Break the Girl

Chapter 2

Quentin Russo had come a long way since his days in Jokers Wilder…but not necessarily in the right direction. His current existence was figuring out how to make it day to day, trying to get work when he could.

But jobs were few and far between.

It wasn’t that he needed money. Jokers Wilder was still an active band, churning out an album every year or so and, when they did, they sold copies of their older music, meaning Quentin would always get a chunk of fresh royalties.

It was, instead, his creative spirit that was suffering from long-term neglect.

Sitting in front of the computer in the studio he’d built in his home in Joshua Tree, he opened up his inbox to see what awaited him.

He wore what was almost like a uniform—a plain dark gray t-shirt, dark jeans, and work boots, because later on he’d take a walk around his land.

Although he didn’t connect with people daily, he made sure he got in contact with nature as frequently as he could. It kept him feeling grounded.

In his new life as a music producer, he’d had a few minor successes but nothing that made him a go-to guy. He did something every day to make it happen, but his past made it difficult. Yesterday, he’d reached out to a couple of indie labels in the L.A. area, hoping to drum up some business.

Among all the unwanted spammy emails, he found three emails that needed attention. One was a reply, brief and decisive, much like many he’d seen before:

Mr. Russo,

Thank you for contacting us but, at this time, we have several studios we are comfortable working with.

Other than a brief automated signature, that was it. Not even the lie that they would keep him in mind. Yet another prospect in the toilet without a second thought.

It wasn’t a surprise—and barely a disappointment nowadays. But it was exhausting.

The other email was from an old friend, a guitarist named Jerry in another band that he’d toured alongside years ago. The subject line, simple, said “Re: Suggestion.” This made him curious.

But the email wasn’t addressed to him—and it happened to be a chain.

Hey Alan,

Nicole’s side project is wasting away and she wants to record it yesterday.

She doesn’t want to wait two months until Canard is ready to work with her.

I’ve copied my old friend Quentin Russo on this email.

He’s a hell of a producer and if you need me to point you to some of his work, just say the word.

I’ll personally vouch for him. And Nicole wants to work with him.

Anyway, you and Quentin work out a deal and let me and Nicole know what to do next.

Cheers,

Jer

The first email had been about one of Jerry’s projects and had nothing to do with this present email. If Quentin had had more time to process, he would have felt a little happiness for his old friend, because it looked like he and his old girlfriend were still together.

Instead, he was mired in shame and conflict.

Alan, the studio exec his old friend Jerry had reached out to, was someone who had flat out told Quentin he wouldn’t work with him if he was the last producer on earth.

In fact, he’d said, “I’d have my five-year-old produce this album before letting your brand of poison anywhere near it. ”

It stung…and Quentin had never forgotten it. He knew that the few who spoke were rare. More common were the ones who never said a word but never considered him at all.

Letting out a slow breath, he ran his hand through his dark brown hair before getting up to walk around the studio.

Unlike other areas in his house, this room had no windows.

It was fairly stark but soundproof, with every instrument in its place, the computer as well as the recording and mixing equipment up against one entire wall in the control room.

The studio wasn’t huge, but it was perfect for recording, mixing, and producing any sort of album anyone might want to create.

And, in addition to an array of instruments, he had a variety of digital ones that mimicked the real deal perfectly.

Although his roots were in heavy metal, he’d take any artist nowadays—and the few he’d worked with, none rock stars, had benefitted from his guidance and work.

But it was his roots that kept him from getting the work he craved.

Those explosive days with the wildly successful Jokers Wilder loomed large over his present life.

He’d been such a fucking hothead back then—but not entirely without reason.

He could still feel that rage that had consumed him back then when he’d finally left the band.

Too much anger, too many illicit substances.

Too big a fucking ego.

Still, he’d had plenty of legitimate reasons for feeling the way he had.

Elijah Wilder had, at one time, been a good friend, but that guy’s ego put Quentin’s to shame.

There hadn’t been room in the band for growth or autonomy.

Secure in his own fame, Quentin had left the band, signing a contract with another label to release a solo album.

He’d had no problem getting that contract, because he was well known in the industry, particularly because Jokers Wilder’s first studio album went double platinum three years after its release—and their second album peaked at number four on the Billboard 200.

Quentin was worshipped by men and wanted by any woman he could have ever wanted to have—and he’d known he was a goddamned rock god.

Until he was banished from Mount Olympus.

His solo album should have been a commercial success. Every single track was fucking flawless. He’d spent agonizing hours while taking his first shot at producing. The album had sold and done pretty well—but it was panned by critics and at least half the fans, even while they came out for the tour.

Was it because it had all the bells and whistles…but no soul?

Probably. The album—every song on it—was perfect, not a note out of place. No one could find fault with the actual work. But it was “missing something.”

The fans had turned on him and picked their side, many of them saying Quentin was washed up and that leaving Jokers Wilder had been a bad idea. And there was nothing he could do about that.

For a brief moment, he felt bile in his gut—because, much as he wanted to be angry with the world about it all…he knew it had all been his doing. He was the reason why his life was the way it was today. No matter what he thought about Elijah Wilder, he knew his fate rested on his own shoulders.

And he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it right.

Placing a finger on his favorite guitar standing upright in its stand, he suspected he’d never play for an audience again—or record an album under his own name. It was bad enough reliving that time of his life as a sense of despair overtook him whenever he did.

But here…in his studio helping other artists, he could shine.

They could bring the heart and soul of the message they wanted to share—and he was far enough removed from their art that he could decide which imperfections made each song better and which needed to be removed.

He truly felt like a genius as he manipulated their tracks for maximum impact.

