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My muscles relax a little when Linda shakes her head.
“No.”
“Then, is this about the demo someone slipped under his door? Because that wasn’t—”
Linda shakes her head again, the impatient motion so unlike her typically relaxed manner that I can’t help the rush of unease that reappears. “Come on. Eva saidnow.”
Automatically, I pull off the cozy sweatshirt I’m wearing—the office hovers at around sixty degrees all summer—swapping it out for the navy blazer hanging off the back of the chair. I slip the blazer on over my silk tank top and then follow Linda down the hall toward the biggest corner office.
My mind races at twice the speed we’re walking.
Today has been a typical Monday, albeit a slightly hungover one since I ended up ordering a second drink.
Last night was the final time of going out on a work night. I can practically hear my mom chantingirresponsiblein my head.
But I wasn’t late to work. I barely spoke during the meeting with the alt rock band. Since then, all I’ve done is type up my notes to circulate internally. Nothing about this morning should have gained the label head’s attention.
Linda leaves me in the small lobby located just outside Carl’s office. It’s decorated with two couches and a hand-carved coffee table that likely cost more than my monthly rent.
Eva, Carl’s assistant, stands from her post just below the engraved nameplate boasting his important role. She waves me forward with a polite, practiced smile as she steps out from behind her desk.
We’ve only interacted a handful of times in the few years I’ve worked here since most of my responsibilities fall far below Carl’s pay grade and Eva’s job is to shadow him. The only times we’ve been in the same room were for important meetings with major artists, and I was simply there to take notes or refill water glasses.
When I enter his spacious office, Carl Bergman is on the phone.
I glance back at Eva for direction on how to proceed, but she’s already closing the door behind me.
Hesitant, quiet steps bring me deeper into the huge space that shows off a prime view of New York’s famous skyline.
Buildings that spark dreams and see failures.
To me, it just looks like home.
Carl catches my eye, pointing to one of the two chairs angled toward his desk. My slow strides quicken as I rush to comply with his silent instruction.
Once I’m seated, I tuck my clammy palms beneath my thighs, wishing they weren’t sweating so much.
In the nearly four years I’ve worked at Empire Records, I’ve never been summoned to Carl’s office. Despite Linda’s assurance it’s not for a firing, I’m worried it’s still a possibility.
“Mm-hmm, that’s right,” Carl is saying. “No, I don’t think we can do that.”
My gaze wanders as he continues talking on the phone, admiring more than the office size.
This is a room where important decisions are made, in which careers are saved or sink. Music is a cutthroat, fickle industry, always moving forward, and continual relevance is rare.
The walls in here are decorated with framed album covers of the few artists who have managed to build lasting legacies. Whose fans show up for record after record regardless of who the new, shiny trendsetter at the time is.
That unwavering devotion has always intrigued me. People commit to an artist’s music in a way they won’t to a relationship or a career. It’s a constant in their lives, no matter what else changes.
My earliest memories are of my parents dancing in the kitchen to Etta James. My mom listened to those same songs my senior year of high school, over a decade after they got divorced.
Carl hangs up the phone with a sigh and a loudclick. My attention snaps back to him, and I watch as he shakes a painkiller into his palm from the bottle on his desk, pops it into his mouth, and swallows it with a sip of water.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks, nodding toward the fancy mini fridge filled with cans of seltzer and soda. A basket piled high with small bags of chips sits atop it.
“Uh, no,” I’m quick to say. “I’m good. Thanks.”
Carl nods and leans back in his chair. The leather squeaks as he folds his hands beneath his chin, studying me. “You’ve been here for five years now, Piper?”
