Chapter 37
“Move Along” - All American Rejects
Rhett
It doesn’t come as a surprise when Sam and I are called into the executive offices at Lunar Records within days of my plane landing back in Wesbourne. Sam is doing his best to hide it, but I can tell he’s as nervous as I am. His foot keeps twitching where it’s propped across his knee.
I spit out a splinter of my toothpick. I just popped it in my mouth when we pulled up, and it’s already shredded. Maybe I should’ve listened to a fucking guided meditation on the way over here like my therapist recommended.
They’re making us sweat. We’ve been here fifteen minutes, having arrived promptly at our appointed time, for which I’d expect a little gratitude. But no one has come out to greet us yet, besides the blue-haired receptionist, who keeps looking at me with hungry eyes. I ignore her.
Sam and I haven’t talked much, apart from his directive to let him handle things. I’m trying to reassure myself that if they were going to cut me, they wouldn’t waste so much time doing it. I doubt they’d even have called us in.
The door opens to the same conference room we met in before, and Eddie steps out.
It feels like fucking déjà vu, except this time he’s not wearing a smile.
Instead, his face has this pinched expression that makes him look a little constipated.
I refrain from offering him a laxative. Something tells me he wouldn’t find that funny.
A handful of other execs are already seated, wearing expressions similar to Eddie’s. Sam and I settle at the table, and the air in the room crackles with tension. I badly want to make a joke that is in nothing but poor taste, but even that part of me seems to have shut down.
Eddie clears his throat, taking charge again. “I’m sure you’re aware of why we’ve asked you to come in.” His eyes don’t leave the paper in his hands, as though I’m not even worthy of a glance, let alone his full attention.
“To tell me how well the tour went?” I say with a smile that’s only half-forced.
“What he means is—” Sam interjects. Fuck. I forgot to let him do the talking. “—we’re not sure why this meeting has been called, since it seems like the tour was a success.”
Eddie drops the page in his hand and looks at my agent. “It was a fucking shitshow.”
Sam blinks in surprise, and I frown across the table at the guy who’s supposed to be my liaison with the record label, but who has revealed himself to be my biggest naysayer. “I wouldn’t say it’s been that bad,” I say.
Eddie’s gaze swings over to me. “Really?” He punctuates this by tossing several tabloids my way. “Look at these headlines.”
I scan them, but it’s nothing new, just more trash talk about me and Saylor. If I hadn’t already seen those photos, the sight of them now would shove the knife in my chest right up into my heart. But these articles are old. “These are from weeks ago,” I say.
Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “The point is, Rhett, that you broke your end of the contract. We specifically said no scandals. I’m not sure there’s a person alive who wouldn’t call this scandal material.”
Sam opens his mouth to speak, but only a grunt comes out before Eddie interrupts him.
“You had an affair with a married woman. What the fuck were you thinking?” Red splotches dot his neck, and I briefly wonder if he should get on blood pressure medication. Clearly, he doesn’t have a good handle on his emotions.
“My client has no comment at this time,” Sam says.
Eddie shoots him an annoyed look. “This isn’t a fucking press conference.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know she was still married,” I say. As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. They may be true, but it only makes Saylor sound like the bad guy, when in reality, she’s the only good thing in this whole situation.
“I asked her to join me on tour,” I continue, “because I’m a drug addict.” I wait for the surprise to cross Eddie’s face, and when it doesn’t, I glance around the table at the other suits. Stoic expressions, all of them.
“Yeah, we saw your little confession,” Eddie grumbles, his attention already returned to the paper in front of him.
I shift in my seat. Is that why I’m here?
They’re canceling the contract because of my addiction?
As this sinks in, I expect to feel disappointment, anger even, or sadness.
But I feel nothing. My heart rate hasn’t changed, and my hands aren’t shaking.
In fact, I feel calm. Collected. Better than usual.
It hits me how little I care about their decision. Just eight months ago, when I sat at this table, it felt like my life was on the line. I wanted nothing more than this contract. When they threw in the tour, I thought I had arrived at the pinnacle of my career.
