Chapter 38
Theo
So this is what it feels like to be on top of the world.
Literally, because the Billboard “Grammy Buzz” party is happening on the terrace of the Sunset Tower Hotel.
And figuratively, because I’m sitting at Roger’s right hand at the Manifest Records table, and there’s an actual line of people waiting to talk to him.
The sharply dressed men and women—all versions of the West Coast hipster if that hipster was put in charge of a board meeting—are milling around, sipping drinks and pretending they’re not waiting for their turn to approach the king.
I’ve never witnessed so much ring-kissing.
Once again, figuratively and literally—one woman, an A&R rep at a smaller label, after gushing over Roger’s bespoke emerald-inset pinkie ring, actually kissed it.
He’d wiped the ring against his jacket the moment she stepped away.
There are hundreds of people at this party.
Penguin-suited waiters walking around with trays of champagne and red wine, a cold seafood bar with rows of crab claws perfectly nestled on beds of ice and towers of oysters occupies one corner, swag bags with Bose headphones wait at every table.
Roger and I are sitting inside, but the space opens seamlessly to the outside terrace, with a lap pool, cabanas, and rows of glimmering candles in tall glass votives.
I have a perfect view of the people mingling under the stars, and it strikes me that the artists have gathered out there, while the label execs and PR managers and ticket system CEOs have clustered inside.
Art and business separating like oil and water.
Among the artists on the terrace are Ripper, Kenny, and Hannah, though they’ve put as much distance between themselves as possible.
Kenny’s standing near the pool with a lithe redheaded woman and a few acolytes who look like they time-traveled from the seventies.
Ripper’s taken over one of the striped cabanas with a whole group of guys, several in tight leather pants despite the balmy weather.
And Hannah’s leaned against the bar, talking to Chase Benjamin, a former boy bander turned multiplatinum solo artist. He’s the biggest artist here, and he’s handsome in a slender, Victorian vampire kind of way, dark hair falling to his shoulders, pale skin, and striking cheekbones.
Liberal use of black eyeliner. Hannah seems fascinated by whatever he’s saying. Honestly, it can’t be that interesting.
Roger elbows me and nods at two men approaching us. “These guys run Coachella.”
“Roger,” calls one of them, sticking out his hand. He and Roger shake vigorously.
“Benji, great to see you.” Roger turns to the other one. “And Andro. I heard you’re trying to get a festival going in Eastern Europe.” Roger wags his finger. “Those political sanctions are going to kill you.”
“See no evil, hear no evil, do no evil,” Andro says. Both men laugh, and I seize the opportunity. “Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. “I’m—”
“Theo Ford,” Benji says, taking my hand.
“Your reputation precedes you,” Andro adds.
I blink back my surprise. “Oh. Thanks.”
“What you’ve done with the Saints is remarkable. From zeroes to heroes in sixty seconds flat.” Benji raises his tumbler to me. “Here’s to the secret puppeteers running this industry.”
“And making us a shitload of money,” Roger adds.
“Hear, hear.” Andro laughs as they toast. I raise my beer but don’t sip, strangely put off.
“We just wanted to pay our respects,” Benji says. “Congrats on all the buzz with the Saints.” He points at me. “We’ll be back to talk to
you about getting them out to Indio.”
I nod. “I’m sure they’d love that.”
“You boys stay out of trouble,” Roger booms as they walk away. He turns to me. “That’s a good connection for you.”
I take a sip of beer. “I’m surprised they know who I am.”
“I’m not.” Roger slurps an oyster. “This is your first Billboard party, right?”
“Guilty.” Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Chase’s said something that has his hangers-on rolling with laughter, including Hannah.
“Well, it’s not going to be your last.” Roger sets the oyster shell down, wipes his hands on his white linen napkin, and faces me.
Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I’ve never seen Roger look so serious, outside of the times he’s red-faced and yelling.
“Let me bring you up to speed, kid. When the Saints become famous on the outside, you become famous with the insiders. Your star and theirs are linked. And you’re all on the rise. ”
I can’t resist glancing back at Hannah. I wish I could tell her that something great is happening to me from across the room.
“Which brings me to the good news.” Roger claps a hand on my shoulder. “You did everything I wanted with the Saints and then some.” He points around the party. “This recognition? You earned it. You put in the work. And you know what else? You earned a promotion to president of artist relations.”
