by Jaime Samms
THE LOBBY lights were killer on Damian’s eyes, although the elevator’s dim interior was much gentler as he rode sixteen stories up to the top floor of the building. He stepped out into a small but expensively appointed reception area. Everything was white and chrome and painful. There were windows on all sides, and it was all he could do to hold in a groan.
Judging from the smirk on the receptionist’s face, she probably thought he was hungover. Migraines never got the respect they deserved, but he was here, only a bit late, and he’d be damned if any of them were going to get his goat. Let them think whatever the hell they wanted. It didn’t have to be true.
Well. It didn’t have to be true all the time, and it just so happened that today, it wasn’t. Today, he had a migraine from hell that was going to kill him, but he hadn’t wimped out. Now if this dumbass agent could get his shit together any time soon….
The outer office door opened and Damian turned to see country music star Vance Ashcroft saunter in.
Hello.
Damian wasn’t dead yet, and he’d have to be not to appreciate muscle-bound sex-in-cowboy-boots walking past.
“Howdy, Miranda.”
Oh, he did not just say howdy. That shouldn’t be sexy.
Damian sank back into the couch. The migraine haze should be filtering out the way the singer’s deep voice vibrated against Damian’s chest in the small room. It had been way too long since he’d gotten laid, obviously. This guy should be too old and too straight to trip Damian’s gaydar.
Vance’s gaze raked over him, and sweat formed on Damian’s upper lip. Migraine shakes coming on, he told himself, forcibly turning his attention away from the man and schooling his expression to boredom. The singer didn’t stop, but took the coffee from the receptionist’s hand and swaggered into the inner office without even knocking.
Damian had done his homework, so he knew this agent had high-profile clients. Not many of them, but the word was, he picked and chose who he worked with very carefully. He went for quality over quantity. He had four clients that Damian could find out about. Those four were doing better than all right.
His speculation passed the time, because when he next looked up, it was to see Ashcroft leaving the inner office. This time, the musician didn’t even glance Damian’s way as he strolled out, leaving a wave and a panting receptionist in his wake. The office door closed again and nothing else happened.
So it was to be an object lesson in waiting his turn. The tactic annoyed Damian, but he propped his feet up on the coffee table and let the couch cushions cradle his aching skull. He could wait. They didn’t have to know he was pissed. Besides, it wasn’t going to hurt anything to listen to what the guy had to say. He could always stick with the representation he had. Anything, even second billing, was better than doing the band’s bookings himself, or dealing with a dick.
Eventually, Krane wandered out of his office, coffee cup in hand, and poured himself a fresh mug.
If Damian thought the cowboy in his jeans and sports jacket fitting snugly across broad shoulders had been a bit of all right, this guy injected a whole new level of fine into the atmosphere.
The dark wool suit hugged his shoulders and hung in just the right way to hint the body beneath was muscled, toned, and very, very well formed.
Damian’s mouth watered at the sight, almost like his head wasn’t splitting open.
“You want some coffee?” Krane asked over his shoulder, sparing a brief glance for Damian’s sprawled form.
“Two sugars,” Damian managed to say calmly. He knew he shouldn’t. The caffeine would only make his head pound worse, but if this guy wanted to keep him waiting, the least he could do was make Damian a cup of coffee, even if he wasn’t going to drink it. Besides. There was something about the way his hands moved, surely and smoothly through the task, that kept Damian’s attention fixed as he examined the possibilities of those hands doing other things.
“Sorry to keep you.” Krane held out the fresh-made drink and smiled. A flash of straight white teeth between full lips, the bright overhead lighting flashing off intelligent blue eyes, and Damian found himself straightening and pushing out his chest, like he could compete with the other man’s broad build and heavy muscle. Despite the headache, Damian found himself staring and his palms sweating.
“Not a problem,” Damian replied, getting to his feet and accepting the drink. “I’m sure you have more than enough to keep you busy.” He congratulated himself on not showing his discomfort.