He knew how their songs would hit the audience’s ears and hearts, and he could bring out the best in each song.

But few artists or labels gave him a chance. They knew his history, his reputation as a volatile loose cannon, and no one wanted to risk it, even though, with what few opportunities he’d had, he’d come through.

Today, he knew his stage days were behind him, and he was more than okay with that—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help others share their talents with the world. He could bring their music alive like no one else.

Few could see that, though.

Taking another large gulp of coffee, he walked back to the computer and sat down, looking at the email again.

Sliding the rejection into a folder so he’d know not to contact them again, he began perusing through the remaining list in his inbox.

For several emails, he simply clicked the box next to them so he could delete them all in one fell swoop.

Most were from companies selling various products or services—nothing he wanted now but might someday.

And that left one lone email in his inbox.

It was from someone named Chad Barnes and the subject line read “Production Inquiry.” Quentin hated how his heart started beating slightly faster just at reading those two simple words.

Still, as he stared at it, for some reason, he found it a bit insulting, considering his past—not his reputation as a bad boy of rock but as a consummate musician and producer.

The subject line read almost as if he were a last thought.

Maybe he had been.

But, as he stared at it, he let out a slow breath, letting it settle in.

He would read it later.

He didn’t dare hope that it could be something good. Until he could manage his expectations, he’d leave it closed.

With the stroke of two keys, he put the computer to sleep and walked out of the studio to get a cup of coffee.

That email was nothing—an empty promise like several supposed inquiries before, and he knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up about it—and he certainly wasn’t going to respond until he worked through his emotions.

So he spent the remainder of the day doing almost anything else—anything other than opening that email that was sure to be a disappointment at worst and, at best, a shitty offer that he wouldn’t be interested in.

Had it not already been close to one-hundred degrees outside, he would have considered a long run to distract him. Instead, he decided to walk around his fifteen-acre property, donning a baseball cap and carrying a bottle of water.

He loved this place and had not once regretted moving here.

It gave him peace and privacy and a sense of serenity he’d never had before in his life.

To some, it might have seemed barren, but that was because they weren’t looking at it through his eyes.

The boulders and shrubbery, the faded dirt and prickly pear cacti, the yucca and their cousins, the Joshua Tree, from which the town got its name, surrounded by rugged hills and mountains further in the distance—all of it filled Quentin’s soul in a way that nothing in city life ever had.

He never would have considered himself the type of person who connected with nature, but this desert… it had changed him.

It understood him. It protected him.

Half an hour later, he was entering the house again, knowing that damned email was waiting.

But this was how he coped. He’d do whatever it took to avoid looking at it again for as long as possible. As long as he could control when he opened it, he could better handle whatever disappointment waited inside.

So he changed into workout clothes and went into the small room where he kept weights and a treadmill and spent over an hour there before making an elaborate lunch that involved chopping lots of vegetables and cuts of beef.

And then he focused on the house. When he’d first moved here, he’d hired a housekeeper to come once a week…

but, although she was nice and did a good job, it often felt like an invasion—so he began doing the work himself.

Besides, there was never too much to do in terms of cleaning.

Now was as good a time as any, and he started sweeping and mopping, dusting, wiping down every surface in the kitchen, changing the sheets, and washing two loads of laundry.

By the time the sun was low in the west, he decided he was ready, ready for whatever that damned email contained—and, as he walked down the hall toward the studio, he decided that, no matter what it said, he was going to turn it down.

It was clear just by the tone of the subject line that they didn’t really want him—and he refused to be a desperate has-been.

He only wanted to work with people who really wanted him.

Once the computer was awake again, he deleted more new extraneous emails, leaving only the one with the subject line Production Inquiry. After opening it, before looking at anything else, he read the signature area:

Chad Barnes

A&R Representative

Crushed Velvet Records

The last bit of info was the guy’s phone number, but Quentin didn’t plan on making any calls.

Although he didn’t know this guy, Crushed Velvet Records was a rising brand, signing big rock, pop, hip-hop, and alternative artists, and they seemed to have a keen ear for finding true talent.

They’d made a lot of smart moves in the recent past and had some huge musicians signed with them.

Finally, Quentin’s eyes drifted to the top of the email, all while he toyed with deleting it instead of reading more.

But there was no stopping himself now.

Quentin Russo:

I’m reaching out regarding potential production work on an upcoming project for Raine Dennison.

This project will involve production and recording for a complete album. We are flexible as to the location and schedule. Given recent developments with this artist, we are seeking a producer with a strong creative point of view and the ability to work independently.

If you’re open to further discussion, please reply, letting me know your availability in the coming week.

Quentin read the email through twice before sitting back in the chair to absorb it—but he didn’t delete it.

The offer was promising…but there was a huge problem.

The artist was none other than Raine Dennison.

That girl was a hot fucking mess, even more likely to garner negative press than he’d been in the day. How would that affect his reputation?

Was that why they were throwing him this bone?

Because no one else would touch that girl with a thirty-foot pole?

Did they think he was that fucking stupid and willing to trash what little he had left to deal with that girl’s dumpster fire career—especially over the last show she’d done?

Quentin might not have been in the loop like he’d been in the day, but everyone the world over knew how she’d trashed her career in front of an audience of thousands.

Still…he didn’t delete the email. Despite his hesitation, he was curious and more than a little interested.

But he didn’t reply, either.

He was going to have to sleep on this—because saying no might be just another nail in his career coffin…but bringing someone like Raine Dennison here to his sanctuary could disrupt everything he’d worked so hard to build.

Either way, it might be the worst decision of his entire goddamned life.