Chapter 19 #2
“Apparently one of the staff members lost their parents in the tornado.” Connie’s voice lowers as people stare at us from the various tables scattered around the room.
“We feel it would be in bad taste to do any content today for the campaign when people here are dealing with the aftermath of the tornado.”
My shoulders slump as Lucy brings me over an iced Americano.
I’d already mentally resigned myself to today being a write-off.
The message from the very brazen, very toxic mom this morning, telling me that she wouldn’t be able to make it from Amarillo, had dampened my mood.
Apparently, freeway closures in Oklahoma made it impossible for her to get here.
Christopher had cleverly recommended doing a stitched together video instead, to still take advantage of the trend, which somewhat softened the blow.
“Can I go over and speak to the staff member? See if there’s anything we can do?” I take off my leather jacket and throw it over the chair on the table behind us.
“Yes, but be warned, she’s quite hysterical.” Connie pulls off her sunglasses to reveal an unamused expression.
I take a sip of my coffee and rub the back of my neck.
Beads of sweat are already forming from the heating in the store.
I take a deep breath when I see the woman. Mascara runs down her cheeks, and her face is all puffy. Her hair is disheveled from running her fingers through it.
“Hi, I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.” I clasp my hands in front of me.
“Thank you,” she responds, sniffling. She wipes her nose with a tissue.
I stop short, trying to find any other words that will comfort her. What do you say to someone who has lost both of their parents unexpectedly to a tornado?
“I can’t believe everything’s gone. My parents. My home. Our dog Rosie. All gone.”
There’s shock on her face, the same type I recall seeing on the faces of people walking the streets of Manhattan in the aftermath of 9/11 in the various documentaries that have so engrossed me.
“Come on, let’s grab a seat,” I say, taking her hand and sitting down on a table next to the counter. Connie and Caryn join us uninvited.
“Is there anything I can do to help. Anything at all?”
I wipe away the tears from her cheek with my thumb before holding both of her hands in mine.
“I… I don’t know,” she says, stuttering.
The despair on her face is gut-wrenching.
Her pain is almost too uncomfortable to sit with.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?” I soften my tone, getting drawn into her green eyes, which are the same color as her nail varnish.
“Yeah, my boyfriend’s,” she says, looking down into her hands. “That’s where I was last night when they were killed.” The guilt in her voice lingers in the air.
I look to Caryn to get a sense check of the woman’s work situation.
“We can take care of work, right Caryn?”
“Yes, of course.” She reaches across to put her hand on the woman’s arm. “Take as much time as you need. We’ll ensure your wages are covered.”
Her attention goes to Connie, and a calculated look appears in both of their eyes.
This poor young woman. She must be about the same age as me, and she has had everything taken from her in one clean sweep. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like.
“Do you know if your parents had insurance on the house?”
Her head lifts slowly until her eyes meet mine.
“They, they….” she starts, but begins to cry again, unable to form the words.
“Don’t worry,” I say, scooting my chair round and holding her tightly in my arms as she sobs uncontrollably.
There’s got to be something we can do.
Friday
The pile of CD and vinyl sleeves I’ve been signing for the past two hours refuses to get smaller. Rows and rows of them are laid out across the long table in my hotel suite, which overlooks the Bellagio Fountains, although they’re turned off for the Las Vegas Grand Prix this weekend.
“How many more of these are there left to sign?” I say to Paul, massaging my aching wrist.
“Just a couple more boxes.” Paul doesn’t even look up from his iPad.
“Can’t we get Lucy or someone from the label to sign the rest?”
I slide the cap back onto the Sharpie, unable to hide my frustration.
“They already are. There’s only ten thousand here. The label and Lucy have been working through the remaining batches.” Paul finally looks up from his iPad.
“Only!” Rob turns from where he’s looking out of the window at my raised voice.
No wonder my wrist aches.
“Yeah, we’ve had over seventy-thousand preorders for signed copies of the CD version alone.”
His eyes light up at the thought of what that means, then quickly dull.
No doubt he just remembered we won’t be getting a cent from these.
Everything with Paul is about money these days.
“How many preorders have we done in total so far?”
“One hundred and eighteen thousand. And there’s still one more week to go.”
I try to calculate how much money that will generate for RAINN before quickly giving up when Paul continues.
“You could be vying for number one on the Hot 100 with the track in two weeks’ time. Apparently, Columbia Records has paused their advertising for Mariah’s All I Want For Christmas Is You that week, thinking you’re a shoo-in for the top spot.”
Me. Competing with the Queen of Christmas.
Holy Guacamole!
My phone pings and I turn to pick it up from the table.
Betty
Erica just messaged seeing if I want to head down to the spa for a facial.
You free to join? X
Sk8er Boi
You bet I am. X
The fresh-faced look that everyone complimented me on when I left the treatment facility is quickly returning to my usual drawn-out appearance, although Erica does a good job of hiding it every day.
I slide my phone into my sweatpants pocket and get up from the table.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Paul stares at me.
I bite back my first response and take a deep breath.
“To the spa.”
“Alex! You’re not going anywhere until you finish signing these.” His tone is incredulous as he reaches for one of the CD covers and throws it across the table to me.
I should just walk away, but I don’t. Paul’s demands have ignited a flame of fury inside me. I reach across the table and grab the pen.
“If you’re so obsessed with these being signed, why don’t you sign the rest of them yourself?” I fling the pen at him and storm toward the door.
An hour later, after a facial and filling my stomach with pepperoni pizza, the world feels steady again. Christopher and Erica sit across from me in the corner booth of Lago, one of the Italian restaurants at the Bellagio.
I wave down the waiter to grab the check as Erica finishes the last of her pasta dish and Christopher reaches for his phone. He pauses halfway through whatever he’s reading and looks up at me.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know about the money you gave that Brewed worker in Oklahoma.”
Christopher passes his phone across the table as a knot forms in my stomach.
Alexander Morgan donates $100,000 to Brewed employee who loses parents and home in Oklahoma City tornado.
I scroll through the article and feel my face getting redder and redder.
I specifically told Paul not to tell anyone, not even Connie, when I got him to contact my accountant to wire the money. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was trying to generate publicity off of someone else’s suffering.
At the bottom of the article, it shows Brewed has matched my donation and that they’ve set up a donation link.
When I click through, there’s over 1.2 million dollars already raised. I feel a mixture of gratitude at those who have donated and fury at Paul for not keeping his word and keeping this private.
“How. fucking. dare. he.”
My rage boils over as I fling the phone back at Christopher, startling the waiter, who quickly drops the check and leaves us alone.
The sheer audacity of the man. Telling me what I can and can’t do, and then doing exactly what I expressly forbade him from doing.
I grab my phone from my sweatpants, scroll down through my contacts, and press the call button when I find the contact info for John, my lawyer.
“Is John Shapiro there?” I ask, when a woman answers on the second ring. “It’s Alexander Morgan.”
Christopher and Erica exchange a concerned look while I tap my fingers on the white tablecloth.
This is the last fucking time he ever gets to do this to me.
“Hi John,” I answer when I’m finally put through. I switch my phone to the other ear, skipping all the pleasantries to jump straight to the point. “What do I need to do for you to terminate my management contract with Paul?”