Chapter 8
EIGHT
______
CALUM
Turns out Johnny isn’t the only one who can nail the stalker routine. Blending in with the crowd, I watch the men of Fifth Circle celebrate the success of their music festival debut.
I almost didn’t make it to their performance. When I approached Arthur this morning about timing my break to check them out, he’d scoffed at the name.
“They’re not worth it,” he’d barked, impatiently.
“I went to one of their shows when they first popped up on the scene about three years ago. The music was decent, but their lead singer looked like a junkie—and not the marketable kind. They had no website, no social media presence. They weren’t even trying.
Honestly, I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long. ”
I already knew about the not trying part, but the rest of the image he presented didn’t fit with the band I’d spent the early hours of this morning researching.
From what I saw, Johnny’s confidence in Fifth Circle was justified.
Their music was light years beyond decent and Ned Corbyn, the lead singer, had a stage presence like nothing I’d ever seen.
Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I opened their website—which not only existed but was slick as hell—and zoomed in on Ned’s face in one of the band’s promotional photos.
“Is this the lead singer you saw?” I asked, holding the phone up for Arthur to see.
He took a quick glance before coming back for a closer look. “No. He must be new.”
New to the point of having fronted the band for the last two years, but I wasn’t about to mention that. Bands vied for Arthur’s attention every day. It’s little wonder he never looked back at those he’d already dismissed. I’d hoped to use the information to my advantage.
“Genevieve wants me to come back from this festival with a band to sign and I’ve heard good things about these guys.
” Granted, the person who bragged about them was their own lead guitarist, but still…
I had to know if they were as good live as their online videos implied.
There was also the part where I wanted to see Johnny’s long fingers work a fret board like I wanted my next orgasm.
Another point best kept to myself. “It can’t hurt to take a fresh look. ”
“Fine.” Heaving a sigh, Arthur rolled his eyes at me. “Go. Look. Maybe they won’t reek.”
Smothering my smile of triumph, I got back to work, ripping my way through task after task so there would be no chance for Arthur to change his mind.
When the time came, I sneaked away from the amphitheatre, arriving at the side stage as Fifth Circle took the stage.
The drummer, Gavin, bounced into place like a freaking puppy, his grin reckless but his hands steady.
Next came Oz, the bass guitarist. He was younger, and the calmest of the bunch, but the skip in his step gave away his excitement.
Ned, like any good lead singer, was more dramatic.
He burst into the space as if someone had wrenched opened the door to his cage.
The sensuality of his gait as he made his way to the front of the stage, his arms stretched wide in welcome, sent a ripple of anticipation through the crowd.
Then he wrapped his hands around the microphone, licking his lips like he was about to fellate the damned thing, and they willingly threw themselves into his wildness.
Johnny was the last to step onto the stage.
The electricity that seemed to zap me from a distance in the VIP tent last night jumped and zinged from every inch of him.
It was in his smile, his eyes. It sparked in the way his fingers twitched, like live wires, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the brush of his calloused fingertips against the strings would short out the system and destroy his electric guitar.
Then they began to play and… christ, they were good.
The music was loud, the lyrics complex and clever.
Each of the songs could easily have stood well on its own, but strung together they flowed in a seamless story of emotional turmoil that wandered among devastation and pain, through the struggles of letting go, only to end in a place of tentative hope.
Ned continued to seduce his audience with increasing intensity.
There was a guileless abandon to his performance that I could only imagine came at a cost. Creative types often walk closer to the edge of madness than the rest of us and this man looked set to topple.
If I ever had the chance to be in charge of Fifth Circle’s future, it would be Ned I’d keep the closest tabs on.
Each of these evaluations and considerations was made through the eyes of a manager watching potential clients. I appreciated the band as a whole, without getting caught up in the hype. I acknowledged Ned’s star power, without being drawn into his web.
It was in the times my gaze strayed to the left that my professional lens cracked. And it did stray—to Johnny—over and over again.
The heat of last night’s anger had faded, but the fire of lust still burned, and watching his body move to the rhythm as he played strengthened the blaze.
Every hip tilt, every sway, brought to mind the way he’d pressed against me when we kissed.
Those same calloused fingertips that plucked so deftly at the strings of his guitar had sneaked beneath the hem of my shirt last night, stroking bare skin and making me shiver.
Every time he turned to face towards my section of the audience, my heart stumbled. If he knew I was here, would he care? Had I been used and dismissed as easily as he’d planned? Or did he want me here, watching him?
By the time Fifth Circle finished their set, I was left trembling under the weight of two unavoidable truths.
Firstly, Fifth Circle is the band I’ve been searching for. These are the men I can put all of my professional confidence and enthusiasm behind. It’s their music I want to bring to the world.
Secondly, I will do anything I have to in order to sign them. That includes pretending last night never happened. If the hungry look Johnny had on his face when he gazed out at the festival lights is anything to go by, he’ll be happy to do the same.
All I have to do now is convince them they need me… more than I need them.
* * *
An hour passes before I manage to find an opportunity to approach Ned Corbyn. He’s crossing the festival grounds with a second man who appears to be his boyfriend at his side.
I glance around to make sure the rest of the band is nowhere to be seen before I draw closer.
The act itself feels sketchy in a way I’ve spent my short career avoiding.
Normally, I would have approached the band as a whole, while they were still riding their performance high.
I would have showered them with compliments and business cards, and hoped they were in the mood to change their minds about wanting more and bigger.
But if I’d followed the standard approach, Johnny might have said or done something to give us away.
If the band found out something happened between us, there’s every chance word could eventually leak back to my boss.
