2. The Bold New Project
NICKY
Oh.
My.
God.
I made it two buses away (out of sight of any rock god peering through the front windshield) and ducked down the narrow alley between bus six and bus five so I could fumble for my phone.
OH MY GOD
I texted both of my besties, even though I knew Selene wouldn’t have her phone on. Judy, however, didn’t let me down.
Tell! What? Have you seen Sheree yet?
ARCHER ARMSTRONG so gorgeous why didn’t you tell me??
Girl I totally told you! Have you seen him?
I’m on his fucking bus! Like for two whole months!
OMG I’m emailing Selene
I have no time have a meeting in two minutes
You met Archer? He’s so hot I’m way jelly
He got my name wrong twice I almost peed he is SEX WALKING
OMG
OMGGGGG
Selene had joined the conversation. She must have raced to hide in the bathroom of her law offices once she got Judy’s email.
Rock star romance eee! You are so going to fuck him You have to fuck him for all of us who can’t
Take your pills never forget
Like I would. Judy, however, had other plans.
Totally forget the pills
Rock star baby!
I have to go
More later
How is your life so much more exciting than ours?
SEND PICS
BBL
Texts continued to ping in as I speed walked to bus two, passing dancers and hairdressers and musicians, all hanging around their buses to chat casually and be beautiful in the last few minutes before the tour rolled out of this New Jersey parking lot and into the whole wide opportunity of North America. I checked my phone quickly. Selene was sending me links to Aftermath videos on TikTok. She’d told me to watch them before I got here. I should have.
I silenced my phone. That was for later. Now it was time to meet the boss.
Tug skirt flat over hips. Check high pony. Straighten spine, square shoulders. Smile. Project confidence.
I was capable and intelligent. I brought value to Lyre Records.
My internal pep talk was a waste since none of the people on bus two even looked up when I marched up the stairs.
Three men sat in the front kitchen/dining area, all three of them shouting into their phones. Two women were in heated conversation behind them in the hallway that held the bunks, stacked three high on both sides. And a vampire woman in flame orange was pacing in the back lounge area, shouting into her phone.
It was tough to project confidence while standing uncertainly just past the driver’s area, uselessly watching the hub of the Sheree Untethered tour in the moments before its launch. I had no idea what to do.
One of the guys in the swivel chairs crab walked his feet until he was facing me. He was completely focused on his call—something about the gas bill for the tour, which, now that I thought about it, must have been a dangerously large budget item—but he was checking out my legs anyway, like a guy on the street having a conversation with a friend who noticed a sports car driving by. Something he might want to acquire later. Maybe. I shifted uncomfortably.
Yeah, buddy. You’re definitely making an impression on me.
The other swivel chair held an older man in a heated discussion about a photographer. The guy at the kitchen table was getting loud about something called a drop-in that seemed to be very important to him.
Some signal I didn’t catch must have gotten to the two women by the bunks. They turned as one and brushed past me. “Hi!” the first one said.
“Cute shoes!” the other said.
“Thanks.” I turned to watch them go. Don’t leave me! You’re the only ones I think I want to know!
They didn’t go far. Through the windshield, I saw them chatting happily with the two guys standing at the open door to bus one. The star coach. It was like a modern, moving, high-tech fortress.
Sheree’s coach. She was about twenty feet away from me. How about that.
Both women were absorbed into the star coach, and I turned back to the highly charged phone conversations that had nothing to do with me.
The “drop-ins” guy ended his call and gestured to me with his chin. “Are you someone?”
“Um . . . I’m sorry?”
“What are you doing here? Who are you?”
“Oh. I’m Daniel Thorn. I mean, I’m his replacement.” I fished for my resume and my contract with Lyre Records, avoiding Mr. Gas Bill’s legs as I moved into the tour bus. “I’m the intern. Nicky Swanson.”
“You’re my intern?” He scanned my face and body—another one who thought women were meat—and gestured me into the banquette opposite him. “What happened to the guy?”
I held out my hand, hoping he’d introduce himself. “I’m Nicky,” I repeated.
