Chapter 3
CAMERON
"Hey man, we have to celebrate somewhere more upscale than this," my drummer says, waving a bottle of Jack Daniels above his head like a trophy.
"No." I adjust my guitar case against the cracked red vinyl booth. "Here is where it began. Here is where we stay."
The guys grumble but go back to their shots. I tune them out and scan Mickey's Deli—same peeling Broadway posters, same flickering neon, same smell of pastrami and late-night dreams.
Twenty years ago, at this very table, I signed my first contract with Maxwell Sterling. It was the night I traded freedom for fame.
These guys with me aren’t my original bandmates. Those brothers are gone—burned out, sold out, or worse. The men here tonight are pros for hire, and I don’t blame them. That’s the business.
Milo Holmes appears beside the table in a sleek Italian suit, camera already out. Maxwell Sterling’s golden boy. Always documenting, always watching.
"This is where history was made!" he declares, snapping a selfie with me before I can object. "To finishing our world tour and starting the next one in September!"
The toast is halfhearted. When the others drift into shop talk, Milo slides into the booth, his grin softening. "You doing okay, Cameron?"
"Yeah," I say, fingers tapping my guitar case.
He gives me a look. Milo’s been around too long not to notice. "Come on. Spill."
I glance at my so-called bandmates. They’ll never understand. But Milo might.
"It’s not the money," I tell him quietly. "It’s the music. I need to get back to something real. Something raw. The kind of songs I started with."
"Freedom," Milo says, like it’s a foreign word.
"Exactly."
"You feel trapped?"
I take a deep breath. "If I do, it's my own fault. I've played it too safe. But now that the tour’s done, it’s time for a new direction."
"We've talked about that."
"Exactly. But I don't see anything we've discussed written into the contract Sterling's expecting me to sign."
Milo holds up his hand. "I was in the room when Sterling explained his reasons. It's a fair contract," he says. “In any case, you have a few weeks to think about it.”
Milo flashes a grin, says a few insincere parting words, and disappears like some sleek magic trick.
I touch the cracked brown leather of my well-used guitar case, grounding myself before I check out the scene.
In a corner booth, three girls celebrate something, their laughter cutting through the din. One of them tosses her head back, curly blonde hair catching the neon light.
I can’t see her face, just the shimmer of gold and the joyful music of her laugh.
For a fleeting, disorienting second, it feels like a forgotten melody. A chord struck deep within me I didn’t know still existed.
Ridiculous.
Still, the sound lingers. A persistent echo in the sudden silence.
Two weeks to choose between safe and real. Two weeks to sign the contract that will reveal who Cameron Crow really is.