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Shit.
He stared at the pen. His stomach churned, and Jesus, was the air-conditioning on? It felt like a heatwave had overtaken the space.
“Enjoy your fans and your cushion. Keep fighting the good fight and vibe on,” Vance sneered with a syrupy smirk as he dropped his cringe-worthy tagline. The prick had recovered from their little tête-à-tête, and the trepidation that had rolled off him in waves had vanished. Vance looked from Norma Rae to the sign in the garbage to the line of Norma Rae lookalikes waiting for him. The creep flashed a cocksure grin before going on his merry freaking way.
Good riddance.
But the encounter with Vance had screwed with his head.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
He knew what the guy was thinking.
No new music equated to no new fans. Landon Paige was a washed-up pop star—a relic who hadn’t put out anything original in close to a decade.
Was it the truth?
He ignored the twist in his belly and zeroed in on the pen. It threw him into a tailspin.
Don’t let anyone see the real you.
He exhaled a slow breath and pulled himself together. He mustered a grin for Norma Rae. “Thank you for the gift, but I don’t have time to sign the photo. There’s a pressing matter I need to discuss with my manager.”
Norma Rae tittered with exhilaration. “Is it about a new song?”
He couldn’t get a damn break.
“How exciting!” the woman yipped, not waiting for him to answer before hurrying down the hall toward a group of giggling women dressed in head-to-toe Landon Paige gear.
He could not handle a meet and greet—not tonight.
He turned to Mitzi. “I need to talk to you.” He glared at the PA. “Alone.”
The young woman gasped, then skittered away.
He didn’t like pulling the overindulged artist card, but he was on the edge of losing it.
He led Mitzi down the hall. “What the hell is going on? That flash in the pan, Vance Vibe, doesn’t know what he’s talking about, does he?”
Mitzi exhaled an audible breath. “Honey, I was going to talk to you about your situation.”
“Then talk.”
“Vance wasn’t that far off the mark.”
“The label wants to drop me?”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?” he repeated.
She released a weary sigh. “Nothing has been decided. There are rumblings in the industry that the label might get sold to another entity. This is good for you. It buys us some time to broaden your appeal and reach new markets. Plus, they’re still on board with your switch from pop to rock, which reminds me,” she said, reaching into her tote. She handed him a piece of paper and a pen. “Initial here by the red arrow.”
He eyed the document, and his blood pressure spiked. “What is this?”
“It’s a waiver for an opportunity I’m looking into for you. Nothing’s written in stone, but it’s worth keeping an eye on,” she added, and for the first time in a long time, his badass manager didn’t look quite so badass.
Was she worried? Was his situation worse than he thought?
