“Right.” I gathered my purse and moved across the room, wondering if he would come out and greet me or if I had to knock and wait like when you got into trouble in school. Shit. This was worse than any trip to the principal’s office had ever been.
The stupid white tile flooring stretched out before me, making it feel like I was in one of those weird dreams where the more you walked, the farther away your goal was.
As I finally reached the door, pounding footsteps behind me broke my focus on the knocking debate.
“Ruby! What the hell?” I asked as my bestie slid between me and the door.
“I just need a minute with him, okay? Just a sec. Wait here.” She held her pointer finger close enough to make me go cross-eyed, effectively keeping me out as she opened the door, backed in, and slammed it in my face. The door was thick wood and must have been sturdy because as close as I was standing, I couldn’t hear anything on the other side. Had Ruby changed her mind? Maybe it had nothing to do with me.
The world doesn’t revolve around you, Tatum. It’s just slightly to your left.
Dammit. If I didn’t need this job so badly, I’d be out of here already. He’s going to see straight through me, for sure.
“Sorry about that,” Ruby muttered a few minutes later as she slipped back out. “You’ve got this, babe. Knock him dead.” I narrowed my eyes at her. She was as encouraging as ever, but there was a twitch in her left eye. Something was up. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Instead of answering directly, Ruby slapped me on the shoulder, reiterated how much I ‘had it’, and pushed me through the door.
Stumbling into the room, I caught myself on the edge of a plush rug and straightened in time to notice a slightly disgruntled look on the face of the man I was here to see. The glare of harshoverhead lighting reflected off a bald pate, the skin so shiny I was momentarily tempted to shield my eyes. Don’t be rude to the nice man you need to give you a job, Tatum. On his upper lip, a mustache worthy of a seventies-era porn star more than compensated for the dearth of hair on his head. Deep blue bags beneath his eyes matched the paunch straining a surprisingly neat button-up shirt, and the run of broken capillaries over his bulbous nose told me more about a long-held drinking habit than I needed to know. This man had not chosen an easy life, but hopefully he wasn’t yet so jaded that he was unwilling to give a newbie a shot. Not that he thought I was a newbie.
“Just watch the floor right there. It’s a bit…sticky,” I said, waving an awkward hand at the door Ruby had closed firmly behind me.
“Take a seat, Miss King.”
I dropped immediately into the chair indicated, as though I could rack up bonus points by complying in a timely manner.
“I’ve read through your resume and spoken to Ruby as your reference. She is convinced you have what it takes to be a band manager with our record label.”
I nodded, unsure if speaking would help my case or blow it completely out of the water.
“What do you know about the bands we signed to our label? I want to know your opinion of them. If you were to manage them, what would you do?”
I opened my mouth and paused. What would I do?
“Uhh… well… I know Red String Riot is slated to play supporting act for the second half of Goats and Vandal’s tour. I believe with a stronger social media presence, a few promotional campaigns,and a venture into branded merchandise, they could sell out a tour on their own. They’re better than just a support act.”
Mr. Whelan nodded, brow furrowed.
I tried to discreetly wipe my clammy hands on the chair beneath me. Was I breathing loudly? I felt like he could hear my heart thundering in my chest. Resting on his desk, between the pens and papers, was a thick, red Sharpie. I had a sudden vision of him using it to scrawlimposteracross my forehead before he kicked me out of his office. This wasn’t going to work.
Gripping the arms of my chair, I willed myself to stay put and think of Ma and Dad.
“What would you do with Goats and Vandals?”
Reeling back from my internal panic attack, I replayed his words in hopes they’d make more sense.
“Goats and Vandals? I’d work on their reputation, for one thing.”
What the fuck, Tatum?
“I mean…”
Mr. Whelan held up a hand, sitting forward in his chair. “No, I understand what you mean. You think you could control four talented, obnoxious rock stars who would love nothing more than to self-destruct?”
Breathe.
I thought back to Ruby’s pep talk in the car this morning.
“Tell him what he wants to hear, and we’ll work out the rest later. You’ll have me there every step of the way. You’ve got this, bitch. You’re Tatum-motherfucking-King!”
