Chapter 4
Theo
I can’t believe she quit.”
“I don’t understand why it’s a big deal.
” On-screen, Bryan settles into his armchair.
“Doesn’t that give you a Get Out of Jail Free card?
Now you don’t have to work with this nightmare band everyone was telling you was the second coming of Motley Crüe.
You went out there, you introduced yourself, the band broke up, and now you’re off the hook.
You were going to cut them from the label anyway.
They just did it for you. Maybe you can finally take a vacation. ”
I pace the hotel room. “Always the vacation talk with you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the only person I know who takes less time off than I do.”
I meet Bryan’s gaze through the screen. His features are arranged in the same gently admonishing look he’s been giving me for ten years.
The vacation thing probably says something dire about me, given that my best friend from college is an investment banker who frequently works eighty-hour weeks.
Using the finance degree we both earned at Dartmouth for its intended purpose, my mother would point out.
“Is it the promotion you’re worried about?
” Bryan’s high-rise apartment is dimly lit, and through the windows behind him, the skyscrapers of New York City glitter in the dark.
Luckily for me, Bryan had been pulling another late night when I texted that I needed to vent.
“Do you really think Roger will count this as a failure just because you didn’t get an album out of them?
He’ll just sue, right? Manifest’s legal team eats artists like them for dinner. ”
I stop pacing. Strangely, I’d barely thought about how Hannah quitting would affect my promotion.
And before meeting the Saints, my promotion was all I’d thought about for the last year.
According to Roger, all I needed to do was clinch this next assignment: get the Saints to produce a record that would make Manifest money, and then we could ditch them with no regrets.
It would be the final notch in my belt, securing my promotion to president of artist relations, and making me the youngest department president in Manifest’s history— and Roger’s right-hand man.
That last part was implicit. Ever since I started at Manifest, I’d been imagining how it would feel for Roger to shake my hand and tell me he was proud of me.
I’d rehearsed the moment in my imagination so many times that sometimes it felt more like a memory than a dream.
“It’s not about the promotion,” I insist. “It’s weird, but you know how I deep-dive for every assignment?
I’ve read literally everything about this band, watched all their videos, listened to their albums, and I feel like I know these people.
The last thing Hannah Cortland would do is quit.
This is a woman who’s been working her entire life to make it.
She has big goals. I don’t know, man, I feel like something’s wrong and I have to fix it. ”
“Mm-hmm.” Bryan kicks one leg over the other and arches a brow. “I know what this is really about. And it’s more than just not wanting to mess up your streak as ‘the Fixer.’”
I wince. It’s not that I don’t appreciate having a reputation at Manifest. It’s what got Roger’s attention in the first place. But “the Fixer” makes me sound like a hitman for the mob. It’s almost as bad as “the Grim Reaper.”
Bryan mistakes my wince for a protest and holds up a hand. “Look, we’ve talked about this. You have a savior complex. Anyone hurting, you see them and boom”—he snaps his fingers—“thirteen again.”
“Come on—”
“Nah, man, I’m serious. I say this out of love. It’s what makes you good at your job. But you have to draw a line somewhere.”
“I get it.” It’s what I always say whenever this topic comes up.
Unfortunately, my lack of boundaries is the one subject that turns my jock-and-stocks best friend into a pseudotherapist. “And, to be honest, the Saints already hate me. Even if they were still together, it wouldn’t be smooth sailing. ”
“See? Perfect. They hate you. You no longer need anything from them. Wham, bam, vacation, ma’am. I hear Aruba’s nice this time of year.”
I don’t know how to explain what’s keeping me rooted in California instead of jumping on the next flight home to New York. Half my job comes down to intuition. “I feel a connection to them . . . ” Truthfully, I don’t know how to explain it other than a gut feeling. “Maybe I was meant to be here—”
A sharp knock sounds at my door.
“A little late for room service,” Bryan says, not bothering to hide his judgment. Bryan and his healthy eating habits wouldn’t last a week on the road.
The knock sounds again, louder.
“Actually, I have no idea who that is. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Catch you later,” Bryan says, then points at me. “And boundaries!”
I end the call and fling myself over the bed, swinging open the door. “Hello?”
A bald man in a name tag that reads “Harry Whittles” glares at me. “Are you Mr. Theodore Ford?”