He got the cue and shook. “Mr. Cantrell,” he said, holding my hand too long. “But you can call me Bruce.”
Yep. Now I know all I need to know about you, Bruce.I pulled my hand back.
“Daniel Thorn,” I explained, “is my classmate in the MBA program at Penn. He was supposed to be your intern for his capstone project, but he came down with mono and his doctor said he shouldn’t be traveling all around the country with a communicable disease.”
Bruce frowned. “Were you exposed? I can’t have anything risking Sheree’s health.”
I shook my head firmly. “Daniel and I communicated only by text and email. I pose no threat.” Internally, I added my mantra. And I bring value to this situation. But Bruce the generic lecher didn’t need to hear that. “So, Daniel is now taking my place at an accounting firm in New York City, and I’m on this tour with you. This was approved by”—I fished for my papers—“a Patterson Murtry, who I believe is the Lyre Records CEO?”
Bruce’s eyebrow went up into scornful commas. “Also my brother-in-law. So, he approved this? And you’re working on an MBA and need a capstone project with us, huh?”
I nodded. “Something I can work on and then write up for my final grade. We can discuss some of the options my adviser suggested?—”
The Get-Me-a-Decent-Photographer guy ended his call and jerked to his feet. “It’s time. You coming, Bruce? Want to get this party started?”
“Let’s go see our star. Be right back, Nellie.”
“Nicky,” I corrected, but they were gone.
Vampirella was still blabbing away in the back area, and Gas Bill was now facing the kitchenette. I was in his sights, even if he wasn’t really seeing me. Finished with his call, he oozed over and sat on the banquette next to me. I scooted over but not too far—I needed room to retreat if he pushed me.
“Intern, huh?” He picked up my resume among the nest of papers left on the table. “Nicky Swanson, University of Pennsylvania, Master of Business Administration program. Funny, we don’t usually get a girl. Old Murtry tries to keep Bruce away from the ladies, for his ugly sister’s sake. That’s two mistakes he’s made on this tour—you and the fox in the back, there.”
He gestured to the vampire queen, and I suppressed my sneer. “And you are?” I asked.
“Dean.” He set my resume down and stretched, managing to halve the space between us. “Dean Underhill. I’m the assistant tour manager. Yeah, this whole convoy—that’s my kingdom right there. Bruce has the title, but the tour manager doesn’t do half the things the assistant does. If you want to know how this baby runs, I’m the guy you come to, okay, babe?”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmured in noncommittal acknowledgment. Where had the two women gone who’d liked my shoes? The woman in the back room was no longer speaking English—it sounded Chinese?
Didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was there. I wasn’t alone with Dean the Leaner.
“So, who was the guy with Bruce?” I asked. “Have they gone to see Sheree?”
“Starstruck, huh? Sure. That was Clinton, Sheree’s manager. They’ve gone to get permission from Her Highness to get this show on the road.”
“Her Highness? Is Sheree not good to work for, then?”
He gave me a lazy half wink and wrinkled his nose, pulling his porn mustache into a wry twist. “She’s fine. Better than most, actually. But there’s a lot of pomp and circumstance, you know? A few gold records and they think they’ve hung the moon.”
A few gold records. Sheree had more Grammys than could fit on even an oversized mantlepiece and had probably made a massive fortune for Lyre Records. Chances were good that Assistant Manager Dean’s salary was entirely paid for by the woman on bus one, but sure, throw some shade. That ought to make you look cool.
Bruce bounded back on the bus, followed by a slim man who took the wheel. “Here we go,” Bruce cheered. “The North America leg of the Sheree Untethered tour is now underway! Dean, make sure every bus checks in. Have them do a roll call. I’m not going back for anyone. Not with this schedule.”
Dean got up to get some list by the swivel chairs. Bruce headed to the back, toward the vampire lady. I slipped out of the bench seat and moved up to the driver, who was capably piloting his bus to pull out behind the star coach.
“Hi,” I said, crouching beside him. “Are you Ismael?”
He grinned at me as he shifted his entire body into the right turn. “That’s me, my lady. How can I help you?”
