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When I walk into the studio, he throws one hand into the air, holding up a single finger, telling me to wait. The white leather headphones that clap over his ears make him look like some kind of bug as he bounces his head back and forth, his eyes closed, his lips moving over the words like he's whispering into somebody's ear.
God, I hate musicians.
To be fair, I don’t think he actually is a musician. I think he is a singer of unremarkable talent with a lot of incredibly talented people behind him that nobody's ever going to hear about. They’ll fall into the shadows while he sucks up the limelight.
But he does look like the part. He’s in skinny jeans, two belts for no reason, and a silk shirt that's unbuttoned practically to his navel like nobody ever taught him how to button up a goddamn shirt. He is probably the least motherfucking talented person in this entire building, and he's the one who constantly gets his picture taken. He's the one with the two dozen unconscious girls draped over the furniture in the next room. He's the one who gets to buy three-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and then forget them on the table at the bar when he wanders off to go chat up somebody else.
Seriously, this guy.
His fingers continue to bounce in the air, ticking back and forth as though conducting, finally shivering as though holding out one long, excruciating note. After way too long, he sits up, pushing the headphones down so that they circle his neck. He looks me over from top to bottom.
“You needed me?” he asks me.
“What gave it away?” I retort.
“Don’t be a smartass,” he sneers, sucking his teeth dramatically. “You came to me, so you must need something. I'm working, as you can see. What is it?”
So, that's working: laying on a sofa in a ridiculous outfit, pretending to listen to music. I want to say something else, but this guy really is overpaying me. I should probably try to be nice.
“I wasn't aware that you were also a sound engineer,” I comment.
He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling.
“I have to review the mix,” he explains as though my intrusion irritates him. “It's good. These guys are good. It only needs a few things.”
“Where's your guy? Is he coming in to work on this?”
Kirkman looks me up and down.
“He's on the schedule,” he reminds me, scowling.
“Oh, you're right… the schedule. He is on it.”
Pressing the button, I bring my iPad to life and pull up the schedule, holding it out in front of me so Kirkman can see it. He's too far away to read the entries, but he nods anyway.
“Like I said,” he says.
“Good,” I reply. “I'm glad to see you do read the schedule. You know what's on the schedule, all the approved people, everything we put together.”
Closing his eyes, he cups the headphones as though is going to put them back over his ears. “Okay, I see you are trying to make a point,” he sighs dramatically. “So, what is it, August? What can I do for you?”
“I was just upstairs,” I start.
“So?”
“So, there are sixteen women in the penthouse,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows and stares at me. I count to eight in my mind, calming myself.
“So?” he finally says. “What’s your point? Sixteen women isn’t a record for me or anything.”
He smirks, as though I should be impressed and wondering what he would do with sixteen women. I’m not impressed.
“How many women are on the manifest, Kirk?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
I pull up the manifest on my iPad and then hold it out so he can see it.