“I am. Can I help you?”
The man puts his hands on his hips, and if I weren’t filled with foreboding, I probably would’ve smiled. “Mr. Ford, do you have any idea what your associates are currently doing to my hotel?”
Associates? For a second, I’m confused, then it hits me. “You mean the band?” Harry sniffs. “The new paperwork we got says you’re the point of contact in case of emergency. Well, we have an emergency.”
“Shit.” I clutch the door. “Are they okay?”
“If you mean the miscreants currently laying waste to my rooftop and keeping all my guests from sleeping, then yes, they are okay enough to be swimming past curfew, dancing inappropriately, consuming alcohol and who knows what other substances, and dropping—” He lowers his voice.
“Condoms filled with pool water onto the streets below.”
I stifle a groan.
“Let me put on some clothes. I’ll take care of it.”
Harry narrows his eyes. Clearly, he’ll believe it when he sees it.
Inside, I change into jeans and take a minute to splash cold water on my face, rubbing my cheeks vigorously.
I look at myself in the mirror and square my shoulders.
“This is your chance,” I say, pointing at myself.
“You’re going to convince the band to stay together, figure out why they hate you, solve it, make a record, get promoted, and then you’re going to be deliriously happy. ”
My finger falters, dropping to the counter. “And if not, well, at least you’re going to go up there and save one very stressed-out hotel manager from an early stroke.”
*
The hotel’s rooftop has been converted into an upscale pool and bar, surrounded by palm trees strung with lights, and it’s an utter shit show.
The hotel manager did us a courtesy in coming to find me instead of going straight to the cops.
The rooftop is crowded with people. A woman in the pool is topless.
There’s a circle of bongo players near the sauna, the air around them cloudy with smoke. The full California diorama.
Music’s blasting as people lounge in poolside chairs, openly snorting substances I refuse to acknowledge for legal reasons, dancing in clusters around the bar, cannonballing into the pool.
Someone with professional-grade charm must’ve persuaded the hotel’s two bartenders to stay past the end of their shifts, because they’re mixing pina coladas at the tiki bar.
Around the periphery, watching with horror, are a few older people in robes.
Presumably, hotel guests who’ve come to find the source of the disturbance.
I scan and immediately locate the kingpin.
She’s under one of the leafy palm trees, reclining on a lounge chair.
She’s showered and changed since the show, and now she’s wearing a tank top, jeans with holes in the knees, and a backward baseball cap, like an insouciant thirteen-year-old boy.
She brings a cigarette to her mouth and takes a drag.
Beside me, Harry surveys the scene. “I told her, three strikes and she’s out.”
I turn to him. “She’s done this before?”
“Twice. Look, I appreciate my relationship with Manifest. The hotel wants the label’s business. But at this point, I need you to get your associates under control, or I’m going to be forced to call the police.”
I put my hands up. “Harry, buddy, no need. I’ve got it.”
Based on past experience, I know it’s best to cut off mayhem at the source, so I beeline to Hannah.
As she smokes, her gaze floats around the pool.
Then her eyes lock on me. She grins, as if delighted to find me cutting through the middle of her rager.
Like at the show, I take note of her freckled, sunlit beauty.
If I were less experienced, I might mistake that grin as welcoming. But it’s not my first rodeo.
“Look who it is,” she says. “The Corporate Suit himself.”
I give her a tight-lipped smile. “Where are Kenny and Ripper? They didn’t feel like celebrating the dissolution of all their hard work?”
“I’m not celebrating,” she says, sharp enough that the guy in the lounge chair beside her takes off. “And they’re not talking to me right now.”
“I’m shocked.”
Hannah blows out a mouthful of smoke. I wave it away.
“Let’s cut to the chase. We need to shut this down.” I point over my shoulder to where Harry waits. “See that man? That’s Harry Whittles, the hotel manager. He says he told you not to commandeer his rooftop again or he’d call the cops. Guess what three-digit number he’s itching to dial?”
“Tell him to go ahead,” she says, kicking her feet up on the lounge chair. “I’m overdue for a visit to the station. Chief Petty probably misses me.”
“So this is how it is? You blow up your career, fuck over your best friends, and your next move is to throw a party to hide your misery?”
Hannah drops her cigarette and grinds it with her heel, then says something low over her shoulder that I don’t catch.