“Shall we?” Krane motioned toward the office.
The space was expansive, unlike the small, sparsely, if luxuriously, appointed waiting area and reception lobby. A large wooden desk with ornate carving down the legs dominated the room, taking over the space with its presence. It was tidy, but not clear. There was more correspondence in the out-box than the in, and his computer looked like he’d just been using it. He had a paper file prominent, and Damian noticed a fair number of pictures of himself spread over the blotter.
“Been doing some homework?” he asked, stifling the pang at seeing some of the more candid photos snapped by fans and posted to Facebook and blogs. They weren’t all flattering by any means.
“I like to know what I’m getting into.” Krane motioned to a comfortable-looking leather chair. “Pull up a seat.”
Damian hauled the chair closer to the desk and settled in, angling it so he could hide from the light pouring in the wall of windows. It wasn’t much relief in the bright room, but it was better than nothing. He set his mug down and waited.
“So. Why are you here?” Krane asked.
Damian studied him, looking for some sign he was being mocked. “You called me,” he said at last. “So….” He shrugged, exaggerating the motion. “Why am I here?”
Krane leaned back, the leather of his seat cushion sighing to accept his weight, and Damian forced himself not to think about the fact the man’s office furniture was roomy enough for someone to crawl into his lap. “Partly, I wanted to see if you would come.”
“Well. I did.” His libido was starting to get on his nerves. The man had a voice like honey: sweet, thick, too tempting. “Not sure why. I have a perfectly good agent. And a decent career.”
“The way I see it, a man who has a perfectly good agent doesn’t accept an invitation like this unless his needs aren’t being properly met.”
Damian shivered and blamed it on his head. “I’m doing all right.”
“You have second billing to a talentless, lip-synching Neanderthal.”
Damian stiffened. “Cage is a rapper. Rap is—”
“Dying. Practically dead.” Krane leaned forward, placing his elbows on top of the strewn pictures and clasping his hands. “Don’t let Kelly dictate how you think. She’s selling Cage because he’s six three, black, and built like a truck.”
“So?” Damian curled his lip, annoyed that he’d sat up straighter and squared his shoulders.
“Oh, don’t worry.” A tight, sharp smile crossed Krane’s face, but it didn’t stay or warm the cool, steady look in his eyes. “I prefer talent over looks. We both know Cage’s skill is not what’s getting him top billing right now. Kelly is excellent at her job. It’s unfortunate she tends to let her personal interests interfere with that.”
This guy seemed to know a whole hell of a lot about things Damian didn’t think people knew about. That could lead to some extremely bad publicity for him, if rumors circulated. It wouldn’t matter if they were true or not. He could be as debauched and wild in public as he wanted. Fans ate up the bad-boy image. But let loose one whisper of hidden things, or the smallest hint he was being unethical on a professional level, and it would be impossible to get record deals or decent gigs. No one wanted to work with a musician who thought with the wrong head unless they were the one receiving the benefits. He’d seen as much with Cage. Everything the rapper had, Kelly had built on the backs of the talent she wasn’t fucking.
“It isn’t like that,” he told Krane.
“Not with you. I know. If it was, you wouldn’t have played the Evangeline this weekend. That’s backwoods bullshit, and you know it.” Krane shuffled the papers on his desk and pulled out a particularly heinous photo. He held it up. “The people Kelly really takes a personal interest in never appear in public looking like this. She’d never allow it.”
Damian made a face. “Yeah. That was a bad night.”
“That looks to me like the morning after a fuck you Kelly Granger night. Because she didn’t pick you. Because you’re not her type, and sure, she’ll make sure you get gigs and contracts, but she’ll save the mint opportunities for her favorites.” Krane tucked the incriminating evidence away and took out another picture. This one was of Kelly and Cage striding down a red carpet. Damian and his band slunk along behind them, trying to look interested and not completely pissed off. In this particular snapshot, they’d failed pretty miserably. “Her type is never the skinny goth boy who spends more time with his guitar and keyboard than fawning over her.”
