Chapter Three Eleanor #2
I realize I’m shaking when I hang up and tuck my phone in my back pocket.
Nausea comes in a hot-cold crawl up my spine, and with it a spike of anxiety.
I glance at my windows to confirm they don’t actually open.
I need fresh air. I need a gallon of coffee.
I need Pedialyte—my sister’s hangover remedy of choice from her college days—and some dry toast to nibble on.
I had them. I had them. I promised Josie this trip would be worth it.
It hits me that we ordered bottle service last night, and I can only hope I didn’t put it on the company card.
Dinner I can justify expensing, even as exorbitantly pricey as the steak house was.
It’s not like Josie expects me to take prospective artists to Applebee’s.
But dinner and bottle service and travel expenses to Vegas is… a bit excessive.
Unless I sign them. Then everything will be forgiven. Everything will be fine, and the money spent on this trip will be well worth it, and Josie will remember why she can’t run her company without me.
So I just have to ensure that still happens.
I can’t do anything to change Freddie’s mind until tonight.
In the meantime, I have to focus on containing the collateral damage.
No one can find out about Adam and me. When Josie hired me, she knew the circumstances that led to me leaving Exeter.
At least, she knew the vague details that everyone seemed to know: that I’d gotten involved with an executive at Exeter, and subsequently gotten promoted, and soon after I was looking for a new place to work.
She didn’t hold it against me, or even ask many questions, which is something I remain grateful for to this day.
She did, however, make it clear that she would be watching me.
That I had better not step a toe out of line.
That was four years ago. And in that time, I have signed so many amazing artists, and I’ve made Josie so much goddamn money.
It’s just that the last nine months or so have been a struggle.
First it was a debut album tanking. Which happens sometimes—the market can be unpredictable, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault, per se.
But it was also the most expensive album we released that quarter, so the numbers looked especially bad.
Right after that, Maya—the highest-earning artist on my roster—signed with Adam instead of re-upping.
Add in another group having artistic differences with their producer and subsequently going way over budget, and then me overspending while courting new talent…
I can’t exactly blame Josie for giving me until the end of this fiscal year to straighten out my profits versus losses.
My artists’ streaming analytics and record sales have been trending up the past couple of months, but not enough. The projected earnings from bringing on a band like Dempsey, though? That would more than make up the difference.
Signing them means keeping my dream job. It means keeping my apartment, and my independence, and the dozen other talented artists on my roster who trusted me with their careers and their art and who will likely be dropped from the label if I get fired.
God. My head is pounding. I would give away my entire vinyl collection if I could go back to bed and not deal with any of this. Even the prospect of dragging myself into the shower is starting to feel like a pipe dream.
I can’t decide if standing under hot water would make me feel better or worse.
When I check the time I discover I have only twenty minutes left until I’m supposed to meet Adam, so that makes the decision for me.
I crawl over to my suitcase instead. Sweet summer child that I was yesterday, I packed rather optimistically.
I’d planned to spend the bulk of today reading romance novels by the pool.
My first vacation day in almost a year—and it wasn’t even going to be a full day off, when you factor in going to the show tonight.
With a frown, I flick my bathing suit aside and continue to pick through the suitcase until I find a concert tee.
At some point last night I seem to have taken off my bra—something I’m very hopeful Adam didn’t notice—but since I’m still wearing the same sleeveless blouse as yesterday, I’m choosing to believe I removed it without going topless.
Now I yank the shirt off and pull on a lacy bralette.
It’s the kind without clasps that you have to put on over your head, and I immediately become tangled in the straps.
I’m going to accidentally asphyxiate myself and the housekeeper who finds me will assume it was some sort of autoerotic thing.
My obituary will read: Eleanor Thompson, age 28, passed away in a Las Vegas hotel room that smelled like the hangover sweats.
She leaves behind husband Adam Shaw, who recently signed the alt-rock band Dempsey to Exeter Records.
I cannot abide.
I huff out a breath and calmly maneuver my bra into place.
I throw on the T-shirt and grab my phone to turn on some music.
I pull up Dempsey’s debut album and go straight for track five.
Though it’s technically a breakup anthem, written and sung by Sheridan Dempsey, it’s always worked to hype me up, make me feel in control of my own fate.
If I were a professional baseball player, this would be the song they’d blast through the stadium speakers every time I stepped up to the plate.
I take a moment to listen to Sheridan belt out the chorus, to let the lyrics work their magic, before I head into the en suite bathroom.
The hair gods must be smiling down on me because my blowout still looks decent once I run a brush through it.
Other than that… yikes. I have the sort of deep-set brown eyes that make me look like I didn’t get enough sleep even on my best day.
This morning, I bear a strong resemblance to Uncle Fester.
Splashing cold water on my face does absolutely nothing to help.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for my makeup bag.
After slathering on sunscreen and concealer, I grab the tube of mascara. My hands are shaking, either from the hangover or lingering anxiety, so I have to brace my elbow against the marble countertop to avoid getting it all over my eyelid.
Two coats later, I finally look slightly better than I feel.
I brush my teeth and confirm my mascara is dry before putting in a few drops of Visine. I remember how red Adam’s eyes were when we woke up and think about bringing the eye drops with me for him to use, but ultimately decide Adam does not deserve itchy eye relief. Not from me, anyway.
Before stepping out of the bathroom, I rifle through my toiletries for a bottle of Tylenol.
I raid the minibar for a Coke and use it to chase down two pills.
I snag a small can of Pringles, too, and wolf them down as I finish my soda.
Once I’m done, I cast another longing glance toward my suitcase—the bikini and paperbacks tucked inside—before sliding my sunglasses into place and heading out to face the music.