my tote bag. I think about his jacket draped over my shoulders last night, and him giving me a piggyback ride for blocks.
My opinion of Adam has evolved, but I wasn’t entirely wrong about his motivations for being here. I still think he wants to sign this band mostly because it will help him get ahead. The thing is, I’m no different.
It’s easy to drag Adam for wanting to cash in on Dempsey, as though the money isn’t a huge factor for me too. Yes, I have always loved this band, and yes, I wanted to sign them even when they were unproven. But the money still matters. It matters a lot right now.
When she signed off on this trip, Josie warned me it would be the last travel expense she’d approve if I didn’t come home with a verbal agreement from Dempsey. And she certainly isn’t okay with me spending my own money to cover networking costs anymore. I’ve poured everything I have into my work, emptied my savings account, because somewhere along the way I convinced myself that one big break was all I needed. One wild success story would be enough to wipe out every other rumor about me, enough to shake off the impostor syndrome that has plagued me ever since I started working for Griffin.
I’m trapped in this cycle—constantly fighting tooth and nail yet only ever scraping by. I’m tired. I am so, so tired, and I don’t know how to outsell Adam.
“Adam is great,” I say with a shrug. I see no point in trying to walk back on that, pretend I meant something different from what I said. Especially since I already admitted I don’t remember saying it in the first place. Instead, I focus on putting my personal feelings for Adam aside. Pretend he’s still the relative stranger he was when we first got to Vegas. “Dempsey is in an ideal position. You’ve got a strong sales record, and you’re coming off a successful tour. Signing witheither one of us would be a solid choice. But I’m the best choice. If I haven’t convinced you of that already, after all the preliminary conversations we’ve had, then I don’t know what more I can say at this point.” I look to Sheridan and add, “I think you’re an incredible songwriter. Just know that I genuinely am a huge fan and would love the opportunity to work with you all.”
“All right,” Freddie says. “We’ll take that under consideration.”
His tone is one I’ve heard too many times before from men in this industry. Placating. Passive. He won’t take it under consideration, because his mind is made up. I know it, and from the tense-jawed look on Sheridan’s face, she knows it too.
“Great. Well, you know how to get in touch with me.”
Freddie sets his glass down and offers me his hand to shake. He taps my arm with his opposite hand and pulls away. He starts stepping backward, away from us. “You’re still coming to the show tonight, yeah?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him, even though the truth is I’d rather take a long bath and go to bed at nine. Or catch an earlier flight home. Or do any number of things, really, besides stand in uncomfortable shoes for three more hours of the day, listening to a band I love and will probably lose out on. Again.
He nods and turns around, walking the rest of the way to the restrooms.
“Nothing is officially decided yet,” Sheridan adds once he’s disappeared around the corner.
Maybe not. But I’m not sure anything could change Freddie’s mind at this point. Where Curtis and Ralph standis less clear. Frankly, I’m not even sure if their votes carry as much weight as the Dempsey siblings’ do. And I have a sinking feeling they’re more likely to follow Freddie’s lead.
As if she’s thinking the same thing, Sheridan heaves a sigh and says: “Sometimes I think I should ditch all the men in my life and start a solo career.”
