7. Elle
elle
. . .
E very time I listen to the tracks recorded at Plum’s session, I start to think I’m sitting on a gold mine. And then doubt creeps in. What if I’m not good enough for them or not doing right by them? They’re going to be huge. They’re going to be the girl group version of Taylor Swift, and I’m just starting out. I wonder if Ryan Stone felt like this when he became the youngest general manager of the Boston Renegades? Whether he felt he wasn’t good enough? What if their stardom far surpasses what I’m capable of?
If my dad were here, he’d kick my ass for thinking so negatively. I’m supposed to manifest greatness. I’m supposed to only see the good in what’s to come, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head telling me I’m going to launch Plum’s career and they’re going to take off, leaving me in the wind.
I search for Plum’s folder and once I find it, I open it and peruse the notes I’ve taken since meeting Justine. Plum had been playing at Trixie’s for a few months, and no one talked to them at all. Quinn and I were the first—this bodes well for me—as long as I continue to do right by them. But what if the deal I get them isn’t enough?
Sighing heavily, I close the folder and open my email. Each message I write is tailored to the right manager at the record label. Luckily, with 4225 West owning the studio where my office is, I have the luxury of using their producers. Not to mention, Quinn, who seems to be the jack of all trades when it comes to music. He can sing, play, and produce music. I swear he lucked out in the genes category. So did Peyton. Her skills and knowledge of football when it comes to dissecting the game are exceptionally good. My talent is finding musical artists. Where I struggle is making sure they’re a top ten artist, nominated for Grammys, and getting soundtrack opportunities. I’m not there . . . yet. Uncle Liam says I’m on the cusp of breaking into the big leagues. Thing is, I don’t want to be on the cusp. I want to be over the edge. I want my bands to have long and successful careers. Not only in their industry, but also with me. It would break my heart if one of my bands left me and found success elsewhere because that would mean I failed them, and that’s the last thing I want to do.
After writing the first email, I copy the pertinent information, attach Plum’s demo, and send it off. I try not to let the anxiety build more than it already has, but I can’t help it. I believe in these girls, their sound, and the vibe they carry. Especially when it comes to Justine. There’s just something about her . . . I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the haunting way she sings a ballad, the way she closes her eyes and transports herself into the heart of a song. It’s even the way light twinkles in her eyes when she’s about to sing the middle 8, whether it leads to a key change or the crescendo that all the fans will want to sing along to. She has superstar written all over her.
Once I have sent emails to the labels, I reach out to the security firm 4225 West uses when on tour. I explain the situation with Justine and ask to set up a meeting so we can discuss what measures should be taken.
Next, I do an internet search on Justine. This isn’t something I’ve had to do in the past, but I have this nagging suspicion something isn’t right. She tells me she’s eighteen, and if that’s the case she shouldn’t worry about her dad tracking her down. If she’s a minor, I’m in trouble. She can’t sign any legal documents without her parents, unless of course she’s emancipated.
“Ugh,” I groan and push my fingers into my temples. I want everything with Justine to be on the up and up, but I saw the fear in her eyes before she took the stage at The Helen Show . She was afraid.
My email dings and my heart races even though I know full well no one from the music industry will get back to anyone within minutes. Although, with the girls appearing on The Helen Show , there might be a scramble to sign them to a label. My eyes scan the new messages, and my heart does a double tap. A Sony rep has responded to my email. Of course, it’s the same one who signed 4225 West, but in this business, you use your contacts. The next email is from Universal. Both labels want to meet the girls, and I let out a thank you to whoever is watching over me right now.
“Holy crap,” I mutter to my empty office. “Within freaking minutes.”
“You know?—”
My hand covers my heart as I startle. Slowly, I turn at the sound of my brother’s voice and find him leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, and wearing a beanie. He looks so much like our dad; Quinn could play him in a movie if anyone ever did a biopic about the band.
“What the hell, Quinn? Ever hear of knocking or, I don’t know, checking in with Debra to make sure I’m not on some important call? I could’ve been negotiating your next record deal.”
“But you’re not doing either,” he points out. I throw a wad of paper at him and glare.
“What do you want?”
“Well, that’s rude.” Quinn saunters in and sits down in the chair across from my desk. He’s rigid, unlike his normal posture of extending his long legs and slouching.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you not feeling the tracks you did with Plum? Because you sound amazing, and the mix is perfect.”
“No, that’s not it,” he says, but offers me nothing more.
“Let me guess, you want to go on this mini tour with the girls?” I lean back in my chair and contemplate. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Of the six songs on their EP, you’re on three of them. You’d be a huge draw for them. It’s just a handful of stops,” I tell him.
Quinn seems to digest what I’m saying but starts to shake his head slowly.
“All right, I give up.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. I hate this . . . game or whatever he’s playing. “What gives?”
Quinn clasps his hands together and studies me. I cock my eyebrow, hoping to convey I’m in no mood for this cat and mouse game he’s playing. Another ding, and I turn my attention back to my computer. As soon as I see who it’s from, I click to open it and pray it’s the answer I want.
