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Quinn doesn’t have to say anything. He tells me‘he knows’without saying a single word, and I suddenly feel like I’m off balance, like I’m about to fall over.
“There’s no way we’re just throwing money at this, Nick,” I say emphatically. Pacing back and forth makes me feel dizzy, but I can’t keep still. “I need to clear my name. Do you understand me? I want the chance to defend myself.”
“It won’t come to that,” he replies, shaking his head. “There’s not a judge in this country that’ll waste their time on a matter that hasn’t even attempted to settle out of court first. It’ll never get that far. Unfortunately, and I know this isn’t going to sit well with you, but Delaney reckons we’ll have to go to some kind of mediation to get things sorted out.”
“Mediation?”
“Yeah, look, I don’t have all the details, and I probably won’t know all the ins and outs until I meet with Delaney myself. I’m heading over to his office right now.” Nick grabs his scarf and jacket from the couch. He swipes up his phone and shoves it into his shirt pocket. “Delany’s still waiting on word from the liaison officer as to where and when the mediation will take place. It’ll most likely be held at a third-party location somewhere in the city. Tomorrow, hopefully, if I have my way. The sooner, the better. I’ll let you know as soon as I have more details. Keep your phone on you. I’ll be in contact the instant I know more.”
I barely nod, still pacing back and forth. “This is bullshit,” I grumble in a gruff voice that reverberates deep down inside my chest.
“I know. But you’re going to have to meet with this woman to figure things out. And I need you to promise me that you’ll keep a level head when you do. I can’t have you going off half-cocked. That’ll just make things worse.”
Jesus Christ.How did this happen?
I glance out the window beside me, staring down at the crowded New York street below, full of shoppers and tourists lining the sidewalks on both sides. I take a deep breath, and then I exhale sluggishly, like a man with zero fucks left to give.
“You do realize if word gets out about this, it could ruin my entire career,” I say, turning back to look at the others, who are all still just standing there, staring at me. “It could jeopardize the tour. It could ruin any chance of the band taking off internationally. And I’d never write another song again. No one in the industry would want to work with me.”
Nick tears his gaze from mine and glances around the studio. “Reed’s right. So let’s agree to keep this between us until things settle down. Not a word leaves this room, do you understand me?” Pointing his finger at each of us in turn, he continues. “I don’t even want you talking about it among yourselves. No phone calls, no text messages, nothing that could possibly be traced back or tapped into by the ghouls who have the hide to call themselves media. The paparazzi are fucking animals, we know that already, and I won’t have Cold Neptune eaten alive over this. Have I made myself clear?”
We all nod.
Because, in all honesty, what else is there left to do?
Reed
The ping of the elevator announces its arrival to the top floor of my apartment building. Walking down the short corridor, I turn the key when I reach my door. The extensive foyer welcomes me home, and I yank off my damp boots, tossing them aside on the faux-wooden tiles.
It’s been raining on and off all day.
Hanging my coat on the hook just inside the door, I make my way into my newly remodeled kitchen. It’s chilly inside the apartment, but I don’t bother switching on the heat to warm the place up. The apartment is too big and it’ll take too long, and besides, I have better ways to keep myself warm.
Whiskey.
Johnny’s a good guy. We go way back.
I open the cabinet beside the refrigerator and grab a glass, pouring myself three fingers of amber fluid. And then I take the bottle with me, just in case, before heading for the living room. Flicking on the lamp beside the couch, I point the remote at the television screen, where a hockey game thunders on. I stare at the screen. I don’t know who’s playing, and in all honesty, I couldn’t be bothered trying to figure it out.
My housekeeper–yeah, that’s right, I’m one of those spoiled, rich-ass rock stars who has a housekeeper come in three times a week to keep the refrigerator stocked and the place in some kind of order–she’s left a note for me on the coffee table, telling me she’s filled the freezer with meals ready for me to heat up.
Thanks, Rosalie, but I’m not hungry.
I just want to drown my sorrows and purge this entire disaster of a day from my mind.
The second my backside hits the expensive leather couch; my phone vibrates in my pocket with an incoming text message. I lean to one side and yank it out, glancing down at the screen.
Nick: Lincoln Building. Fifth floor. Suite 6. Tomorrow 9am.
Me: You been in touch with the PIs yet?
Nick: Sal’s working on it as we speak.
Me: Good.
Nick: I’ll get as much information as possible. That way we’ll know who we’re dealing with.
Me: Sure. See you tomorrow.