Turns out, the higher you rise, the further you have to fall.
If they cancel me right now, tear up my contract and throw it out the window, I won’t give a single fuck.
I will walk out of here with my head held high.
If I never play another show again, I’ll be just fine.
Screw them and their fucked-up ideals. Life is about more than fame. I don’t need this to be happy.
Not that I’ve been happy in the past two weeks, but that has nothing to do with the label, the tour, or the bloody contract, and everything to do with a girl with bottomless eyes, kinky dark curls, and a tattered pair of combat boots.
“Is that it, then?” I ask, planting my palms on the table to stand. “You’re canceling the contract?”
The pen in Eddie’s hand stops moving, just hovering over the page as he looks at me. “No one said anything about canceling the contract.”
I’m already halfway out of my chair, so I pause there. A small laugh slips out. “Uh, yeah you did. You said I violated it—”
“—and that gives us the right to terminate,” he says. “Whether we choose to act on that right is up to us.” He glances at the rest of the executive team, who have yet to say anything this entire meeting. Maybe they’re too scared to speak to the volatile artists they sign.
I sit back down.
Eddie raps the papers in front of him on the table. “We’ve been in discussion about this for a long time.”
Is that supposed to make me feel better?
“We’re not happy with how things turned out,” he continues.
“Instead of abiding by our no-scandal stipulation, you seem to have intentionally sought it out.” I open my mouth to object, but he holds up his hand.
“You’re lucky it played out like it did.
Fortunately, your fans seem to have sided with you instead of the girl. ”
White-hot rage grows inside me until there’s a fucking inferno in my chest. How dare he refer to her as “the girl”? How dare he even talk about her at all? I clench my hands into fists at my sides so I don’t leap across the table and punch him in the face. “Then they’re fucking idiots,” I grumble.
“Excuse me?” Eddie says.
“You heard me.” I cross my arms over my chest and jut my chin at him.
“I screwed up, okay? I’m the one who got hooked on shit in the first place.
I’m the one who pestered her to come on tour with me until she finally agreed.
I’m the one who didn’t try harder to be a good person. Just leave Saylor out of this, okay?”
Eddie blinks at me, then turns back to the sheet in his hands.
“Anyway,” he says, as though I haven’t spoken.
“The label has decided to keep you on a probationary basis. If your record sales continue to climb and there’s no more bad publicity, we will consider another album.
A second tour is not a likely possibility at this point. ”
The urge to laugh bubbles up. Fuck them and their contract. “I suppose now is when I’m supposed to jump up and cheer? Maybe come kiss your shoes for saving my ass?” I say.
Beside me, Sam’s foot jiggles even faster as he pops an antacid into his mouth. He’s apparently given up on trying to do the negotiating, preferring to sit back and watch me burn instead.
Eddie’s face pinches even tighter, and I feel sorry for his kids. “What I expect is a little respect.”
I let one side of my mouth quirk into a smile, then let it linger there as I stare him down.
Finally, I once again slap my hands onto the table.
The woman at the end jumps slightly. I stand up, and it brings me immense satisfaction to be able to tower over Eddie where he’s still sitting.
“Fuck your contract,” I say, and head for the door.
Behind me, I can hear Sam scrambling. I’m a shit for leaving him with this mess, but the guy wasn’t doing his job anyway. At least now my money will actually be paying for something.
I give the receptionist a blinding grin on my way out, and she melts into a puddle on her desk chair. Unfortunately for her, it isn’t what she thinks. I won’t be taking her to bed later, or even calling her. That smile was because I never have to see that office or those fucking execs ever again.
The sun is smiling back at me when I walk outside, just spilling its happy rays all over the car park of the record label. I saunter over to my Maserati, feeling lighter than I have in ages. Who knew giving your dreams the finger could feel so freeing?
As I drive home, the final lyrics for my new song click into place. I belt it out in the car, and god it hurts, but it also feels so damn good to get it out there. With a clarity I’ve never felt before, I jog into my flat and grab my guitar.
Several practice rounds later, I’m ready. I set up my phone and hit the record button. It’s time to let a new muse write my songs.