31. Chase
Maybe people called it a “big break” because when it hit, everything shattered.
Thousands of glass shards rained down on Chase daily in the form of self-doubt and imposter syndrome, rapid deadlines and constant surprises. Some pleasant, like finding out Saint of Spades had broken the Top 100. Some concerning, like waking up to five missed calls and two voicemails from the band’s media relations manager. Frantically telling him to call back because they needed to talk.
Chase tried not to wake Zak, pressed chest to chest against him in the twin-sized bottom bunk, but it was a lost cause. As soon as he shifted to his foot, her eyes fluttered open.
And as soon as she said, “We’re there already?” Scott was in the aisle, looking at them with an expression that wasn’t readable, but wasn’t joyful.
“Good. You’re awake,” Scott said. “Hate to do this right now, but we don’t have a whole lot of time and we do have a whole shitload of trouble to sort through.”
Zak sat up so fast she thunked her head on the top bunk. “What else is new? We’re always in trouble.”
“Yeah, well.” Scott smiled sympathetically. “Normally I’d say that’s your own doing, but today’s striking a little below the belt if you ask me.”
She didn’t have the precursory clues that Chase did and she seemed in much higher spirits as a result. He stood and grabbed a crutch to make it over to the dinette, where the rest of the band was already seated. Poring over the tabloids spread out on the table.
Chase’s heart lurched as he looked over his shoulder at Scott. “Is this about last night?”
“In part.”
“There’s more?”
Trouble in Paradise? Izzy Sartori: Single and Heartbroken
Chase Payton’s Cheating Scandal Strikes a Sour Chord
Scott Lee’s Secret Daughter Discovered
Those were the three major headlines being passed around as Chase slid into the seat. Zak, dazed and groggy, next to him.
But there were others. Many, many others, all centered around the breaking news from the music journalists who seemed drawn to their band like a swarm of flies to a steaming hot pile of rotting garbage.
This was a side-effect of being in the spotlight. The shittiest tax on all the money and fame.
Chase knew that, but for some idiotic reason, he thought he would be able to get away with it. Once. Late at night, in the most crowded city in America. Clad in disguises at a low-profile venue, not likely frequented by the type of crowd who cared about Saint of Spades. For once, he thought he’d be able to spend time with Zak outside a hotel room.
Obviously, he’d been mistaken.
The call from their general manager came in on Scott’s mobile before he could finish saying… whatever it was he was saying. Chase couldn’t register anything over the dull pounding between his ears.
As soon as he read that black, bold font, it turned to illegible symbols on the page.
This had to be fake. It was a shitty nightmare he couldn’t shake off.
Zak snatched the papers off the table, clenching them in her fists as she scanned the words. Not really reading, but absorbing, as her voice went from indiscernibly soft to shouting so loud that passers-by could likely hear her outside the tour bus. “No. Fuck. Fucking fuck. What the fuck? This isn’t happening. How is this happening? It’s been one night. I didn’t see anyone, did you? There was no one there.”
Reality was a baseball bat to the skull.
“You never know what they’ll find,” Chase said. Which was true. Half the time, the press found shit that wasn’t even true, but in this case, all of it was except for the detail that was going to turn the public against them. And dropping all of it at once? That was a lot even by Chase’s experience.
“‘So much for Mr. Nice-Guy,’” she quoted the first article, flashing them all the cover photo of Izzy looking miserable at the tiki bar in Ft. Lauderdale while Chase was on the phone, not paying attention. “‘Beloved hockey-star-turned-rock-star Chase Payton finally let the fame go to his head by cheating on super-hot superstar, Izzy Sartori, with his own guitarist. With no shortage of women throwing themselves at the Saint of Spades frontman, who else has he bedded behind Izzy’s back?’”
She flipped frantically to the second one, accompanied by a black-and-white photo of Chase and Zak, zoomed in so far it was grainy, to make out their features beneath the hoods, hats, and tied-back hair. She picked out another scathing quote. “‘After previously denying all rumors of their involvement, Chase Payton and his rocker chick have finally been caught red-handed locking lips at a New York jazz club while his girlfriend was busy on stage. It seems this friendship is about to go up in flames.’”
“Zak…” Nothing good could come from reading disgusting gossip articles about themselves. Nothing good could come from this at all.
“It gets better. ‘Scott Lee’s relation to the Saint of Spades guitarist was confirmed by an anonymous source’…” she read from the last one, shaking her head. “Anonymous my ass. Wonder what she got paid to decide risking the lawsuit was worth it. Probably already smoked it all, too. Guess my independence was nice while it lasted. From now on, I’ll get to read about how I owe my music skills to my father and my fame to being Chase Payton’s mistress.”
Though he wouldn’t admit it—someone needed to be the voice of hope for her when she was spiraling like this—she was probably right. It was only a matter of time before her lineage came to light. Chase just wished he hadn’t been the one to compound the issue by turning her into the accomplice of his fictitious adultery. “We’ll sort it out with the PR team. They deal with stuff like this all the time. Much worse stuff than this.”
