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MYKA
“He’s late,” I bite out.
“He’ll be here, Myka. Please wait a little longer.”
I shuffle in my seat and take a deep breath before speaking. “Mr. Morrison, you contacted Carter Jackson and Associates as a last chance effort to help provide a course correction for Mr. Simon Ashton, the lead singer of the band Osiris. We are not coming to you; in fact, it is the opposite.”
“Yes, we are well aware of the circumstances. I’m merely asking, as a favor, to please help us get this turned around. We are losing money on this deal, and at this rate, we will be greatly in debt before the tour is scheduled to start and may lose sponsors after this latest stunt.”
I blow out the air held within my lungs and allow them to refill. “Okay, fine. I will give it one more shot. Don’t they have a show tomorrow at one of the local venues?”
“Yes. They are playing at the Showcase Lounge as a tune-up ahead of the major world tour. Why?”
“I see he’s not one to follow authority, so I will meet him on his turf.” I look at my watch. My next meeting begins soon. “Look, have security get me on the list for tomorrow. After I meet with him and the band, of course, I will report back to you with my plan of action.” I gather my satchel and walk to the door. “And Morrison, don’t alert him to my showing up. It’s better when I can see them in their natural habitat. Then again, I don’t think that will be an issue with Mr. Ashton. I’ll be in touch.” I leave the conference room and as I walk down the hall, a long-haired, tall, thin, fit man, with a swimmer’s build passes by me and gives me a faint smile. I return the gesture and continue to the elevator.
It takes a few minutes for the doors to open since the office is on the thirtieth floor of the building. When they do slide apart, a man and some chick are busy making out hot and heavy in the car, clearly making the other riders uncomfortable. A few of the patrons hurry out with disgust on their faces as the enamored couple continues as if no one is watching.
“Wait, love. I think this is our stop,” he says to his companion in his British accent.
I quickly pull out one of my smartphones, open my client files, and realize the guy in question is none other than Simon Ashton. I lock my gaze on those two as they step off the elevator. His appearance is a bit disheveled with his long messy, unkempt hair, beard with no groom, and the stained T-shirt. Not to mention the waft of whisky and cigarettes coming from them annoy my senses as they pass me. He winks as our gaze locks, and they turn toward the conference room down the hall from which I recently left. I quickly dial Mr. Morrison.
“Leonard Morrison speaking,” he answers.
“Lenny baby. I thought we were having a meeting with one of your PR people.”
I hear the voice of the person I saw committing public acts of indecency on the same elevator I am now riding down to the lobby.
“Never mind, my fear is confirmed. I will report to you after the show tomorrow night. And Morrison?”
“Yes, Myka.”
“This is going to cost you extra. Carter will be in touch.” I disconnect the call as the lift comes to a stop and the doors slide open. I grab my keys from my bag and press the remote start as I stroll across the marble floors of the foyer. The sound of my heels clicking as I walk compete with the chatter of the various receptionists, clients, and others on their cell phones. I often wonder why or, how I ended up in this field of work. I started as a hardcore journalism major but when I met my boyfriend at an open mic performance at the Soul Lounge, he convinced me I would make a good manager. So, I interned at one of indie labels and worked my way up from baby-sitting boy bands to working the disaster team for Carter Jackson’s entertainment division. His main office branched off to Las Vegas when he met his wife, but he still keeps the location here open.
Once I enter my car, I shoot him an email to let him know how the meeting didn’t go and my plan to course correct once I meet with them at the Showcase Lounge.
Carter replies that Tiffany will send an updated bill.
I smirk at his response as I pull out onto Santa Monica Blvd heading to my next appointment.
* * *
“Oh, girl. You are actually on time,” my friend Brianna says as I join her for lunch.
Along the way, since I had a few minutes to spare, I stopped and picked up an outfit for tomorrow evening.
“Unfortunately, I had to reschedule the meeting since the client was more than thirty minutes late.”
“Oh no. A pompous rock star, with more babes than brains didn’t show up? Maybe he had a terrible accident.”
“I’ll say. She was about a double-d cup accident with a small waist and big hair.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You saw them?”
“Bri, they were in a full elevator making out, not even caring that others were around them.”
“Oh wow. Did you say something?”
“No. When they stepped off, he looked at me and gave me a wink. I was mortified.”