“This is supposed to be about the music,” Damian said, instantly hating the way his voice rose into a whine.
“Oh, it’s never about the music.”
“That’s all I care about.”
“And all you have to worry about, if you sign with me. She’s not doing you any favors. If you have to spend your time chasing gigs and contracts and studio deals, your agent is not doing their job and you can’t be doing yours. You don’t have time to do what you are meant to be doing if she’s not doing her job. And the Evangeline, for a band that came as close to winning international fame as you guys did, is her not doing her job. You play the Evangeline as a homecoming favor to your die-hard fans, not as a consolation prize for making her enough money to pay a no-talent suck-up for the privilege of sharing her bed. If she’s not careful, you’ll stop doing what you’re good at, and I wouldn’t blame you.”
“You mean, making music.” Could this guy be for real? No one talked like the music he made actually meant anything. It didn’t. Not to anyone but him, and whatever this guy thought, Damian wasn’t ever going to stop making it. Maybe he’d stop giving the good stuff to Granger, but he wouldn’t ever stop. That would be like deciding not to breathe.
“It’s your job to make it,” Krane agreed. “It’s my job to take care of all the other shit so everyone thinks what you do is the most important thing in the world. Because at the end of the day, all you have is your talent, and all anyone wants from you is your soul. She’ll tell you it belongs to her and then sell it a little piece at a time, because what you do is rock solid, and it keeps hacks like Cage in limo service and leather. You’re the workhorse.” Krane held up the photo again. “He’s her shiny squirrel.”
It was information Damian knew, though he hadn’t thought it out in so much detail before. “So what,” he said at last. His headache had ratcheted up close to unbearable, and he was too tired and miserable to argue. “I still get to make music, even if she is a bitch.”
“And you get to watch him soak up all the adoration because he’s flashier, prettier, and puts out.”
“I don’t want all that shit. I want the freedom to write my songs and sing what I want to sing.”
“And I’m telling you, you can have both.” Krane dropped the offending photo into the shredder and they watched it slowly grind through the blades before Krane looked up and caught his eye. “And I’m not going to make you suck my dick to get it.”
“I haven’t done that with her.” Panic tightened his chest. This was exactly the kind of rumor that could ruin him before he even got started. “I’m a musician. I might sell my music, but not at that price.”
“I know.” Krane rose and rounded the desk to pick up Damian’s mug. He also picked up a remote, which he pointed at the windows. The shades came down, blocking 90 percent of the bright sunshine. A small lamp on a corner table lit the room with a soft glow. “Better?”
Damian couldn’t help a sigh of relief. “Yeah, thanks.”
“You should stay away from caffeine.” Krane dropped a hand on Damian’s shoulder and the weight and strength of it sent a wave of comfort rushing through the singer. “It doesn’t help with migraines.”
Damian stared at him. “How did you know?”
Krane went to a small wet bar on the far side of the room and poured the coffee down the drain, rinsed the mug, and set it aside. He took a jug of something out of a bar fridge and poured it into a glass.
“Hungover looks different than in pain. Here.” He handed Damian the cool drink. “Don’t know what you think about ginger, but sip that. It’ll help. Come sit over here.” He pointed to a low ottoman near the couch. It was situated in an alcove where the high, arched ceiling in the rest of the room had been lowered and the lamplight didn’t illuminate with as much force. “And take the glasses off. Just close your eyes.”
“How does hungover look different?” Damian asked, sniffing at the drink and wrinkling his nose.
“Hungover doesn’t do hair and makeup. I’ve seen the Facebook photos. Hungover on you looks a lot rougher than this. The image? That’s all about making the right impression. You might think you don’t care how people take what you present, but if you really didn’t care, either you wouldn’t have shown up today, or you wouldn’t have bothered with the trappings.” He touched the spikes of Damian’s mohawk and even the slight movement of his stiff hair against his scalp made him shiver.
