Chapter Four Adam
I make it back to my own hotel more or less in one piece. It’s rough for a minute there, and I did puke into a potted palm outside Eleanor’s hotel, then once more in the shower halfway through washing myself. Fortunately, I feel better after that.
When I come out of the shower, I check my phone, and there’s a message from Freddie, asking me to meet the band at a brewery near the venue after they finish sound check this afternoon.
It’s great news, so I’m not sure why I feel uneasy as I type out a response. Maybe because I have no plans to drink again for the foreseeable future, and even thinking about that smell all breweries have is almost enough to make me head back into the bathroom.
But this will be hours from now. I’ll get breakfast and some coffee and an annulment and be right as rain.
I text them back to let them know I’ll be there, and then begin the uphill battle of pulling myself the fuck together.
I’m relatively new to the whole concept of a skin-care routine, and I wasted so many hours going down rabbit holes on skin-care subreddits that I feel strangely guilty when I skip even one step in it—the same feeling I get when I go to a dentist appointment knowing I haven’t been flossing as religiously as I should be.
So instead I skip shaving and apply the vitamin C serum, which as far as I can tell has absolutely no effect whatsoever on my skin, followed by mineral sunscreen, which takes forever to rub in, especially with my five-o’clock shadow.
It’s not until I start getting dressed that I realize my shoes were in the splash zone when I got sick earlier.
I attempt to wipe them down with a hotel towel, but that makes me gag almost immediately.
No way I’m walking around in these. I open the closet and find a robe hanging, and a pair of slippers neatly lined up beneath them.
I tell myself it’s better than going down to the lobby in my socks, and slip them on, making a mental note to put them back after I acquire new shoes so that I don’t get slammed with some exorbitant charge for them when I check out later.
Before heading downstairs, I sit down on my bed—still perfectly made, since I haven’t slept in it yet—and plug my phone in to charge for a few minutes.
I’ve got a text from my mom asking how my trip is going, which I ignore for the time being, because picturing her disapproval at hearing I had a drunken, quickie wedding still makes me want to die a little.
More messages are waiting in my group chat with some of the guys from the office.
Everyone is hitting a bar after work tonight, because for all of them, this is a totally normal Friday.
I tap out a reply telling them to have fun without me, then close the messaging app so I can check my email.
One of my reps sent a follow-up about a band they scouted.
They’ve got a unique sound, but as I’ve already told my rep twice now, they’re almost too distinctive.
I can’t sign every artist my reps send me, no matter how good they are.
It’s a business—I have to cherry-pick the ones that are sure to make the label money.
I flag the message to respond later and tap through my phone to pull up Billy Draper’s contact info.
“Hey kid,” he answers on the third ring. “How’s Sin City treating you?”
The decision to lie through my teeth is automatic. “So far so good.”
“Last night go according to plan?”
A loaded question if I’ve ever heard one.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” I rub the back of my neck. “Why didn’t you tell me the meeting was with Eleanor Thompson?”
“I didn’t think it really mattered,” he says.
He’s right. It shouldn’t have mattered. If he’d told me ahead of time it was Eleanor’s meeting, I wouldn’t have backed off.
It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Except maybe I could’ve been more prepared, been able to prevent her from getting under my skin last night.
And then maybe I wouldn’t have had so much to drink.
And then maybe we wouldn’t have wound up wearing wedding rings.
Can’t really blame Billy for that part, though.
“No, you’re right. Just took me by surprise.” I think about the way my stomach twisted when I spotted her at the restaurant, the first time we’d been in the same room in years. “She and I have butted heads a few times in the past.”
Billy makes a considering noise. “She give you trouble?”
More than he could possibly know. But again, I’m not going to admit that to Billy. Not when he practically spoon-fed me this opportunity. Disappointing him has always felt akin to what I imagine it feels like to disappoint your dad, for someone who has a healthy relationship with their father.
“No trouble.” I rub my jaw, stubble scratching against my palm. I really could use a shave, but it’s just as well I don’t have the time. I’d probably nick myself if I tried to wield a razor in my current condition. “She is putting up a good fight, though.”
Billy laughs. “She’s scrappy—I’ll give her that. But you know as well as I do that she only got where she is because she sucked off Griffin Hastings.”
I frown at the gray carpet underfoot, an uncomfortable heat snaking up my neck.
At the time, yeah, I was annoyed she was getting special treatment from Hastings.
That she was promoted so young, and without a relevant degree.
But whether that was Eleanor’s reason for getting involved with him or not, it doesn’t change the fact that Griffin was older, and in a position of power over Eleanor, and it was just…
not all on Eleanor, the way Billy is making it out to be.
I’m not under any illusions about Billy.
Alcoholism aside, he’s no saint. He has a reputation for being a bit of a prick, and I’ve known him long enough to recognize it’s well earned.
He doesn’t mince his words, and that rubs a lot of people the wrong way.
It tends not to bother me, personally—you don’t succeed in a cutthroat industry like ours by playing nice or worrying whether everyone likes you.
Besides, this is the man who fostered my love of music.
He was the first person I called when I got my acceptance letter to Berklee College of Music.
Four years later, he flew across the country to see me graduate.
My dad didn’t show up, but Billy was there, sitting right next to my mom, looking proud as hell when I accepted my diploma.
So yeah, I let a lot of his more indelicate comments slide.
But every now and then shit like this comes out of his mouth, and even I can see why several big names have cut ties with him in recent years.
“You think she’ll try to talk her way into Freddie’s pants?”
My mind immediately rejects the idea, lip curling in distaste. “She wouldn’t do that,” I bite out.
Billy grunts. He doesn’t sound entirely convinced. “Either way, I’m sure it won’t take much to poison the well against her.”
Given that Atlas never offered me any fatherly advice, good or bad, I’ve always appreciated guidance from Billy.
I like that he feels close enough to me to share his unadulterated opinions.
That said, Billy came up in a different era.
So sometimes, like right now, it’s shit advice that I fully intend to blow off, same way I probably would with my actual dad, if he were alive and interested in giving his thoughts on my career.
It’s just nice to know Billy cares enough to weigh in.
I don’t need all of his suggestions to be winners.
And I definitely don’t need to talk shit about Eleanor to close this band.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Go get ’em, kid.”
I hang up and scrub my hands over my face, psyching myself up for the day ahead. It’s overwhelming, trying to wrap my head around everything that needs to be done. I have to narrow my focus: Coffee. Breakfast. Annulment. Then close this deal and be done with Vegas.
Done with Eleanor Thompson too.