58. Corduroy, Pearl Jam
"Corduroy," Pearl Jam
Cruz
“Great show tonight,” Rodriguez said with a sweaty pat on my shoulder as we walked off stage. The green room was buzzing with energy, staff moving around us, congratulating me like I should be celebrating.
“Bullshit,” I muttered, because we both knew how shitty I’d played. Ignoring his pitying look, I slumped onto the worn-out couch. The room smelled like old sweat and stale beer, the distant hum of the crowd outside barely filtering in through the door. My hands flexed against my thighs, still wired from the set.
Tonight had been a huge mistake.
Rodriguez had been trying to book a gig at The Sparrow for months. Yesterday they called with a last-minute opening for a headlining time slot with the stipulation that I sit in with the band. I agreed, as long as I could stay behind the drum kit—maybe drumming would tire me out enough that I could catch a few hours of sleep instead of staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was making a fool of myself with these stupid videos. It wasn’t until Rodriguez’s van pulled into the alley to unload equipment that I saw a poster with my face photoshopped in the front, the rest of the band behind me.
The Sparrow wasn’t like Donnelly’s, where we were packed in tight with familiar faces and cheap drinks. This venue had a dedicated green room, a professional sound team, and a staff that moved like a well-oiled machine. The stage lights were blinding, the crowd bigger than anything we’d ever pulled. I tried to keep my head down and focus on the rhythm. As the cymbals crashed and the snare crackled, I finally loosened up, releasing my grief to lose myself in the music.
Then the cheering started. I brushed the sweat off my forehead, palms so clammy that the drumsticks slid out of my grip. There was nothing the band could do—the people demanded me.
I stepped up to that mic and my mind went blank. Not a single song came to mind. I’d grown this audience by singing to Victoria, yet when I looked out at the crowd, all I felt was her absence, the darkness gnawing me from the inside out. This dream—a crowd of people chanting my name, begging me to sing—was turning into a nightmare.
I was a shuck of a human, nursing a warm beer and staring at the green room’s scuffed coffee table, abandoned setlists, and half-empty water bottles.
“Not the performance I was expecting, Cruz.” Polished wingtips stepped in front of me, and I looked up at a guy in a pretentious suit.I didn’t want my shitty mood to reflect on the band’s ability to get booked again so I stood, shoving my hands in my jeans. The guy flashed a slick smile. “Cameron Crane, Exacta Records.”
A record executive? My body was still buzzing from the set, but my mind was racing ahead, trying to process what the hell he was here for. I searched the room for Rodriguez. “Listen, I don’t handle the bookings. You’re looking for—”
“I’m here for you: The reluctant, heartbroken romantic. You played it perfectly, the crowd ate it up,” Cameron said, and my jaw clenched at the implication that I was full of shit. “You’re a triple threat: the voice of Ed Sheeran, the emotion of Chris Carraba, the sex appeal of Jared Leto. We want to talk about developing that into a full-fledged solo career.”
I stared at the condensation pooling on a nearby beer bottle. I dreamed of this conversation, never thinking I’d actually hear these words … and now that it was happening, resentment brewed in my chest.
Because he didn’t want me, not really. He wanted the viral love songs, the hopeless romantic angle, the guy who sang his heart out for the woman who got away.
“This would start as a 360 deal—Exacta would fund the recording, production, distribution, marketing, and touring. In exchange, we’d take a percentage of your merch, ticket sales, and streaming royalties.”
I ran a hand down my face. “So you own my soul.”
“Standard first-album deal," Cameron chuckled. "You’re not just a local presence like most upcoming artists, you’re national. Global, even. That gives you leverage. We’re talking a high six-figure advance on the first album. The better you perform, the better the terms on album two.”
High six figures. That was more money than my entire band had made in years. More money than I’d ever thought I’d see playing music.
“We’d pair you with a producer, get a team to polish your image—”
I scoffed, shaking my head. “So you don’t want me, you want some radio-friendly, cleaned-up version of me.”
Cameron rubbed his jaw. “Your fanbase is already deeply invested. We’re not trying to change you. We’re just trying to make sure you don’t flame out after one viral moment.”
And in those fantasies of a future as a rock star, I hadn’t been having this conversation alone. I’d had people to turn to for decision making, a team that could celebrate together. I looked over his head at Rodriguez and Stacy, who were trying to play it cool but definitely lingered nearby, their expressions cautiously hopeful. “And the band?”
“You can keep them as touring musicians, but the label’s investing in you,” he said, sliding me a business card. “I’ll send over the paperwork, you should have a lawyer look it over. But don’t wait too long. In this business, timing is everything.”
I stared at the embossed logo, the weight of thick cardstock heavy in my fingertips.
“And hey,” he clapped my shoulder. “Soon your Snake Girl will realize that dumping you was the biggest mistake of her life.”