“Sorry, you guys. This really sucks,” Edge said.
“I should be the one saying sorry.” Chase placed a hand on top of Zak’s as she lowered the papers. “Now the whole band is caught up in it.”
“That’s how it goes.” Alex looked away. “Everyone has to deal with the homophobes because of me.”
“And all the drug speculation, because of me,” said Dallas.
“This is about the only time it pays off to be the bassist.” Edge gave an attempt at a lighthearted smile. “No one cares what I do.”
“It’s a good thing they don’t,” Zak huffed. “Different girl in every city for you, but I kiss one guy and get crucified.”
On the contrary, Trevor cared enough about what Edge didn’t do that he was already planting and sowing the seeds of trying to convince the band to replace him by the time their next contract rolled around.
If there even is a next contract with Tribute.
But Chase shook that thought from his head. They were already being vilified by the media, and they were about to take a lashing from the label, too. But those hit songs were worth more than some salacious titles alongside vaguely incriminating photography.
“We’ve got a meeting tomorrow to talk things out. In the meantime, they’re working on coming up with a plan to put this thing on ice,” Scott said as he re-entered the bus.
Zak seemed to be waiting for more. Either that, or she was waiting for her heart rate to de-escalate before saying, “That’s it?”
“That’s it. For now.” Scott nodded to Chase. “I know you tried your best to keep it under wraps, but sometimes the wrong people are in the right place. That’s all there is to it.”
Only Chase was with the right person in the right place. It was just the world who thought it was wrong.
“We’re going to get fired,” Zak said as they walked into the Tribute Records office building.
“I doubt it.”
As soon as it came out of Chase’s mouth, it sounded like a lie.
He didn’t actually have the first clue what to expect during their meeting with Trevor. He’d never dealt with a public relations crisis this major during his hockey career, and had strategically avoided ever having to give a public statement. But rock stars got into worse trouble all the time. DUIs. Sleeping with underage girls. OD’ing. Being a dick to fans.
They were in breach of contract, sure, but nobody had gotten hurt. That had to count for something, right?
Zak mashed the elevator button, the heel of her shoe clicking anxiously on the ground. “How many times have you gotten fired?”
All the assurance Chase could offer was a soft smile. “Technically, just the once.”
“Then you can trust that I’m more experienced in this department. I only got to quit once, and it was from a job I’d already gotten fired from,” she said. “I know how this goes.”
“How can you know anything?” Edge said as the elevator opened and collected them all to take them to the top floor. “We just walked in.”
“There’s extra security by the door,” she pointed out. “Our escorts.”
“Over five thousand people work in this building,” Scott said. “They hire extra security all the time for all sorts of things.”
“Like firing people,” she mumbled. Chase wasn’t sure anyone else heard her over the whir of cables.
A chill hit him as soon as they stepped out. The door to their general manager’s office was open, with no one standing outside to greet them. Trevor’s assistant was nowhere in sight, and the whole level was eerily quiet for a weekday.
As soon as they all stepped into his office, Trevor didn’t have to say anything to affirm Zak’s hunch.
There were two more security details on either side of the door and a second man in a suit whom they’d never met before. A witness.
Trevor’s face was a rigid mask of neutrality. “Take a seat.”
Zak steadied herself by grabbing the back of one of the chairs. “Do we have to?”
“No.” He pursed his lips. “This’ll be quick.”
Chase brushed the back of her hand. He wished there was something he could do to ease her nerves, but he was having a hard time finding the silver lining himself right now.
His own lungs stung with the breath Zak was holding. He wished he could take one for her. This was entirely his fault.
Trevor ripped off all the pretense and obscurity surrounding their meeting in one fell swoop. “We’re dropping Saint of Spades.”
All hell broke loose. A torrent of frantic curses and protests exploded. So dense, the words themselves felt forceful enough to crack the floor-to-ceiling windows of the C-suite office overlooking Manhattan. Chase didn’t know who was talking. It would have been easier to list who wasn’t talking—himself.
He had cost them everything.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Edge’s voice rose above the chaos. “The album’s a success.”
“The album is exceeding projections,” Trevor agreed. “The musicians responsible for it, however, are a fucking liability. They make last-minute set changes without consulting management. They overstep and make money-back guarantees to the general public. My top-performing manager failed to disclose his conflict of interest before taking them on as clients, and no one here brought it up either.
“Saint of Spades has got a bassist who may or may not malfunction at any given moment. A useless rhythm guitarist who can’t get his ass on stage, and I don’t even care that it’s drug-related. 90% of the musicians here are on some shit, and they manage. And still, it’s problem after fucking problem with the five of you. Because today, I should have been working out recording kinks with bigger, more successful musicians. Instead, I’m cleaning up the tabloid mess that is you”—he pointed at Chase—“and you ”—he pointed at Zak—“deliberately spitting, or should I say fucking, in the face of one of the simplest terms of our agreement.