Damian set the glass down and stood. He faced Krane, glasses in hand. “This?” He waved a hand at himself. “Is not ‘trappings.’ This is who I am. If you want to represent me, get used to it, because it doesn’t change, on or off camera. Maybe I put it on a little thick for the stage, but don’t think it’s a gimmick. It isn’t.”
Krane nodded. “I’ve heard you sing. I’ve listened to your music. Even seen the stage show. I would not have invited you here if I thought you were all flash and no substance. Sit.” He pointed to the footstool, and dammit if he didn’t make the command almost impossible to resist and all he did was stand there and make it.
“Then why did you call?” Damian asked, fighting the urge to do as he was told and staying on his feet instead.
“Because what you have, it’s rare.”
“And you want a piece of it.”
“You can stand there and tell me you don’t want a piece of this?” Krane indicated the room, the expensive furniture, and the rows of gold and platinum records on the walls. “Because if you can honestly say you don’t want a shot at the whole fucking world, to have them at your feet and watch them scream for more of you and what you’ve got, there’s the door. I can respect that. If it’s all about the music, and none of the rest means anything at all to you, that’s cool. It’s your art. Your life. Go on back to Granger and let her manage your career while she gives people like Cage the fame you deserve. If that’s what you want, go get it. If you want to be something more than that, sit down, drink your medicine, and listen to me.”
For another heartbeat, two, three, Damian stared at the older man. Krane didn’t blink. Didn’t back down. He was serious. He wasn’t going to stop Damian walking out the door. “Why?”
“Because I was in the Evangeline this weekend. I listened to the music. I watched the show. You’re hungry. I can give you what you crave.”
Damian swallowed hard at that, despite his splitting head and cold sweats. The guy had no idea what images those words sent playing through Damian’s imagination. Most of them had nothing at all to do with music. So much for thinking with the right head.
“I saw what you did to that crowd,” Krane went on. “You want to take your band to the top? You want to show your little guitar player the ride of his life? Sign with me, and there is no looking back for you, Damian.”
Damian pictured Lenny, his guitar player, perched in the back of a limo that wasn’t rented or hired out for someone like Cage and offered to them as a treat. He imagined his best friend dressed to the hilt, eating out
every night, finally living the life he deserved, away from the crapfest he’d grown up with. He studied Krane.
“You’ll let me write my own stuff?”
“How much of what you played on Saturday was yours?”
“All of it. And I’ve got more. Newer stuff Lenny and Beks helped write.”
Krane lifted an eyebrow in question.
“Lenny’s the guitar player. Leonard Stevens. And Rebecca Kim. She plays keyboards. Trained at Julliard. She was some sort of child prodigy until her father was ready to haul her back to the old country and pretty much sell her to the highest bidder. She has talent. He was willing to use it to secure his family name as a patron of the arts by giving her to whatever orchestra would give him what he thought she was worth.”
“And what did you pay for her?”
“She lost everything leaving home for a chance to play with me. They completely cut her off. She was an only child and she did everything to make them happy and proud of her. They were her whole life. When she stood up to them, they left her in the street with nothing. She was going to audition for me on a twenty-dollar piece-of-crap keyboard she found in a dumpster. And Lenny, he had a shit childhood. Poor as dirt and watched his mom do things no one should ever have to do just so he could eat. Then she died, and the state took over. That was worse.
“Then Jethro, he’s our bass player, with his dad.” He shook his head. “I’d do this for them. You promise me they’re part of the deal. All of them. We’re family.”
“So what’s your sob story?”
“I don’t have one. I had a good home. My parents love me. Mom’s proud of me. They gave me everything they could think of, and they supported me. I was lucky. Now I have a chance to help my friends. I’ll do it, but you have to promise me, they get contracts too. They get to write music, and no one gets replaced unless it’s mutual for everyone.”
“So you do this for them.”
“It’s about the music we make. Together. That’s what Kelly is pissed about. That she couldn’t sign me without them, so she’s petty and gives the whole band a bum deal.”