by Kay Maree
The other one spoke this time. ‘Rome.’ The one I’d drunkenly and regrettably fucked when I was at my lowest ebb, and who, until this point, had made it clear that he was not only totally disinterested in the meeting, but also utterly above even pretending to take part in it.
He’d sat back in his chair, feet up on the reclaimed-wood table that had probably cost more than my car, and blatantly ignored everything that was going on around him. Except me. If he thought he was incognito while he kept sliding glances my way, he was sadly mistaken.
Now it was my turn to return the favor, and look at him like he was shit on my shoe.
“If the clown cap fits…” I bit my lip as I watched the realization of what I’d just said dawn on him. His dark brown eyes blazed with anger, and I considered us even for the parking lot stunt. Good. “But, that’s beside the point. The point is that musically we are different as Gordon and Ronald, and there would be little or no overlap in our audiences. A collaboration, or worse still, a tour like they’re suggesting, would be suicidal for both parties.”
“Well, that’s convenient, as that’s how this whole conversation is making me feel.” This was King, the—apparently—more level-headed one of the two. At least, he’d seemed that way at the start of the encounter, though now I wasn’t so sure. He appeared to have lost his mind a little since the announcement of the collab plans. Not that I could really blame him. It was the dumbest idea I’d heard since those stupid stick-on bras.
“Listen. Let’s all settle down here and not get hysterical. I agree that on the face of it, this doesn’t sound like the best fit or suggestion for either party, but maybe we need to take a step back and listen to the offer being put on the table, then consider our options.” Their manager was the voice of reason.
“Thank you James, that’s a mature approach.” This was one of the label execs. Marty Somebodyorother. “The thing is, we’ve already told you all of the options. Either the collaboration is going ahead, or both acts are in breach of contract, and will be shelved, and more than likely, litigation will ensue. We don’t have room for two modern classical acts, now that the rosters have merged, and this is the only way to retain both.”
“Why do we need to retain both? We’re the bigger act, with the bigger label. You do the math.”
I swear to God, if it hadn’t been a business meeting, I would have knocked his cocky head clean off his shoulders. What a raging asshole.
“Contractually, it’s not as simple as that. Trust me, the choices you’ve been given are the only options. Not to sound like we’re issuing an ultimatum, but we’ve already looked at this every which way, so… ”
Carson finally found his voice. “Well, gentlemen, I have to say that this is an incredibly disappointing turn of events, and not the least of reasons being that we’ve all been totally blindsided, despite trying to find out what this meeting was about beforehand.” I knew my gut had been right—I’d had a bad feeling about this meeting from the moment it was scheduled.
“Quincy and I aren’t going to enter into further discussions, or make any decisions right here and now. I suggest we draw a line under the subject for the moment, and we will come back to you with a decision when we’ve had a chance to discuss, think through, and seek advice on the options on the table, slim though they may be.” And that was why I loved him.
“What he said,” the other manager piped up. “When do you need an answer?”
“Twenty-four hours.” Marty was as cold as ice, while the other executives seemed to be nothing but table decoration at this point.
“Really? That’s not a long time for an artist to make a decision of this colossal nature about their future. Ninety-six hours.” I loved it when Carson was in negotiation mode.
“Seventy-two,” Marty fired back.
“Deal.”
Three days to make a decision that could affect the rest of my life. What bullshit.
“Three days! Is that all our careers are worth? Three-fucking-pissant days? You people are a joke. Worse than a goddamned joke, actually. You couldn’t find good music if it took you into a back alley and beat you half to death. Look at you, you can’t even get dressed without looking like you swallowed a lame-ass fucking style-bible. I’m out.” Roman pushed away from the table angrily, and stood up as though he was about to charge out of the room either through the door or the wall.
As much as I hated to agree with the arrogant asshole. I had to. He was one hundred and fifty percent correct. It was the biggest bunch of crap I’d ever fucking heard. It was everything I hated about the “business” of show business: the bean counting, reducing everything down to the lowest common denominator, and a figure on a balance sheet. The failure to remember that though we all wanted to make money, we were creatives first and foremost, and sometimes—often, in fact—our creativity couldn’t be packaged up in a neat little box, or a tidy column on a spreadsheet. It just didn’t work that way.
Creativity was unpredictable, and messy. It was about real people, and real emotions, and that didn’t always keep to a schedule, or meet expectations, or respect plans and protocols. Musicians weren’t robots or computer programs. We couldn’t be controlled, manipulated and merged like inanimate objects. Or we could, but it was only a matter of time before that shit blew up like a cheap firework.
I zoned out as everyone said their goodbyes, only bothering with the minimum level of civility required to get out the door. Not only did I hope never to have to deal with any of those fools again, but it was one of the few times when I fell back on the fact that I was the “tortured” artist, and I had Carson there to be the people pleaser—the polished, polite and poised businessperson. I, for once, wanted to play into the role of the pouty creative. After what had just gone down, I didn’t have the energy to pretend to be anything other than pissed off, from the top of my head, to the tips of my sore and blistered toes.