“I’m Nicky.”
“Nicky! Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Nicky!”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Ismael, and I’d like to compliment you on the way you’re handling this beast.” He grinned. “I understand you can radio bus eight?”
“You need Ken? Sure. I mean, I can radio everyone, but Ken will get the message. What can I tell him for you?”
“Can you let him know Nicky is on bus two at the moment, and he shouldn’t worry that I’ve gotten lost somewhere?”
“Well, aren’t you a sweetheart. Imagine checking with the driver! You’re new, huh?”
We got to the highway on-ramp, and I could see more buses in his side mirror. It was thrilling to see the entire production on the move. Ismael and I chatted as an impossibly long string of buses got up to cruising speed, rolling down I-95 and heading for the first concert in Atlanta. He’d driven for Lyre for four years and had gone south a few months before to drive for Sheree for the South American leg of the worldwide tour.
“Hey—yeah. Nancy. Nancy, c’mere.”
Bruce. Back at his table and probably eyeing my ass in my crouched position. What the hell. Was my name that hard to remember?
“Watch yourself with that one,” Ismael whispered. “I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”
“Thanks,” I said as I straightened. I appreciated his words, even if I didn’t much need to hear them.
“It’s Nicky,” I said as I slid into the booth again.
“Right. Who said it wasn’t? Okay, let’s look at what we’ve got going on here. Twenty-six concerts in twenty-three cities over two months. Plus, Sheree wants to do these drop-ins where she appears unannounced at college campuses along our route.”
“Wow! That’s such a great idea. The students will be thrilled!”
“It’s driving Legal up the wall and she’s had to double her personal security, but yeah. It’s going to be very popular. We’re stopping at some school in Virginia . . . here it is. Virginia Tech in Blacksburg. They’ve got a big lawn, like a quad. No announcements, but the word will spread. Anyway, we’ve got nine of those planned. The question is, Ms. MBA Student, do we set up to sell merchandise at these drop-ins? Sheree says no, but most of the money for the tour comes from merch, so I’m not so sure.”
One of my classes had covered hidden sources of revenue, so I already knew a music tour could succeed or fail based on the sale of merchandise. It put a new perspective on standing in line to buy a concert T-shirt.
“Well, are you set up to take payment? I thought the arenas handled merch sales, and then you settled up with them at the end of the night.”
“Look at you being all practical and smart. Pretty too. You’re right. That’s the biggest obstacle. Plus, who’s supposed to do the selling? The dancers? They’d pitch a fit. And Sheree thinks it would be too mercenary anyway. She wants this to be a whole touchy-feely appreciation for the fans. Whatever.” He shrugged, indifferent to what seemed to me to be a noble idea.
“As it happens,” I offered hopefully, “assessment of merchandise sales is one of the things I think I could help with?—”
The lady from the back appeared beside Bruce. Her hair was inky and dramatically long. Her skin was so white that she looked sort of dead, except she was a very angry corpse.
“That asshole!” she said. “He’s got the jackets on the slowest boat possible. They might as well still be in China, and we told him to send them by air. By air, damn it!” She broke off to stare at me. “What’s this?”
Bruce scooted over and patted the seat, putting himself between two women. “This is, uh?—”
“Nicky,” I said firmly. “Nicky Swanson.”
She looked her question to Bruce, who smiled. “Nicky is going to be your intern.”
Vampirella and I were both startled by that. “She is?”
“I am?”
“Bianca is our merchandise manager. And you’re interested in merchandise, aren’t you, Ms. MBA Intern?”
I nodded. “I am. It’s probably the easiest place for me to design and pursue a capstone project. Like, I can do an assessment on what’s selling, the origin cost, transportation?—”
Bruce cut me off. “Sure, sure. We can do that. Or something.”
Dean reappeared, pushing me closer into Bruce. “Everyone’s accounted for, and I’ve got the nation’s top five social media influencers ready to roll. Let me tell them about the Virginia Tech drop-in. Come on, a scoop like that to The Scoop? They’ll all owe me a favor.”
