Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Tatum
“Explain this to me like I’m five,” my best friend, Ruby, demanded as I sat on the front steps of Gilbert and Sons trying not to cry.
“Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re the best damn employee they’ve ever had, and if they want to say differently, I’ll come in there and bust some heads.”
She would, too. Ruby was the frontwoman of Red String Riot, one of the hottest bands to sign with Golden Fire Records. The pocket rocket lead singer-slash-songwriter-slash-manager-slash-mother hen was a known diva when things weren’t to her liking. Mostly when one of her people wasn’t happy.
“They had evidence of transfers made from my IP address. I don’t know what happened, but I’m lucky they just fired me. They could have called the cops. I’m innocent, but I have no way of proving it. Ruby, whoever did this took hundreds of thousands of dollars from investors.”
I put my cell on speaker and pulled up my Uber app.
“Do you have any idea who could have done it?”
“No, I—oh, for fuck’s sake.” I resisted the urge to throw my phone as my driver’s booking was canceled due to insufficient funds.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just the icing on top of today’s shit sundae. Something is wrong with my card.”
I thought back to the coffee shop. “Actually, it didn’t work this morning either. Hang on.” Closing out of Uber, I opened my banking app and gaped at all the zeroes on my statement page.
“I need to call the bank.”
“Stay there. I’ll order an Uber and send you the car details. Come to my place. We’re getting white girl wasted tonight.”
“I fucking love your face.”
“Of course you do.”
I let out a genuine laugh as we hung up, sobering quickly as I called up the details for my bank.
In a lot of ways, phone banking had revolutionized society.
What once would have meant spending hours traveling to a branch, waiting to be served, and handling mountains of paperwork could now be done in an hour or so—after you finish sitting on call waiting for an inexplicably painful amount of time.
In other ways, it was the worst. Like when you find out your “husband” has been funneling money in and out of your account for months.
“I don’t know how to make this much clearer. I. Don’t. Have. A. Husband.”
The man who had so pleasantly identified as Matthew ten minutes before sighed, as though he were questioning his life decisions after taking on this call.
“You have shared an address with an”—the tap tap of a keyboard came down the line as a blue sedan pulled up in front of me—”Adam Fuller…
for more than twelve months, have you not?
We have all the documentation on file. Maybe have a chat with him as a first point of reference. ” The don’t waste my time went unsaid.
I disconnected the call before I lost my mind at the stupid man and slid dejectedly into the back seat of my Uber.
“Rough day?” the guy asked, eyeing me in the rearview, as though worried I’d explode or worse…cry.
“Something like that,” I muttered.
“You like music?” he asked, cranking up the volume on the radio. “My daughters love these guys. Goats and Vandals. You heard of ‘em? Weird name, but I have to admit, I don’t mind their tunes.”
I grunted in a way I hoped he would take as agreement and put my head back, letting the sound wash over me. Their drummer and bassist kept a rich bass sound going while dueling guitars added layers of complexity to the overall performance.
Then the vocals joined the mix.
Deep and rough, as though the singer had just downed a straight shot of tequila, his words moved over my body like the phantom hands of a lover. I parted my lips, gasping a little as the melody rose into a keening cry that had me adjusting in my seat.
Where was I?
Shit.
My eyes snapped open, ripping me out of the moment as I realized I was getting turned on in the back of an Uber. Damn. They were good. I could understand why the band was popular; they were selling aural orgasms.
“…don’t have the best reputation, though. I won’t let the girls see them live. I’m hip with it. I watch the E! News and see the scandals those boys get themselves into.”
“You sound like a good dad,” I said, for lack of anything better to stop the ramble.
The skin on the back of his neck reddened as he stumbled over his thanks and was finally silent.
Thirteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of a ritzy-as-hell apartment complex with sea views and every amenity a rock star could ask for.
“Nice place,” my new friend said with an impressed grunt.
“Yeah, I’m just visiting,” I said, doing an awkward wriggle to get out and thanking him for the ride.
At the door to the complex, I was met by a security guard with an earpiece. He took my name and made me wait while he cleared me for entry.
“Thank you,” I almost spat as he finally deigned to wave me through with a condescending smirk. I was sick of people and just wanted to hang with my girl and several bottles of whatever she had in her wine fridge. But first, I had to handle a twenty-floor ascent in a box of death to get there.
You can do this. You’ve done it before and didn’t die.
Wiping damp hands on the ass of my work skirt, I pressed the call button and tried to focus on slow, deep breathing. In and out. Niiiiice and eas—
Ping
My chest spasmed painfully, lungs squeezing so tightly that sparks danced in front of my eyes as I stepped into the small space, stabbing at the button for the penthouse as though it were a snake coiled to strike.
“Not going to die. Not going to die,” I chanted under my breath.
The metal wall was cool under my hands. The floor was solid under my…
My stomach dropped as the ascent began, and I doubled down on my chant, squeezing my eyes shut until the ping and whir announced I had survived the journey.