Genevieve believes in two things: maximising profits and keeping steadfast boundaries between artists and managers.
If she knew I had the hots for Fifth Circle’s lead guitarist, there’s no way in hell she would allow me to take the lead in their management.
Which would mean they’d have the potential to end up in Arthur’s not so tender care. The thought of Arthur exploiting yet another talented band makes me sick to my stomach. Not to mention he’d be in a position to tell Johnny what to do, which may lead to me strangling him in his sleep.
My strides lengthen as I catch up to my target. “Excuse me, Ned Corbyn?”
Ned turns and I offer him my hand and a wide smile. Returning my friendliness, he shakes my hand. “That’s me. How’s it going?”
“It’s great to meet you,” I say with a nod. “The name’s Calum Ellis.” Bringing my other hand forwards, I offer my business card this time. “Rush Music Management.”
This is the part where most lesser-known musicians react in one of two ways. Their eyes go round with amazement, or they narrow in suspicion.
Ned does neither. Instead, his smile dies and he eyes my card as if it’s a snake, coiled and ready to bite. “Not interested.” Taking hold of his boyfriend’s hand, he walks away.
The expected rejection barely registers as I fall into step beside the two men. “I apologise for ambushing you, this isn’t the way I prefer to operate. But I caught Fifth Circle’s performance earlier and I wanted to introduce myself. Your set was impressive.”
Ned doesn’t bother to look at me as he gives a curt nod. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
“How is it possible I’m based in Brisbane, and yet I’ve barely heard of your band before this weekend?
” It’s a question I’ve been asking myself all morning.
Ideally, I should have had Fifth Circle on the list of bands I wanted to check out while I was here.
Yet, somehow they slipped my notice. Which sucks because if I’d researched them earlier, I may have had a chance of recognising Johnny when we first met.
Then last night never would have happened, and I wouldn’t be trying to forget the taste of him, his hesitation and his eagerness.
I never would have been the first man he kissed.
Despite the complications our meeting has caused, I can’t bring myself to regret it. The idea of some other man kissing Johnny makes my skin crawl.
“We’re not big on promotion,” Ned replies.
Johnny used exactly the same words. I wonder which of them decided it was true first?
“That’s one of the areas where I can help,” I reply. “Give me six months and I’ll put Fifth Circle’s name on the lips of every music lover in the country.” Considering their good looks and innate presence on stage, I’d put it closer to three.
Ned disagrees, if his curt laugh is anything to go by. “You’re full of shit all the way to the top, aren’t you?”
I let out a chuckle of my own. Do these guys really not know how exceptional they are? “No, actually, I’m not.”
“Ned.” The blond man trailing behind Ned speaks for the first time. His voice short and grumbly. “Not all of us are six feet tall.”
Glancing back over his shoulder, Ned immediately slows. “Sorry.”
Whoever this guy is, I’m about ready to kiss him for slowing the breakneck pace we’ve been walking at. We’re already halfway through the festival camping area. Who knows how long I have to convince Ned to give me the time of day.
Taking a deep breath, I pull on my most professional tone and try again.
“I’ll admit to a certain boldness when it comes to proclaiming my intentions, but I assure you I have the experience and contacts necessary to back them up.
” I start name-dropping like a B-grade celebrity.
Bands I’ve ‘helped manage’. Companies and people I’ve ‘collaborated with’ in Sydney.
I may not be an integral member of the Rush management team yet, but when the drummer from Southern Kings was desperate for coffee and a blueberry muffin, I came through like a boss. It all counts.
“I’m currently looking to work with more indie bands.” They’re easier to get close to and if I can get just one to hit it big, we’ll all win. “No labels and no nonsense.”
The random trailer up ahead is seeming more and more like a destination and I’m almost out of time.
I hold out my card one more time. “Perhaps we can talk more once we’re all back in Brisbane.
” I consciously force air in and out of my lungs.
Because held breath is a sign of desperation and I need to limit my tells. Take the fucking card. Just take it.
Ned glares down at me, pressed lips curved slightly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
My stomach drops all the way to my shoes. They’re not just the perfect band for me; they’re the only band I’ve seen who comes close.
I open my mouth, though I have no idea what else I can say. Please? I need this? My sister needs this? This is the real world. No one gives a shit what anyone else needs unless it pleases them.
Ned’s boyfriend steps between us then, cutting off further attempts to make a fool of myself.
“Ned is super glad you enjoyed the show, Mr Ellis.” His voice is on the comic side of cheerful.
It’s also sharp as a scalpel. “As he already mentioned, Fifth Circle is not currently looking for a manager. You can leave the card with me if you must, but now is the time to bow out gracefully.”
It’s over. Any further overtures on my part would be little more than harassment. Even if there was a chance it would work, that’s not the kind of manager I want to be.
Nodding, I hand the business card over before lifting my gaze to Ned’s one more time. “Thank you for your time, Mr Corbyn. Enjoy the rest of the festival.”
Gathering what little is left of my dignity, I turn around and walk away with my shoulders back and my head high.
This isn’t a problem. There are plenty of bands waiting to be discovered. Bands who want to be supported and nurtured by a dedicated manager. In fact, my first clients could be composing their future hit right now. All I need to do is find them.
Besides, with another band I’ll never have to worry someone will find out about the random almost-hook-up I had with the lead guitarist. I’ll never have to think about his lips, or his smile, or the way his body fit so perfectly against mine. I won’t even wonder what he sounds like when he comes.
Maybe, in the end, this is for the best. Fifth Circle and I were never meant to be.
It’s time to wash my hands of this whole mess and move on.