CHAPTER 21 #2
Tyler narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, knowing it was Kim’s handiwork, booking the room and car service. “The Marilyn Suite was a little much, don’t you think?”
“Sorry, my bad.” Kim stared at her for a few seconds but didn’t speak.
“What?” Tyler wiped the sides of her mouth with her hand. “Do I have something on my face?”
“You know he’s, like, fucking in love with you, right?”
She made a pouty face, clearly regretting the fight. “Yeah, we kind of had a blowout.”
Kim’s gaze became still. “What happened?”
“I kind of freaked out.” She pulled out her topknot and wrapped it up tighter. “He wants to stay in Malibu tonight but I have meetings tomorrow and want to stay at the hotel.”
“Sounds tragic.”
Tyler shrugged. “I think he’s wasting my time, like Dave. Everything’s about him and I’m sick of it.”
“Dude, are you fucking kidding me right now? He talks about you, like, every second of the day. I literally have to stop the guy from buying you dumb shit at airports. ‘Will Tyler like this? Will Tyler like that?’” She lowered her voice.
“He’d kill me for telling you, but he checked your Insta every hour before I told him to turn on his notifications. ”
“Bitches!” a woman’s voice echoed from across the room. Her dark, shaggy hair bounced as she walked toward them. She was a dead ringer for eighties Chrissie Hynde, and not by accident. The Pretenders were her favorite band.
“Allie Kowalski,” Tyler said, hugging her friend. “Thanks for coming.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Allie said, then smiled at Kim. “Congrats on the CK tour. I hear you’re killing it, man.”
“See?” Tyler said.
“I’m stoked about seeing this band.” Allie checked her phone, presumably for offers. “They sounded good on TikTok.” She glanced up briefly. “I mean, who sounds good on TikTok, amirite?”
“There’s a huge buzz around Yestown,” Kim said. “I had to shut down the guest list. It was getting ridiculous.”
Allie’s thumbs were busy texting. “What are they like to work with?”
“Dude, they’re so pro, easy-peasy.”
Tyler gave Kim a tight-lipped smile and nodded, acknowledging the compliment.
“I’m signing them.” Allie lowered her phone. “Before the vultures get here. Fucking sycophants in LA, I’m telling you.”
“Don’t you want to meet them first?” Tyler asked.
Allie shook her head. “No, I’m good, man.”
When the doors opened at seven p.m., a flood of people rushed to the stage to secure their positions. The Troubadour was a general admission venue: first come, first served.
After the fans took their places, Tyler easily spotted the music industry executives she’d invited. They were at the bar, flashing credit cards like magicians and charging drinks to their companies—bills disappearing into their artists’ recoupable expenses.
“All the experts are here,” Tyler said, and Kim nodded, wide-eyed.
Industry events were notorious for name-dropping and no-shows, but tonight? Everyone who mattered had actually shown up.
“What’s he doing here?“ Allie frowned, pointing her finger.
Tyler followed her gaze. “Who?”
“Fucking Tommy.” Allie faked a retch, clutching her stomach like she was about to hurl.
Allie and Tommy worked for the same booking agency, though they lived in different cities. Their mutual loathing made every interaction a minefield.
“I’m sure he’s just here to network,” Tyler said. “He passed on the band last year.”
“Sebastien put him on the list,” Kim muttered. “He asked for a plus one, but I shut that down.”
“Is Sebastard coming?” Allie scrunched her nose.
“You hate him too?” Kim asked.
Allie scoffed, staring at her screen. “You can’t trust the French.” She glanced at Tyler. “I’m surprised he’s letting you work with them.”
Tyler smirked. “As long as his other acts are bringing in money, he doesn’t care about my indie bands. He thinks it’s laughable.”
“Fucker,” Kim added.
“Did you guys hear?” Allie scrolled through her phone.
“Hear what?” Tyler asked.
“The Westgrays imploded.”
“No!” Tyler shrieked. “When?”
“Today,” Allie replied. “It’s on their socials.”
Kim held her hands in prayer. “Thank fucking god.”
“That was Sebastien’s only new act.” Tyler glanced at her screen.
Three missed calls.
Allie laughed. “Tommy’s too. I’m not going to lie. I’m not mad at it.”
A stir at the entrance told Tyler that Cary had arrived. She’d asked him about hiring a bodyguard in Vegas’s absence, but he’d refused outright. So, she’d given the venue’s security a heads-up as a workaround, ensuring they were prepared.
Tyler shot up her arm and waved. “Over here!”
Cary squeezed through the crowd, holding his beanie while people fell over themselves. “There’s a line around the corner,” he said.
“Hey, dude.” Kim nodded at her boss. “I’m going back to check on the band.”
“You’re cheating on me,” Cary said to his tour manager.
Tyler shouted over the din in the room, “This is Allie. She’s signing the band.”
“Wow! That was fast.” He extended his hand. “I’m Cary.”
Allie plunked her phone into her crossbody bag and shook his hand. “Happy to meet you, man.”
Cary smiled. “Pleasure’s mine.”