On unstable legs, I took the four steps needed to escape confinement and all but collapsed against the glass table opposite those cursed doors.
“Biiiiitch! Get your ass in here, I’ve got a glass of the good stuff with your name on it,” Ruby’s voice echoed from farther in the penthouse.
I took a couple more breaths, begging my body to stop with the adrenaline dump, then straightened to follow the blessed sound of wine being poured into glasses.
“Okay, so I know we’re here to get wasted and talk about your shitty life, but we have to take a second to celebrate. Guess who is opening for the second half of the Goats and Vandals national tour!” My pixie-sized bestie was vibrating as she shared her news.
The enthusiasm transformed her from everyday badass to something altogether more. Her short black hair was spiked—as usual—styled to highlight her anime-sized navy-blue eyes. Eyes that seemed even bigger as she waited for my reaction to her career-changing opportunity.
“That’s…holy shit, Ruby, that’s huge news! Congratulations!” I rushed across the room and swept her into a hug, enjoying the leather scent of her jacket. “I’m so proud of you. You guys worked so hard for this.”
Ruby’s shoulders dropped, and her arms snaked around my back.
“I’m sorry. I feel shitty. You’ve had the worst day ever, and it’s like I’m throwing my good luck in your face.”
I pulled back, pinning her with my best wicked glare.
“You’re not doing anything of the sort. You are a fucking goddess, and those idiots down at the record company are finally starting to realize it.
Our first bottle of wine is going to be celebrating your success.
The second one can be commiserating my horrible life choices. ”
We shouldn’t have had the second bottle, I reflected as Ruby sat cross-legged on her counter, opening a third bottle and settling into her lecture. “The problem is, you’re only ever interested in emotionally unavailable men.”
“That’s not true! I just make poor choices! I’d love to settle down with a guy who understands me and doesn’t just want to rob me and my place of employment blind.”
Ruby pointed the neck of the newly opened bottle in my direction.
We’d given up on glasses half a bottle ago when Ruby snapped the stem of her crystal flute in a passionate tirade about what she’d do to Goats and Vandals if they fucked up their tour before Red String Riot joined them.
Apparently, my Uber driver really had been in the know. These guys sounded like trouble.
“Babe, I say this with total love, but you’re a fucking bull around red flags. You’ll run at that shit even if you can see the sword ready to cut you to pieces.”
“Are you calling me a cow?!” I gasped, outrage breaking through the lovely buzz I had going.
“No, bitch. I’m saying you’re the big brass bull balls…
try saying that five times fast. It’s really hard.
Big brass bull balls, big brass bull… OH MY GOD!
” Ruby scrambled from the countertop, almost face-planted on the oak floorboards, then recovered and threw herself at the laptop she had tossed aside on the sofa earlier.
“From here on out, I am going to require you to address me as your lord and savior,” she announced, firing things up and clicking manically until she sat back with a smug grin.
I approached carefully. Partly because I had no clue what she was up to, but mostly so I wouldn’t spill the bottle I was sucking down. At the top of her screen was the Golden Fire Records logo.
“Why are we looking at your record label’s website?”
“Because they’re hiring us a manager, and it’s going to be you.”
I stared at her in shock, sure I’d misheard her in my drunken stupor.
“Ruby, I know nothing about the music industry.”
She waved her hand at me, all pshaw. “You don’t need to know anything. We’ll fudge some experience on your resume, and then I’ll teach you everything on the job. I’ve been doing this shit for years. I promise, it’s easy as pie.”
“Ruby, I can’t bake.”
She waved me off again, bringing a resume template up on her screen.
“Okay, let’s see. Highest level of education: Bachelor—”
“In Finance,” I cut in.
“Shush. Let me work. Motivated problem solver with experience maintaining composure in stressful situations—Shut up, drinking is handling stress well—well connected within the music industry with experience in a wide array of genres and musical subcultures.”
“This is all bullshit. How am I going to support any of this?” I asked, chewing the edge of my thumbnail.
“It’s not bullshit, just creative interpretation. Remember, you helped me with the sound check during my tragic country music phase? It counts. Plus, we still occasionally keep in touch with Courtney May, and she presented at the CMA’s last year.”
“I almost got tossed out of the bar for brawling with Courtney May the last time we saw each other, remember?”
Ruby’s face screwed up as she searched her wine-soaked memory for the night in question.
The second her face lightened, I regretted bringing the night up.
“Holy shit! TP Tits! Oh my God, I completely forgot about that!” Ruby cackled at the memory while I once again questioned my life choices.
“Okay. A, we swore never to speak that name again. And B, Courtney was the one who stuffed her fucking bra. Now let’s get back to lying on a legal document so I can earn a living again.”
“That’s the spirit, girl,” Ruby cheered, typing another few lines onto her work of fiction. I spotted the words creative and persuasive and decided to see how quickly I could finish the bottle in my hand.