Page 53 of Ravaged By Lust

18

CHLOE

They make me wait for twenty minutes.

Twenty freaking minutes.

And the entire time I feel like I’m on the cusp of a heart attack. I sit there in the vast waiting room outside Mickey Miller’s office and try to calm myself as my head explodes. I feel sweat building. I clasp my guitar. My foot taps against the carpet.

Above me, hanging on the high walls of this office, are black and white photos of all the famous bands and musicians Mickey Miller has produced. All frames signed with loving messages. People I have spent my entire life looking up to as inspiration, all produced by the one man I’m about to see. All glaring down at me as if to say…

You’re not worthy, Chloe Stoll.

“He’s ready for you.”

It’s the hot young blonde English receptionist. The one who signed me in and looked me up and down so dismissively when I approached her. Like I’d somehow managed to break in.

This entire building is designed to make people understand how much of a big player Mickey Miller is. It’s designed – with its high ceilings and long-ass hallways and legendary artists’ signatures and shining music award trophies on display - for lowly people like me to feel like I do not belong here.

This is the beating heart of the North American music industry.

“He is?”

The receptionist sighs. She’s not going to repeat herself.

“Follow me.”

I trail behind the hot receptionist with her scarily ice-cold English accent through the massive double doors at the end of the hallway and straight into Mickey Miller’s sprawling personal office.

This room is even more impressive than the hallway outside. He’s got gold records hanging around the walls. A whole trophy cabinet of awards he’s personally won behind his long desk. There’s a photo on his desk of a superyacht. I bet it’s his. There’s another photo of him shaking the President’s hand. Another one of him with Paul McCartney.

And behind that impressive desk sits Mickey Miller himself. I recognize him immediately from the photos. If you can picture a stereotypical record producer, then Mickey Miller is it. A big man in his late sixties who knows every cent he’s worth. Expensive suit. All veneers. Tanned skin. Botox. Clearly a hair transplant. Beady eyes that glare.

He’s the full Hollywood music industry package.

And he’s scary as hell.

He leans back in his chair and cups his hands together as if to pray as his receptionist introduces me in her cut-glass posh English inflection.

“Miss Chloe Stoll for you, sir.”

The receptionist leaves, shutting the double doors behind her. Feels like she’s locking me in with a monster.

I’m still on the other side of the room from Mickey Miller. About ten yards separate us. Ten yards across a chasm of an office.

Mickey Miller regards me with his small eyes. He doesn’t make a sound. His expression is completely blank.

I have a very strong sense he doesn’t know who the hell I am.

He probably hasn’t even seen my viral video. Call it a hunch, but I don’t think this is the guy who scrolls through Instagram all day.

Have I made the biggest mistake of my life coming here? Am I about to be spit out?

He doesn’t invite me to take a seat or come any closer. I wonder if I should walk over and shake his hand.

But before I do, he finally speaks.

“Have you brought any songs with you?” he asks in a dull voice.