Allie turned to Tyler and rubbed her chin. “You know, I just had someone drop out of Coachella.”
“Coachella,” she repeated. “Why?”
“Why else? Their radius clause. I’m going to pitch Yestown for their slot.”
The music festival had strict rules about artists not playing shows near Indio or, depending on their draw, the rest of California. By contrast, Bert had imposed a reverse radius clause after her mom had died, only taking gigs within a day’s drive.
Tyler clapped. “I’m so excited!”
“Whatever,” Allie said. “It’s a side stage during the day.”
Still, Coachella.
Cary pushed up his beanie. “I’d love to play Coachella.”
“You could headline Coachella,“ Allie said, her voice certain.
He scowled. “Why am I not playing there?”
“You should probably ask your agent.” Allie pointed to the bar. “He’s over there, downing shots with industry people half his age.”
“Fucking Tommy.” Cary shook his head. “Some things never change.”
After Yestown’s set ended Tyler stood proudly. Their gig had gone as she’d imagined it would, only better and louder.
“They’re good,” Cary said, adjusting his beanie.
“I think so, too.” Tyler waved at a record company executive as she walked by them. “They’re just missing that one song—a radio song.”
“I might have something.”
“A song?” she asked, unsure if he was offering. Cary only wrote for himself, despite his music publisher’s attempts to get him to write for other artists.
“I wrote it ages ago. It’s not a”—he made air quotes—“Cary Kingston song.”
“I bet it’s amazing.”
“I don’t know about that.” He hesitated. “Unless they don’t want an outside writer—totally understandable. It took me years to realize co-writers were allies, not competition.”
“Are you kidding?” She balked. “They’re huge fans. They grew up on your music.”
The cords in his neck tightened. “That makes me feel old.”
“Old?” She whispered into his ear, “I haven’t recovered from earlier. I’m still a little sore if you want to know the truth.”
“Don’t look now.” He stepped in front of her, using his body as a shield. “Fucking Tommy’s on his way over.”
“Cary, buddy!” Tommy greeted him with a bro hug. “What are you doing here?”
“Checking out some music,” he said. “What did you think of the band?”
“These fucking kids today.” Tommy slung his arm around Cary’s shoulder. “I just don’t get it.”
“Really? I thought they were good.”
“Have you seen—“ Tommy nodded at Tyler. “Never mind.” He went on, “The afterparty’s going to be a fucking rager. It’s at the Chateau and”—he pointed at Tyler—”you’re coming.”
Like hell I am.
Chateau Marmont was a playground for young Hollywood. With the Playboy Mansion closed it was the next best option for middle-aged creeps and borderline pedophiles.
She clenched her jaw. “We have plans with the band.”
“Next time,” Tommy said, which she considered a threat. “What about you, Cary?”
“No thanks, but I want to headline Coachella.”
“I’m on it,” Tommy said, flashing a phony grin.
Later that evening Tyler took the band, Allie, Kim, and Cary to her favorite Los Angeles restaurant, Subito’s, to celebrate. She had enough room on her credit card if Penfolds Grange wasn’t on the menu.
Allie shared that she was signing Yestown, and the guys were ecstatic.
Every local band in the country was dying to work with her, and it gave Tyler hope for the next generation of artists.
One day, women in the music industry would be valued—and paid—as equals.
But it wouldn’t be today—or tomorrow, unfortunately.
After dinner Tyler and Cary collected her dog from the hotel and headed west toward Malibu along the Pacific Coast Highway—PCH to the locals.
With the windows rolled down, a warm ocean breeze swept through the vehicle and waves crashed along the perimeter.
There were palm trees, houses, and little shops along the road, and a lot of cars honking.
It was LA, after all.
Cary’s beach house sat on some of the most expensive real estate in California.
He’d bought the five-thousand-square-foot, two-story concrete-and-glass structure after the market crashed years earlier.
The previous owners had left it in such disrepair that he’d had to strip it down completely.
The upside was it let him rebuild from the ground up, shaping every detail.
“What a dump,” Tyler laughed, kicking off her shoes. “You should think about buying something bigger.” She inhaled deeply, the salty air coating her tongue.
“I’ll start saving,” Cary said, turning on the lights. “What do you think? Dessert now or later?”
“Depends on what you mean by dessert?”
“Funny.” He waved at her to follow him. “Come, I’ll show you around.”
Cary led her through the house while Rory trailed behind. The décor mirrored his penthouse—contemporary, sparse, and polished, with hardwood floors throughout.
“Pictures!” She clapped at the framed photos on the sideboard. “Are your parents coming tomorrow?”
“My folks?” He shook his head. “No, they’re not.”
“Let me guess.” She rested her hands on her hips. “You didn’t invite them?”
“Honestly? It didn’t even cross my mind.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Fine. I’m officially putting myself in charge of family invites from now on.”
“Okay,” he said easily, no protest in sight.
“Really? You’re not just humoring me?”
“Do I still need to prove I’m not all talk?”
She laughed. “Always.”