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“Pearce.” Ansell leans down to talk in my ear. “Look.” He nods at a small group of girls standing nearby. They’re huddled over a phone looking from the screen to me and whispering to each other like I’m not staring back at them.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Ansell says and his face is hard. “But I’ll find out.”
“Wait, hold on—”
But it’s too late. Ansell strides forward to the group of girls and it’s only when he’s right on top of them that they seem to realize he’s real and not some figment of their social media feed. “Why are you staring at her like that?” His voice cuts through the noise and the girls shrink away, all except the one holding the phone.
She turns the screen around. Her hand’s trembling and her eyes are wide with fright. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
Ansell squints at the screen and I come up next to him.
There’s a picture of me at the top. I’m talking to Pride, and I realize it was taken at the very beginning of the night. A horrible, disgusted feeling snakes down my spine, and I feel used and violated in a way I never imagined before. Someone took my picture and posted it online.
Below the photo is a review of the show, even though it isn’t finished. Ansell grabs the phone and reads it to himself, his lips moving, subvocalizing the word. I look over his shoulder and catch a few choice phrases: middling band Pride and its drama-filled music manager Marie Pearce … they sound about as good as a dying cat, except I actually like cats, and I wouldn’t mind if Pride died … Marie Pearce is a liability and a pathetic excuse for a manager, and how this band got a show at the Troc is beyond me…
Ansell shoves the phone back at the girl. “Don’t believe everything you read,” he says, his voice rumbling as he turns and strides through the crowd.
I hurry to keep up with him. “What the hell was that?”
“Chuck Dinero, a fucking cheap music reviewer. He’s got the ethics of a mafia don without the money and power.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Exactly. But people pay attention to the creep.” He’s looking around now, frowning, and grunts as he hurries toward the exit. A man in a black leather jacket is standing by the door, tapping away at a phone. He’s older, in his late forties, with curly dark hair and a dark five o’clock shadow. He’s skinny, tall, with tight jeans, and looks like he’s been following bands around his entire life.
He glances up as Ansell approaches and immediately raises his hands. “I don’t want to hear it,” the man says.
“Clay. Did you read it?”
“I read it.” Clay glances at me. “Didn’t paint you in a very nice light, did it?”
Pride starts their encore. The music washes over me and I don’t bother responding. Ansell gets closer to Clay, the talent scout from Universal, and has a conversation with him I can’t hear over the song as it swirls around me and seems to lift me up out of my skin.
I’m mortified. Utterly embarrassed. More shit is being written about me online, and now I’m dragging Pride down. Clay’s face is tense and he’s shaking his head and Ansell’s gesturing back at the stage, and I can imagine what he’s saying—Pride is amazing, you know they’re good, give them another chance—but it won’t matter.
Clay turns and leaves, shoving out the door. Ansell chases after him, but only stands on the sidewalk as Clay walks away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket against the cool Philly evening.
“What happened?” I ask, looking at Ansell even though I know the answer already.
He’s staring after Clay with a hard expression. “His bosses don’t like scandal.”
“And I’m too scandal prone right now.”
“Crawford did this. I bet he paid for that fucking review.”
“I’m sure he did, but what can we do?” I take a deep breath and let it out. “Except take me off Pride.”
“No.” Ansell’s voice is hard and he turns to me, looking serious. “The second we do that is the second you’re finished. We can’t back down, not from Magnus, not ever.”
“Ansell—”
“Pearce. I know you love this band. I know you want what’s best for them. I promise we’ll get them everything they’ve ever wanted and much, much more, but I’m not willing to sacrifice you in order to get there.”
“What can we do then? Every time we make a move, it’s like the Crawford family is waiting nearby to destroy it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Pride’s music can just be heard through the walls of the building, fast-paced and frenetic, and the energy of the song courses into my veins.
“We go on the offensive,” Ansell says and meets my eyes. “This might hurt, but you’re not afraid of a little pain, are you?”