“Yes,” I say loudly, and fist pump the air. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“What is it?” Quinn asks.
“The three majors want to meet with Plum. I think we might end up in a bidding war.”
“You know that’s not always good,” he says. Unfortunately, he’s right. Sometimes so much money is thrown at artists, they never make it back before their contract expires. Putting Plum in a situation where they’re going to struggle is not how I want to do business.
“I know. I’ll make sure the girls are protected and they have a nice deal.” I close the email and turn back to Quinn. “Did you and Nola break up?”
His gaze turns sharp. “Why would you ask that?”
“You’re being weird and it’s the only thing I can think of. If something was wrong with mom or dad, or even Peyton, you’d just tell me. All this weirdness,” I pause and make a bunch of circling motions in the air with my finger, “is—well for a lack of a better word—weird.”
“I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A thesaurus.”
“Hardy har har. Spill or leave. I have work to do, and you need to be in the studio. Dana booked you guys in there. She said you’re working on something?”
Quinn nods, and then clears his throat. “How’s Ben? I haven’t seen him around the office much.”
At the mention of Ben, my heart seizes. I pray my expression remains the same, hoping I’m not giving anything away. I look down at my blotter and act like what’s there is super important. “Ben’s good. He took a corporate job before Christmas, remember?”
“And that’s why he didn’t come to the lodge for Christmas?”
It takes me a moment to remember my lie. There have been so many over the past few months. I honestly thought once the holidays were over, Ben and I would be back together and this thing going on between us would be water under the bridge. Clearly, I’ve thought wrong. I’m about to say yes when I remember I told my family Ben wanted to see his mom. One of the worst lies of my life.
“No, he went to see his mom.”
“Oh, right,” Quinn says. “Odd, though. Ben’s always spent the holidays with us.”
I shrug and hope Quinn takes my hint.
“It’s too bad he wasn’t at the Super Bowl.”
“I know.” I continue to keep my eyes on my blotter and write down things I need to do. This is the second time Quinn has asked about Ben and I’m starting to wonder why. Surely, Ben would’ve texted and let me know if Quinn had been over. “Are you here to talk about Ben or to work?” I ask, avoiding eye contact.
“Elle,” Quinn says my name softly and in a brotherly tone. I can’t help but let my building tears spill over. I cover my face and shake my head. “Why?”
“Why what?” I ask, my voice muffled.
“Why the lies?”
“Because I thought this was a hiccup and we’d be back to normal already.”
“Have you tried?” His tone is accusatory, and I look at him instantly.
“Have I tried? I try all the time but Ben,” I pause and shake my head, “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Quinn.” I spin away and stare out my window. I don’t have a view of much, but at least I can see outside.
“You need to go see him, Elle.”
I shake my head, even though I doubt Quinn can see me doing so. “I’ve tried, Quinn. For a while I texted him every day, and nothing. No response. I went over there to get clothes, and we fought.”
Quinn appears in front of me and kneels. “Can I help?”
“Not unless you can set a date for our wedding,” I tell him. “Or what would’ve been our wedding. A date is what caused all this crap between us. Ben says things are over. He says he doesn’t want to see me so I’m giving him the space he needs.”
“You really need to go see him.”
“Why? So, he can remind me that I broke his heart because I won’t get married at the courthouse? No thanks. I want a wedding where Dad walks me down the aisle. I told Ben I’m sorry everyone’s schedules don’t match up, and eventually they will if we keep looking at dates, but that isn’t good enough for him. And even if we got back together, I don’t think we should rush into marriage. Look at us.”
Quinn takes my hands in his and looks at me with the sincerest gaze I’ve ever seen from him. “You need to go see Ben.”
“I don’t think I can. I literally feel ill thinking about not seeing him and then the anxiety kicks in. He doesn’t love me, Quinn.”
“I think he does, but he’s hurting, and he needs you, Elle.” I spin back to my desk and grab my phone. After unlocking it and pulling up Ben’s texts, I show the screen to my brother. “Does this look like a guy who needs me? Does this look like a guy who wants to talk to me?” Dragging my finger over my screen, I show Quinn numerous messages from me that Ben hasn’t answered. “He made himself very clear, and honestly, I’m done talking about it. He broke up with me over a date,” I point out. “Maybe it’s for the best.” I go back to my desk and toss my phone down. “Leave, please. I have work to do and the constant badgering about my ex is giving me a headache. I know he’s your friend, and honestly, I hope you remain friends with him, but Ben and I . . . he doesn’t want to be with me.”
I open the first email regarding Plum and start to type my response. I can hear Quinn moving around behind me, and when he lets out a heavy sigh, it takes everything in me to ignore him.
“Elle, if you take anything away from what I’m saying, take this—Ben needs you. You need to go out to the house and see him before it’s too late.”
The “before it’s too late” part catches my attention. By the time the words register in my mind, Quinn is gone. As tempted as I am to go find him, I don’t. He could mean nothing by it, other than he wants Ben and I back together.
Or he could mean everything.