CHAPTER 5
TYLER
Advanced Excel was the most useful course Tyler had taken during her Arts and Entertainment Management program. She was busy updating SDM’s tour budgets and adding line items to the forecasts. That is, until she became distracted.
It had been two weeks and four days since that kiss, but who was counting? As much as she’d tried to forget it, she couldn’t because SDM had plastered its walls with cary kingston: live posters they’d so brilliantly marketed.
“Concentrate,” she said under her breath.
Rory glanced up from his bed, but it probably didn’t sound enough like “cookie” so he stayed put.
Tyler needed to shake it off because musicians—other than her dad—weren’t exactly trustworthy.
Her ex-boyfriend, Dave—a singer in a local band—had slept with every groupie on the tour routing she’d mapped out for him.
She’d also spent countless hours planning, merchandising, and monetizing his music. It was like interning all over again, except this time, there wasn’t even a chance of a promotion.
Five years with Dave, and nothing to show for it—not even a baby. Growing up without a mother had only accelerated her timeline.
In the meantime, Rory was perfect company. He was loyal—unlike Dave—and she always knew his location.
“Hey, there.” Kim tapped on her office door and Rory ran in circles before greeting her with tail wags and kisses.
“Have a seat.” Tyler gestured for her bestie to come in. “How was the tour?”
“Dude, it fucking sucked.” Kim pulled on the roots of her faded pink hair.
“They’re the worst band I’ve ever worked with.
” She slumped into a plastic chair in front of the desk and crossed her legs like a yogi.
“Little shits. They were late for everything, refused soundchecks . . . and fought at press appearances.” She locked eyes with her friend. “Literally with fists.”
“I know. You told me.” Tyler leaned forward and clasped her hands on the desk. “The shows were good, weren’t they?”
“Yeah.” Kim paused for a second. “They were great. I can’t believe they sold out of merch.”
“Tell me about it. Sebastien had a conniption when we ran out of T-shirts.” She tapped her pen against the desk. “Sorry, I know they’re a headache, but the Westgrays are the only band we have on tour right now. Well, other than Cary’s.”
“You thanked him for me, right?”
Tyler nodded.
“Those cymbal guys pretty much saved Josh’s life.” Kim massaged the back of her neck, then cracked it. “I swear I was going to kill him. Plead self-defense.” She stared at Tyler and bit her bottom lip. “Why were you with him?”
“Who?”
“Cary.”
Shit.
“I was going to tell you—”
Kim pushed herself upright. “So tell me.”
“Ugh, this is so embarrassing.” She hung her head before lifting her gaze, then blurted out, “He kissed me.”
“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“I-I mean, it was a peck.” Tyler rolled a pen between her fingers. “We went for a drink. That’s it.”
“Yeah, I know what a drink means.” Kim shrugged and gave her a shit-eating grin. “Go for it!”
“I can’t go for that.” She dropped her pen on the desk like it was toxic. “The most eligible bachelor in the free world, Kim? Are you insane?” She shuddered at the thought of strangers tracking her every move.
“I thought you were obsessed with him?” Kim asked, baffled.
“Were.” Tyler emphasized the word. “I broke my own rule with Dave.” She’d taken a vow to never, under any circumstances, date another musician.
“Too bad there’s only one half-decent guy in the industry who isn’t a jagoff.”
“George,” they said simultaneously, then had a laughing fit.
A ding chimed from Tyler’s computer, so she clicked her mouse. “It looks like Tommy has an offer for the Westgrays to play at some festival for no money.”
Tommy Napolitano was Cary’s agent, too—the one responsible for booking his live gigs. He and Sebastien were thick as thieves, which explained a lot. Tommy was an asshole.
“Fucking Tommy.” Kim’s voice became hostile. “Why did Allie pass on them? She’s the best agent for new bands.”
“She met them.” No further explanation was necessary.
Allie Kowalski was their hot-shot booking agent friend from Toronto. Tyler had met her at Canadian Music Week, and she knew they would be friends immediately. Allie hated the high school drama of the Toronto music scene. She was all business. A shark with sharper teeth.
“What about your legacy acts?” Kim asked. “Can’t you dust them off? Resurrect them from their crypts or something?”
SDM’s old bands were super high-maintenance and a million times worse than any new artist. Sebastien needed them on their roster to cover his expenses when Cary wasn’t on tour, so Tyler spent most of her time explaining why they couldn’t play Coachella and Glastonbury while trying to keep their egos intact.
“Everyone’s writing or in the studio,” Tyler said.
“Ew. Why?”
“Honestly? I can’t explain.”
“What about Afternoon Delight? They’re pretty good for a local band.”
“Are you joking? That singer has zero charisma, and no one wants to fuck him.”
Kim bounced her hands in a steeple. “What about Yestown?”