After we filed out of the room, I walked out of reception, not bothering to say good-bye to the other two musicians or their manager. I left Carson exchanging details with the latter, and called out over my shoulder as the door swished behind me.
“Carson, I’ll call you from the car.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
KING
“This is some kind of actual bullshit. How the fuck can we be trapped in this deal we never agreed to? We're not even with Sonic Bully, so why should we do anything they want?” Rome jumped up and paced the room as he spoke to James.
“That’s the thing. I’ve talked with the lawyers at length, and the paperwork is watertight. The existing contracts transfer to whatever form the business entity known as Audio Dissonance takes; including new companies founded as a result of mergers. And furthermore, though we don't like what they’re doing, they’re not in breach.”
I just didn’t understand how that could be the case. What was the point of paying lawyers thousands of dollars to look after this shit for us, when in the end, we’ve been locked into a dud deal. Surely we could have fucked that up ourselves, without making some fat cat brief richer in the process.
James carried on as though he’d read my mind. “As specified in said contract, and pretty much every other artist contract on the planet, they can choose to take the act in whatever direction they want, or shelve it if they want to, and those are the two options on the table, as you know. Those get-out clauses are there for a reason, and it’s to protect the label in exactly these circumstances. I know it sounds like a bunch of shit, but unfortunately, this stuff is standard across the industry.”
“Well, then they can shove their contract up their hipster bean-counter asses, and fucking sue me. No way am I going out there with some kind of mish-mash fucking-bullshit version of what we do, because those braindead morons can’t see that it’s nothing like Cue the Music, or whatever she calls herself.” Rome kicked at random pieces of furniture for emphasis as he spoke.
“Dude. Don't break anything. The last thing we fucking
need is a bill for damage to the hotel room on top of everything else."
He sat down. Where he'd been mostly disinterested in the meeting, he was now totally engaged, almost too far the other way. He was simmering with rage—only a few moments away from boiling over, and all hell breaking loose. Like his brother, he was legendary for his temper, and not in a good way.
I was the opposite. I’d lashed out in the heat of the moment, but after the initial spark of anger, I was back to my calm and considered self, trying to behave rationally, instead of flying off the handle and acting on my knee-jerk reaction.
“Listen, we can’t afford to make a career-ending decision like this. Now, or ever. If we genuinely have no other option, then we’re going to need to look at ways to make this work for us.”
Rome looked at me like I was something a rat dragged in. “How the fuck can we make something so suicidally stupid work for us?” It was a good question, and not one I had a solid answer for at that point in time. “If we do it, it’ll be the end of our credibility, and therefore our careers, anyway. I’d rather go out in a blaze of glory, with my dignity intact ,than slide slowly into oblivion on a sinking ship with her at the helm.”
“I know you would. But that’s your way, and your family’s way: act now, and forever suffer the consequences. I just like to be a little more strategic when it’s a ‘small’ matter of my entire fucking life, career, reputation, future, and livelihood on the line.”
“Of course you do, rich boy. But then, that’s your family’s way, right? Sit around doing nothing but making plans until it’s too fucking late to do anything at all. Sorry that this impulsive gypsy boy would rather do something than nothing, even if it means risking doing the wrong thing. I guess we missed out on generations of Anglo education to teach us how to do nothing but eat with the correct fucking fork, and breed with the right people.“
“Fuck you, Rome. You can’t pull the ‘poor uneducated Romany’ card with me. Save it for someone who doesn’t know that you’re just about the smartest person on the fucking planet, and that despite your late entrance into formal musical education, one of the best-trained musicians out there.”
“Whatever. A few years at the Con doesn’t change my DNA. Just as musically, I’ll never have the same finesse as you guys who’ve been classically trained since you were barely out of the womb, nor will I ever shy away from making decisions based purely on what my gut is telling me to do at the time. It’s one hundred percent me, and it will never change, no matter where I am, who I’m with, or what I’m doing.”
I believed that to be true. His brother was exactly the same. They were two of the most overly talented, but also wild and headstrong people I had ever met. Trying to convince either of them to do anything, especially if it was something they weren’t exactly keen on—or worse still, trying to convince them not to do something they were hell-bent on doing—was like trying to corral the sea.
“Listen guys. I know it’s a shock for us all, but we’ve got to be smart and strategic about this. We’ve also got make a decision that we all agree with.” James was ever the diplomatic peacemaker, and I didn’t envy his job refereeing between the two of us in normal circumstances, let alone on an issue as touchy as this one.
“No. We need to make a decision that we both agree with.” Rome motioned between the two of us. “You’re not the one getting up on stage every night, we are.” I agreed with him on that point at least.
“Okay, point taken. I stand corrected.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “We need to get to a point where the two of you are in agreement, and to a situation where whatever decision is made is something you can live with moving forward. The label hasn’t exactly given us much wiggle room to negotiate, but even still, the best option that the lawyers can come up with is that we go back and suggest some time restrictions on the new arrangement. There’s nothing in the current contract that prohibits this, and that would give us a little freedom to move in the short-term, at least.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Rome’s words echoed my thoughts.
