My artists’ streaming analytics and record sales have been trending up the past couple of months, but not enough. The projected earnings from bringing on a band like Dempsey, though? That would more than make up the difference.
Signing them means keeping my dream job. It means keeping my apartment, and my independence, and the dozen other talented artists on my roster who trusted me with theircareers and their art and who will likely be dropped from the label if I get fired.
God. My head is pounding. I would give away my entire vinyl collection if I could go back to bed and not deal with any of this. Even the prospect of dragging myself into the shower is starting to feel like a pipe dream.
I can’t decide if standing under hot water would make me feel better or worse. When I check the time I discover I have only twenty minutes left until I’m supposed to meet Adam, so that makes the decision for me. I crawl over to my suitcase instead. Sweet summer child that I was yesterday, I packed rather optimistically. I’d planned to spend the bulk of today reading romance novels by the pool. My first vacation day in almost a year—and it wasn’t even going to be a full day off, when you factor in going to the show tonight. With a frown, I flick my bathing suit aside and continue to pick through the suitcase until I find a concert tee.
At some point last night I seem to have taken off my bra—something I’m very hopeful Adam didn’t notice—but since I’m still wearing the same sleeveless blouse as yesterday, I’m choosing to believe I removed it without going topless. Now I yank the shirt off and pull on a lacy bralette. It’s the kind without clasps that you have to put on over your head, and I immediately become tangled in the straps. I’m going to accidentally asphyxiate myself and the housekeeper who finds me will assume it was some sort of autoerotic thing. My obituary will read:Eleanor Thompson, age 28, passed away in a Las Vegas hotel room that smelled like the hangover sweats. She leaves behind husband Adam Shaw, who recently signed the alt-rock band Dempsey to Exeter Records.
I cannot abide.
I huff out a breath and calmly maneuver my bra into place. I throw on the T-shirt and grab my phone to turn on some music. I pull up Dempsey’s debut album and go straight for track five. Though it’s technically a breakup anthem, written and sung by Sheridan Dempsey, it’s always worked to hype me up, make me feel in control of my own fate. If I were a professional baseball player, this would be the song they’d blast through the stadium speakers every time I stepped up to the plate. I take a moment to listen to Sheridan belt out the chorus, to let the lyrics work their magic, before I head into the en suite bathroom.
The hair gods must be smiling down on me because my blowout still looks decent once I run a brush through it. Other than that… yikes. I have the sort of deep-set brown eyes that make me look like I didn’t get enough sleep even on my best day. This morning, I bear a strong resemblance to Uncle Fester. Splashing cold water on my face does absolutely nothing to help. With a heavy sigh, I reach for my makeup bag.
After slathering on sunscreen and concealer, I grab the tube of mascara. My hands are shaking, either from the hangover or lingering anxiety, so I have to brace my elbow against the marble countertop to avoid getting it all over my eyelid.
Two coats later, I finally look slightly better than I feel.
I brush my teeth and confirm my mascara is dry before putting in a few drops of Visine. I remember how red Adam’s eyes were when we woke up and think about bringing the eye drops with me for him to use, but ultimately decide Adam does not deserve itchy eye relief. Not from me, anyway.
Before stepping out of the bathroom, I rifle through mytoiletries for a bottle of Tylenol. I raid the minibar for a Coke and use it to chase down two pills. I snag a small can of Pringles, too, and wolf them down as I finish my soda. Once I’m done, I cast another longing glance toward my suitcase—the bikini and paperbacks tucked inside—before sliding my sunglasses into place and heading out to face the music.
CHAPTER FOURADAM
I make it back to my own hotel more or less in one piece. It’s rough for a minute there, and I did puke into a potted palm outside Eleanor’s hotel, then once more in the shower halfway through washing myself. Fortunately, I feel better after that.
When I come out of the shower, I check my phone, and there’s a message from Freddie, asking me to meet the band at a brewery near the venue after they finish sound check this afternoon.
It’s great news, so I’m not sure why I feel uneasy as I type out a response. Maybe because I have no plans to drink again for the foreseeable future, and even thinking about that smell all breweries have is almost enough to make me head back into the bathroom.
But this will be hours from now. I’ll get breakfast and some coffee and an annulment and be right as rain.
I text them back to let them know I’ll be there, and thenbegin the uphill battle of pulling myself the fuck together. I’m relatively new to the whole concept of a skin-care routine, and I wasted so many hours going down rabbit holes on skin-care subreddits that I feel strangely guilty when I skip even one step in it—the same feeling I get when I go to a dentist appointment knowing I haven’t been flossing as religiously as I should be. So instead I skip shaving and apply the vitamin C serum, which as far as I can tell has absolutely no effect whatsoever on my skin, followed by mineral sunscreen, which takes forever to rub in, especially with my five-o’clock shadow.
It’s not until I start getting dressed that I realize my shoes were in the splash zone when I got sick earlier. I attempt to wipe them down with a hotel towel, but that makes me gag almost immediately. No way I’m walking around in these. I open the closet and find a robe hanging, and a pair of slippers neatly lined up beneath them. I tell myself it’s better than going down to the lobby in my socks, and slip them on, making a mental note to put them back after I acquire new shoes so that I don’t get slammed with some exorbitant charge for them when I check out later.
Before heading downstairs, I sit down on my bed—still perfectly made, since I haven’t slept in it yet—and plug my phone in to charge for a few minutes. I’ve got a text from my mom asking how my trip is going, which I ignore for the time being, because picturing her disapproval at hearing I had a drunken, quickie wedding still makes me want to die a little. More messages are waiting in my group chat with some of the guys from the office. Everyone is hitting a bar after work tonight, because for all of them, this is a totally normal Friday. I tap out a reply telling them to have fun without me, then close the messaging app so I can check my email. One ofmy reps sent a follow-up about a band they scouted. They’ve got a unique sound, but as I’ve already told my rep twice now, they’re almosttoodistinctive. I can’t sign every artist my reps send me, no matter how good they are. It’s a business—I have to cherry-pick the ones that are sure to make the label money.
I flag the message to respond later and tap through my phone to pull up Billy Draper’s contact info.
“Hey kid,” he answers on the third ring. “How’s Sin City treating you?”
The decision to lie through my teeth is automatic. “So far so good.”
“Last night go according to plan?”
A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” I rub the back of my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me the meeting was with Eleanor Thompson?”
“I didn’t think it really mattered,” he says.
He’s right. It shouldn’t have mattered. If he’d told me ahead of time it was Eleanor’s meeting, I wouldn’t have backed off. It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Except maybe I could’ve been more prepared, been able to prevent her from getting under my skin last night. And then maybe I wouldn’t have had so much to drink. And thenmaybewe wouldn’t have wound up wearing wedding rings.
Can’t really blame Billy for that part, though.
“No, you’re right. Just took me by surprise.” I think about the way my stomach twisted when I spotted her at the restaurant, the first time we’d been in the same room in years. “She and I have butted heads a few times in the past.”