“So yeah, the album is selling. And it’ll keep selling, and we’ll keep making money on it without you. Because this is a breach of contract, and I’m not dealing with the next one to cater to some infant rock band that’s gotten way too big for its baby shoes. Let’s see how far you get without the best music publicity team in the nation, in the world, polishing your turd of a record and cleaning up all your messes.”
The ground could cave beneath their feet, the sun could fall out of the sky, and it would have been less of a disruption to the band than this news. Their first contract, the one they’d fought so hard for, ripped from their clutches as abruptly as they’d latched onto it.
“What about the tour?” Zak asked. “All the extension dates?”
“That’s a separate piece of paper for a reason,” Trevor said. He didn’t sound overjoyed about not being able to cut ties cleanly, but Tribute”s parent company was making plenty of money off their work—and Studio 7 had a rapidly approaching season two of Amped to promote. “You’ll stay on. Unless you want to reimburse us all of the expenses and cancellation fees, that is.”
“For someone who’s all about money, you’re not making the financially wise choice right now,” Chase argued. “We can have another album ready to release by the start of the new year. We’ve got the number five and number eleven hit songs in the nation right now.”
“And other genres are dominating the rest,” Trevor said. “If you think your success is independent of my team pulling all the strings in the background, think again. I’m okay with cashing in on our copyright and writing your band off as a one-album-wonder because that’s all you’ll be once the media is done ripping you all new assholes for the same belligerent behavior you’ve already made headlines for. But who knows? Maybe you’ll find some sad, broke indie label to take you on and book you gigs at Bubba’s Roadside Barbecue or some shit.”
“You’re making a huge mistake, Trevor,” Scott said. Less of a defense than a premonition.
“Right. Artists and addicts gotta stick together, right?” Trevor laughed. “Give me a break. I appreciate your professional opinions, Scott. I really do. But when your goddamned long-lost kid is part of the equation, that sort of cancels out the objectivity, doesn’t it?”
“It’s nobody’s business who I got my DNA from,” Zak said.
“Make it your first lesson about being famous, Ms. Parker. Bye-bye privacy. At least, until you’re irrelevant again. I give it…” Trevor hummed. “Five years. Music moves faster than it used to. Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts.”
He gestured to the door, but Chase pulled out one of the chairs and sat, in spite of the antsy way Trevor’s security shifted on their feet. “How long have you been looking for an excuse to push us out of the deal, Trevor? This isn’t about one stupid night out. This is about you keeping the masters while you find any way you can to eliminate our shares. You’ve been saying it from the very beginning. You think this album was a fluke, and you’re so eager to cut us loose that you’ll do it before our contract expires in January. While the album’s still hot.”
Trevor smiled in a way that wordlessly substantiated Chase’s suspicions. “I didn’t have to find anything. You all broke our contract, on multiple counts. If anything, I was being generous by keeping your little band on for this long.”
“How much?”
Trevor perked up. “For what?”
“To buy back our masters.”
“Chase, you can’t—”
“How much?” He repeated, cutting Zak off before she could tell him not to do this.
Whether Tribute had been searching for a reason to get rid of Saint of Spades or not, he had given them one. And he would clean his bank account out to correct it if he could. Not only because of the principle, but because he hadn’t been kidding when he told them he believed in this album and all the ones that would follow.
He was pissed off about the media storm. Pissed off about this calculated play on Trevor’s part. Pissed off that Zak was going to take the heat for this at his side. But a weakened voice at the back of his mind told him this could be the shitty opportunity they needed to build something even better with a record company that would treat them like human beings.
Money couldn’t buy happiness, but it could buy better circumstances.
“Are you trying to wheel and deal with me?” Trevor scoffed.
Chase stared. “Well, I’m not trying to tell you a knock-knock joke.”
“Fine. I’ll bite.” Trevor bounced his head back and forth before throwing out a figure that killed Chase’s backup plan on the spot. “Sixty.”
“Thousand?” Dallas hedged.
“Million.”
Fuck.
“What?” Trevor pouted. “All those big games and brand deals didn’t cut it? Or you just weren’t in the league long enough to save up?”
Considering that figure was over three times as much as the obscene sum Chase had in savings, there was no negotiating from here without looking like an idiot. He suspected that was the point. To throw out an unreachable amount. “Where did you get sixty from?”
“Doesn’t matter. You asked me to name a price and that’s it.” Trevor shrugged. “Pay it, or get out.”
“I can’t wait to be done with you,” Zak said bitterly.
“The feeling is mutual, sweetheart.” Trevor nodded to the security guard looming behind Chase. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out, Crazy Eights. Or do. ‘Cause you’re not my responsibility anymore.”