“Yeah, they’re killer, but they don’t have enough songs for a full set. And they can’t afford a TM as an unsigned band.”
“I know.” Kim uncrossed her legs and kicked a tennis ball from underneath her chair. Rory chased after it like a ball kid at Wimbledon. “Vancouver just sucks sometimes—”
“Especially your hockey team,” Tyler heckled. “If I had fuck-you money I’d buy season tickets and cheer for the away team.” She stared at Kim, smirking. “What a bunch of sore losers. Remember when they lost the cup and people rioted in the streets?”
“How could I forget.”
“It’s why we can’t have nice things.” Tyler’s computer dinged again and she rolled her eyes dismissively. “The city shut down everything after that happened.”
“‘No fun city.’” Kim shook her head. “I’ve got a love-hate relationship with Vancouver, being born here, but I’d rather die than live in Toronto. Fuck ‘We the North.’”
“‘We are the North’ is grammatically correct.”
“The French are saying, ‘Oui the North.’”
“Of course they are.” Tyler sighed deeply, frustrated with where her life was heading: nowhere in a hurry. She’d already stayed at SDM for ten years longer than expected. “I wish I could move back to Winnipeg.”
“Oh, I caught that band you like.” Kim snapped her fingers. “The chick band you found on TikTok.”
“The Oh Claires?” Her voice increased an octave. “How were they?”
“Dude, straight fire.”
“I haven’t given up.” Tyler had listened to Peter Gabriel’s record too many times for that to happen. So was one of her dad’s favorite albums and “Don’t Give Up” gave her all the feels every time she listened to it. “I’m dying to work with them.”
“So do it.”
“I’d have to leave SDM to manage them.”
“Even more of a reason, if you ask me.” Kim scrolled through her Apple Watch. “What time is your flight?”
Tyler pulled up the e-ticket on her phone as it didn’t hurt to check twice. “Noon.”
“Sebastard’s going to be there, I assume?”
Tyler shuddered and closed her eyes. She’d rather get a root canal than hang out with her boss.
But at least the trip to Winnipeg offered a silver lining—he knew people there, which meant less time glued to her side.
When they traveled, he insisted on dinner together, which was bad enough.
But the real torture? He chewed with his mouth open, talked while doing it, and didn’t believe in napkins.
It was like dining with a toddler who had a corporate credit card.
“He wouldn’t miss it,” Tyler said with certainty.
Kim sat in her seat like a petulant child. “Dude, I hate that you’re leaving me alone here.”
“What do you mean?” She tried to keep a straight face. “Lara’s here.”
SDM’s new receptionist was as useless as Vancouver’s first-round draft pick. Lara, pronounced “Ley-rah” instead of “Laa-rah,” had been with the company for three months. She was an aspiring singer from the Philippines—a country with the most vocalists per capita.
“That’s not funny, dude.” Kim folded her arms and looked straight ahead. “She gives Asian chicks a bad rap.”
Later that day Tyler arrived at her dad’s house, Rory in tow. She’d flown on points, so her out-of-pocket expenses were almost zero. Living paycheck to paycheck, she knew how to stretch a budget.
None of her bands had earned a commission yet, so macaroni and cheese was her go-to dinner. No ketchup—that’s gross.
“Hello?” Tyler yelled as the door squeaked open.
The three-bedroom bungalow had changed little since the nineties; everything was in rough shape and needed to be replaced.
The yellow and orange-flowered wallpaper peeled at the seams, the braided multi-colored area rug frayed at the edges, and her dad’s black leather recliner, which sat in front of the TV, was worn at the arms and the seat.
An overweight black Labrador Retriever bounded toward the door.
“Wilbur! Who’s a good boy?” Tyler bent down to say hello, but he made a beeline for Rory instead. The dogs wagged their tails into a full-blown windstorm.
“Tyler!” Dylan hollered from the kitchen. “In here.”
Her sister lived across the street with her husband, Joe, and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Nadie, a Cree name meaning “wise.” Dylan got pregnant when she was eighteen, which wasn’t planned, but she and Joe welcomed Nadie with open arms.
“Dylan!” Tyler met her halfway.
Apart from Dylan’s dark hair they could have passed for twins, the identical kind.
Dylan frowned. “I would’ve picked you up, dummy.”
“Don’t be silly.” She embraced her big sister. “Where’s Dad?”
The tapping paws of a miniature panda grabbed Dylan’s attention. “Hi, Rory!” She scooped up her nephew and kissed him on the head. “He’s at the casino getting everything ready.”
“Congrats on selling it out.”
“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “Joe sold a lot of tickets. He says hi, by the way.”
“Where’s Nadie?” Tyler glanced around, expecting to see her.
“At practice. She’s disappointed she won’t get to see you.”