“I’m suggesting that we get a clause written in that says the arrangement is for a fixed term—a trial if you like, and then we can re-evaluate on that basis. Though they didn’t behave that way in yesterday’s meeting, I’m fairly certain that the label guys don’t want you to walk away. So, if we give the impression that you just might, we’ll be in a decent position to negotiate.’
“What kind of timeframe are we talking about?”
“That’s up for debate. Realistically, I doubt they’ll agree to anything less than twelve months.”
“One fucking year of our lives wasted on this bullshit?” Rome slammed his hand down on the glass table, and I winced, waiting for it to shatter. It didn’t, but his patience did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROME
King gave me the look. The look he reserved for times when he thought he needed to “handle” me. It was somewhere between the way you’d look at a small child throwing a tantrum, and someone who wasn’t quite in control of all their faculties.
“Don’t look at me that way, asshole.”
“What way?” He shrugged.
“And don’t fucking play dumb. You know what I’m talking about. Like you’re going to have to baby me to get what you want. Fuck off.”
“Listen, it’s not about babying you, but as you quite rightly pointed out earlier, I’m the pragmatist of the two of us, so—”
“I didn’t say that. I basically said you’re a fucking pussy who couldn’t make a decision if someone put a gun to your damned head.”
“Semantics. What you meant, was that I’m more inclined toward calm and careful consideration, and you’re more passionate and impulsive, which is why our shit works, and always has.”
“Our shit works because we’re both beast musicians, and you’re one of the few rich wasp assholes whose face I didn’t, and still don’t, want to cave in on sight.”
“Well, there’s that. But anyway, the truth is that I’m the brains and you’re the brawn, even if the reality is that you have more brains than my entire damned family put together. So as the brains, I’m going to say this... I checked out Que Violin online. She’s good. Scratch that. She’s really fucking good at what she does. Those execs are assholes, but the one thing they’ve got right is that she’s no lightweight. She’s like us, but with that body, and that face…”
“So, did you check out her music, or just her tits? I’m not getting into a musical partnership with someone just because we want to fuck them. We can do that without ruining our careers.”
“Who said anything about fucking her?”
“You didn’t need to.” He looked at me pointedly.
“Jesus, Rome, why does everything come back to sex with you?” The fact was that he was on target about my attraction to Quincy Copeland.
“So you’re telling me I’m wrong?”
“I’m not, I’m just saying—” I wanted to tell him that just because she was infinitely fuckable, it didn’t mean she wasn’t highly talented.
“Everything you say now is null and void, and my point stands. If you want to fuck her, go right ahead, just don’t bring our musical shit into it.”
“Guys, you can’t just assume that someone will sleep with you, either of you, and that’s really not wha—”
“Shut up James!” we snapped at the same time. At least that was something we agreed on.
“Okay, it’s just—”
“Nope. Still not listening.”
James held his hands up in surrender again, but looked at us as though we were discussing banging his grandma.
“I don’t care how fuckable she is—and I should know, I’ve already been there, done that. We’re not doing it.”
“We are.” I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was ready to do battle over this. As for me, I was born ready.
“Not gonna happen.” I folde
d my arms.
“Wait. What did you just say? King narrowed his eyes, staring at me suspiciously.
“I said it’s not gonna happen.” I knew I shouldn’t play with him that way, but he made it too easy. It was like candy from a baby.
“Jesus Christ, Rome. Do you always have to be such a complete asshole?”
“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question, given that we all know the fucking answer.”
“Okay, you’re an asshole, but you’re not a dumbass, so can you please stop acting like one. What did you just say about fucking Quincy Copeland?”
“Oh that.” I was the picture of nonchalance. “I said I’d beat you to it. By quite a long way, in fact.”
“Bullshit. You’re yanking my chain.” He didn’t sound as convinced of that fact as he wanted to be.
“Nope. I’m serious.”
“You’re telling me that between that meeting and now, you’ve somehow parted her from her underwear? No fucking way. She hates your guts.”
“Didn’t you hear me at the start of that shitshow of a meeting, when I said we’d already met? And I can tell you she didn’t hate any part of me the night of the Sonata Awards.”
“She was the ‘best fuck of the year’?”
I nodded smirking. The truth was, it was better than that, but damned if I was going to tell King.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me who she was before now? You said you couldn’t remember who it was, just that it was the best fuck you’d had in a long time.”
“And that was true. I was a great fuck, but I was too wasted to recall the details. I still didn’t, even in the parking lot. It was only when she was throwing shade in the reception area that it clicked into place. I recognized that look from the moment right before she rode my dick like her orgasm was a lifeline.”
“So what is this? You’re telling me this to mark your territory, like a dog pissing on a tree?”
I had to laugh. “Don’t be stupid, of course not. Anyway, that analogy is fucked up. You know the first thing that happens when a dog pisses on a tree? Another dog pisses right over the top. It’s the dog-world equivalent of telling a guy to go fuck himself, then flipping him the bird.