“Absolutely not.” Bruce was adamant.
“Let me just give it to Opinionated O’Connor. She’s got twenty-four million followers.”
“I’m very well aware, but here’s what happens if word gets out early. First, Sheree’s security team will string you up and torment you with skills learned in special ops, the Army Rangers, the Green Berets, and a bunch more covert groups. These boys don’t play, Dean.”
“Aw, fuck.”
“Second, our star will lose her shit. Maybe enough that you will get fired. And finally, the University of Whatever It Is will ban us forevermore for creating a riot. The press will be horrific. When I tell you to sit on this schedule, Dean, I am not joking. Tell me you understand.”
“Promotion is my responsibility, Bruce.”
“Promotion is the responsibility of everyone at this table, including the cute intern here.”
“She is not promoting Sheree!”
“Okay, then she can promote the opener. What’s their name again?”
“Aftermath,” Bianca and Dean said at the same time. Bianca’s eyebrows were up in appreciation. She’d clearly gotten a look at Archer Armstrong.
“Aftermath,” Bruce agreed. “New girl, you’re now promoting Aftermath.”
“I thought I was helping with merchandise?”
“You can’t multitask? First rule of business, MBA—you do what needs to be done.”
“Sure.” I nodded, even though it was pretty clear I wasn’t much valued in this conversation. Time to be assertive. “If you’ll give me the information on merch sales from the South American leg of the tour, I can get started on an assessment.”
“Yeah, no,” Bruce said. “I’m afraid that’s proprietary.”
“But my capstone?—”
“Tell you what, cutie. How about you create a tour T-shirt? You can design it, get it made, track those results. Sound good?”
Unbelievable. It sounded great. I was opening my mouth to thank him when Bianca offered her protest.
“Impossible. We have room for ten items, and they’re all chosen. All ordered, no room for more. You know how hard it was to get the designs past Sheree’s team. We can’t just start over again now.”
“All right, all right, calm down.” Bruce wrapped her shoulder in a heavy hand. I would have flinched out from under that grip, but Bianca didn’t seem to mind. “Fine. Nancy, you can do a shirt for Afterbirth.”
“Aftermath.” I fought to hide my horrified giggle. This guy was a quick-draw name mangler.
“Aftermath,” he agreed. “We’ve got a two-month run on this leg. Bianca will identify which one of the Sheree merch items isn’t selling as well, and on July 1, you can put up an Aftermath shirt or something in the loser’s place.”
Bianca didn’t like it, but I really, really did. “Thank you! That would be such a great capstone project!”
He liked my enthusiasm. “Tell you what, I’ll even spot you 10 percent of the profits.”
“What?” Dean was horrified. “Ten percent for her? That’s crazy!”
Bruce shook his head at Dean. “It’s some band named Aftermath, man. How much do you think she’s going to walk away with?”
“I don’t know,” I said uncertainly. “I’m not sure my adviser will approve a project where I profit.”
“Have him get in touch,” Bruce said grandly. “You’re not getting paid on this tour, right? And I intend to work you.” He leered at me. “Work you hard. You’ll deserve a little compensation. Draw up the contract, and I’ll look it over. I’ll get you into the C drive, where the contracts are stored. Don’t use the Sheree contracts as a model. Her lawyers are sharks. Get the standard Lyre Records boilerplate. Dean, help her find it.”
They discussed the tour, occasionally throwing explanations at me when they remembered. I rode on that bus for three and a half hours, sandwiched between two slightly sweaty guys who wanted to lean on me, until Dean demanded that Ismael find a rest stop. No pooping on any bus, apparently. A universal rule.
As luck would have it, bus eight pulled in before we left (Ken, the driver, was the one trotting to the bathrooms), and I was able to make my excuses to the administration team and head back to what was now definitely my bus.
Aftermath.
My own T-shirt.
Which would, without a doubt, feature the biggest, best picture of Archer Armstrong. Every woman in America (and a fair number of the men) would want one. I was going to get top marks on my capstone project and graduate with honors.
Oh—and make a fortune too.