I’ve never felt the floor drop out from under me in a good way. “Roger, are you serious?” The high pitch to my voice is nothing like the cool way I’d dreamed of accepting the news, but now that the moment’s actually here, I don’t care.
Roger beams. “The youngest-ever department president at Manifest.” He slides my beer away and beckons to a waiter. “We need champagne.”
It’s everything I’ve wanted for years. The shock of finally getting it is a bit overwhelming, but in the mix of thoughts and feelings, one thought rises clearly to the top: My dad would love this.
Out of everything I’ve ever done, getting this promotion—becoming an honest-to-God record label executive—is the one thing I’m certain would have him whistling and saying, Wow, Theo. That’s really something.
I throw my arms around Roger and hug him. He chuckles and pats my back. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
He takes two champagne glasses from the waiter who approaches and hands me one.
“Here’s to the new president of artist relations.
No more mucking about with bands, no matter how good you happen to be at coddling their egos.
You’re going to manage the managers from now on.
Teach them your tricks and train me a bunch of mini-Theodores. ”
“Cheers,” I say, and clink glasses.
“Here’s to you and me, partners for the long haul,” Roger adds. “I think we have great things ahead of us.”
Roger wants me by his side. He wants to stick around. Screw the champagne. I pick up my water glass and chug, ice cubes hitting my teeth, then press the cold surface to my heated cheeks.
A high-pitched laugh cracks across the terrace. Roger and I both turn to find Hannah bent over, her eyes closed, hanging on to Chase Benjamin’s designer vest, a silk number that looks like he could’ve stolen it off the set of Interview with the Vampire.
“She’s getting drunk,” I murmur.
Roger chuckles. “I’d be surprised if booze was all she was on. It’s the Buzz party.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s the way of the industry. You’re not a rube—you know.
” He tips his chin at Hannah and Chase. “These aren’t the Ivy League kids you’re used to.
They didn’t grow up getting straight A’s and Boy Scout badges and tucking themselves into bed by nine.
Music is a hard-knock industry that attracts hard-knock people.
A lot of them have been using since they were young.
” He shrugs. “It makes sense. The pressure to make it. And then when you do, feeling eyes on you all the time, people touching you in the streets. It’s unnatural. You gotta take the edge off.”
It’s strange to hear this matter-of-fact assessment from the man who’s done everything in his power to get more eyes and hands on Hannah and the Saints.
He nudges me conspiratorially. “I told Chase to pay attention to her tonight.”
Hannah and Chase are taking shots now. Chase’s entourage is taking pictures, and behind them, a row of professional photographers snap away. More and more heads at the party turn to watch.
“By morning every site will say they’re dating,” Roger says happily.
I feel a flash of something unpleasant.
“Oh, here we go,” Roger says gleefully. “This should be good.”
A woman who would be recognizable anywhere, with her strawberry hair and dagger-cut nails, saunters in Hannah’s direction. Sasha Thee Pop Princess. I push back my chair and stand.
Roger throws out an arm to stop me. “Let it happen.”
But I’ve learned my lesson from the SNL party.
I’m not heeding Roger’s instructions when they conflict with my gut.
I brush his hand away and circle the table.
Sasha says something to Hannah I’m too far away to catch.
All the heads at the party swivel in their direction.
Sasha’s grinning like the cat who ate the canary.
My diagnosis of her as an attention hound seems accurate.
Hannah says something sharp. I make my way onto the terrace, trying to wind around the pool. The smile drops from Sasha’s face. She takes a threatening step closer.
I hear the word bitch as I push my way through the people ringing the bar. The next thing I know, Hannah’s saying “If the shoe fits,” Chase’s covering his mouth as he laughs, and Sasha’s winding her arm back.
I leap past Chase and pull Hannah to me as the glass shatters against the side of the bar, splattering us with ice and shards and whatever Sasha was drinking. Partygoers gasp—I can see people converging on Sasha, but I’m focused on removing Hannah from the scene.
“What the fuck?” she yells at Sasha, wrestling against my arms. “You threw a drink at me, you psycho?”
“Come on,” I grunt, tugging her around the corner of the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I see both Ripper and Kenny standing at attention. Ripper eyes Sasha with a venomous expression.
“Why am I the one getting taken away?” Hannah protests, then hiccups.