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“I’m sure we could,” I say weakly, trying to wrap my head around what’s happening. Before this weekend, life had settled down, and I figured this was it. My past fame and rise to the top, all of it was a one-shot deal. A has-been at twenty-one. I suppose there could be worse things, right? At least I was making some sort of career out of the personalized appearances. Messing around and writing songs on the side while strumming my beat-up guitar on a Sunday afternoon. No one cared what I was doing, and there’s some freedom in that.
What Roger is proposing sounds like it will take away every inch of my freedom, and that is fucking terrifying.
But it’s also fucking irresistible. No wonder they named the record label that.
“We’ll discuss it.” Simon rises from his chair and rounds the desk, coming to stand beside Roger. Ready to escort him right out of the office. “And we’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me, Simon? How about dinner tonight? You want to go to dinner, Tate? It’s on me. It’s on the label. They told me whatever it takes to get you, do it. I’m here for you, Tate. I’ve always been here for you. You were always the one with the talent. I’ll call you. Okay? Your number hasn’t changed, right? Wait, I bet it has. I’d have changed it if I were you. Simon, get me Tate’s number, will you?” Roger keeps talking as Simon escorts him across the room, depositing him just outside the office before he shuts the door with a not-so-gentle slam and turns to face me with a shocked expression on his face.
A look I’ve never seen on Simon before. Ever.
“He seems determined,” I finally say just to fill the silence in the room.
“You heard him. You’re a hot commodity.” Simon returns to his chair and settles in, picking up the contract and giving it a quick once-over. “I haven’t done an in-depth read of the contract yet, of course, but I caught a glimpse of the advance they want to offer you just now. You’re going to want to consider this.”
Excitement bubbles up inside of me, and I remember what it was like before. When we were just a bunch of kids grouped together on a freaking singing competition.American Idolcame first, and then all the other copycat reality shows followed suit. We were featured on a copycat. One with subpar ratings that got it canceled after its second season.
It didn’t matter. We were formed into a band during the first season, and we were considered the breakout group. The one that was going places—and it turned out we were the only ones from that particular show. We had a couple ofBillboardhits. Hell, we were nominated for a Grammy as Best New Artist.
We didn’t win, but it got us onto the Grammys, where we actually performed, which was pretty damn amazing.
“That good?”
“The terms are probably shit.” Simon scans the contract, flipping one page after another, his brows drawing together in concern.
I pace around his office, unable to keep still, eventually approaching the window and staring at the city spread out in front of me.
This is where I’m from. Where I grew up. My mom took me to the audition for that reality show in Brooklyn, and I made it. Was flown out to Los Angeles, where I stayed for over two years.
Until I came home a broken, strung-out mess with hardly any money and a drug habit that cost me hundreds per day. Mom immediately shipped me off to rehab, and it actually worked.
I haven’t touched drugs or alcohol in years. I’m the most clearheaded I think I’ve ever been.
Why would I want to go back to a world where drugs are king, the stress is high, and temptation is everywhere? I’ll be dodging land mines left and right until one eventually blows up in my face.
And knowing me, that’ll happen sooner rather than later.
“The terms are actually not shit,” Simon eventually says, glancing up at the same time I look in his direction. “This is a good offer, Tate.”
I turn fully to face him. “Yeah?”
Simon nods. “But here’s the deal. There’s an... unusual clause.”
“What is it?” They probably want me to sign something where I agree to unannounced drug tests. No sweat. Or maybe they have to put insurance on me because I’m a risk and that might come out of my royalties if I flake on them or OD or whatever.
Fairly standard stuff, I think.
“They want your little girlfriend to be part of the package.”
I frown. “What do you mean, part of the package?”
“They want to include Scarlett Lancaster as part of the promotional package. Like, she has to make appearances with you. Her social media has to include photos of the two of you together. They want you with Scarlett by your side as part of your image.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.” I hesitate. “Not really.”
“They don’t know that. No one has to, if you get what I’m saying.”
I’m incredulous. “You want me to ask her to be my fake girlfriend?”
