by Katia Rose
A few tense minutes tick by before a guy in a button-down I recognize from a few of our other meetings shows up.
“Sherbrooke Station, Sherbrooke Station,” he chimes. “What are we you going to do with you boys?”
We all just shift on our feet, arms crossed.
“Well sit down, why don’t you?” He takes a seat on one of the couches and we grudgingly follow suit. “In case you don’t remember, I’m David Lee. I work with the in-house PR team here at Atlas. First off, I just want to say congratulations, guys. Well done!”
I do a double-take. David looks around at us with a huge smile on his face, and starts laughing so hard he actually slaps his knee when he sees how confused we all look.
“You’ve got your first scandal already!” he exclaims after getting himself under control. “It takes some people years to make the kind of waves you’re making. By all standards, no one should even care what you’re doing outside of your shows yet. That tabloid story just dropped today and they’re already talking about you on the radio. We couldn’t have done this better if we’d planned it.”
Shayla leans forward. “So you’re saying this is a...good thing?”
David squints at her like he’s just noticed she’s in the room. “I’m sorry, you are?”
“I’m their manager, Shayla McDougal. We’ve met. Several times.”
“Right,” he says breezily, “the manager. Anyways, yes, luckily for us all this turned out to be a good thing, but just because we couldn’t have done it better ourselves, doesn’t mean we wish we hadn’t. Things can get ugly quick in the PR world, and we really don’t want you guys facing the snake pit on your own.”
“Snake pit?” Shayla repeats.
“It’s what we call the press. They’re vipers, every single one of them.” The sudden hardness in his voice surprises me. “They’re going to take every chance they can get to tear you to pieces, which is why we’ll be scheduling all of your media engagements from now on. The transitional period mentioned in your contract is ending and we’ll be handling any new contact you have with the press. We’ve come up with a strategy to maximize on the momentum this tabloid story is building and we’d like you to stick to it.”
“What kind of strategy, exactly?” I ask him.
“Glad you asked, Pat. Our—”
“It’s Matt.”
“Right, right.” He waves a hand at me and laughs like I’ve made a joke. “Our strategy is mainly focused on Ace at the moment. We like the new angle he’s taking as rock’s enfant terrible. There are too many good guys on the scene right now. ‘Homegrown boys with big dreams’ isn’t going to cut it. To take things to the next level, you need—”
“To actually focus on our music again.”
Everyone turns to look at me.
“Shayla said all the concert reviews were shit,” I continue. “Doesn’t that bother anybody? Isn’t that what matters most?”
David clasps his hands together, mouth set in a tight line. “Look, I get it. This is your dream, your passion. It’s what you’ve worked your ass off to get. We’re here to make that dream come true, but to turn you into world famous rock stars, we have to make the world actually care about who you are. Trust us. You know how huge the other bands on this label are. This is what we do.”
“And you’re going to do that by pumping Ace full of alcohol and letting him puke wherever he wants?” Shayla pipes up.
I fight the urge to hug her right then and there for siding with me.
“I’m not a fucking monkey,” Ace grumbles. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”
David just presses on. “We’re going to do this by manipulating the media for you. You all just need to keep a low profile for awhile, and we’ll handle the rest. Forward any attempts the press makes to contact you to us, and we’ll set up interviews and brief you on what position to take.”
“Wait, so we’re being scripted now?” Cole demands.
“You’re being guided,” David corrects. “You’re all very new to this. Like I said, journalists are snakes. We’re here to protect you from them. You just have to let us do our jobs.”
“Do we even have a choice?’ I can’t help muttering, glancing at Shayla for confirmation. She shakes her head.
“All right, well, good meeting with you all. Glad we got that on the table. I’ll forward more details to your manager as needed. I’m sure you have things to discuss, so feel free to use the room for as long as you want.”
David stands, smoothing down his slacks before leaving us on our own.
“I don’t like it,” I blurt out.
“I don’t either,” Shayla agrees, “but you still have to do it. Complying with the PR department is part of your contract. I can’t schedule your press engagements anymore.”
JP leans forwards. “I don’t like them telling us what to say, but they do know what they’re doing, right? Like he said, all the bands on this label are huge.”
“And total sellouts,” I counter. “Can you name a single group on this label whose stuff you still like?”
“We’ve been over this before,” Ace cuts in. “We agreed when we signed the deal that we weren’t gonna let that happen to us. We’re different. Atlas is just a tool to help us get where we want to go. You said that yourself.”
He’s right. I said exactly that in the weeks leading up to us signing the contract. I remember how sure of ourselves we were, how many evenings we spent in the basement splitting a twelve pack and shit-talking about being the new kings of rock. We always knew we’d eventually clash with Atlas, but we swore to ourselves we’d get through it without giving in.
The fact that Ace seems to remember those days too, despite everything that’s happened since, gives me some modicum of hope. Maybe this is just our first test, our chance to prove we can stay true to our word now that the music world’s not all rose-coloured anymore.
That doesn’t shut up the other worry that’s bouncing around my head, though.
“What about Kay Fischer?” I ask.
“You mean the snake?” JP snickers.
“She’s not a snake,” I snap before I can stop myself.
Shayla gives me a curious look. “What about her?”
“Can she still interview us?”
She shrugs. “I guess she’ll have to go through Atlas now if she still wants to talk to you. I’ll email her and let her know.”
“I can do it,” I offer before backtracking a bit when Shayla narrows her eyes at me like she’s caught the scent of something suspicious. “I have her number from when she interviewed me. It’ll save you some time.”
“Right.” Her eyes keep sizing me up. “You watch yourself, Pearson. All right?”
9 Stay Forever || Panama
KAY
Shit. Shitshitshit.
“Reading tabloids, Kay? Have you really sunk that low?”
“Very funny, Pierre,” I mutter. “It’s research.”
My eyes stay glued to the computer screen even as I answer him. A story on Sherbrooke Station’s trip to Ottawa has been blowing up in the past few days, and I narrowly missed being a part of it. As I stare at the photo of me ducking down and yanking my scarf up over my face, I feel almost shaky with relief that I managed to hide myself in time.
If anyone recognized me and linked me to Matt, it would only be a matter of time before all the Last Bastion details got dug up and dragged into things. Atlas would shut down the story just like they did last time, and La Gare probably wouldn’t survive it. I probably wouldn’t survive it either. Any damage repair I’d done to my career over the past year would be gone in seconds.
This is why shacking up with rock stars is a bad idea. This is why I have Rule Number Two. I haven’t even kissed Matt Pearson and it’s already been insinuated that I’m an escort.
Which I have to admit is pretty hilarious, even given the circumstances.
I wonder if Matt thought the same thing when he read it, which he must have done by n
ow. Sherbrooke Station fans have been freaking out. The internal battle between the urge to text him and the equally insistent urge to maintain a professional distance is put to rest when my phone lights up with a message from him.
Kind of have some bad news. Can you talk?
I message back to say I’m at work, and then demand to know what the news is anyway. His reply arrives a few minutes later.
Condensed version of the story: Atlas PR is taking over our media relations, so you’re going to have to reschedule all your interviews through them. Don’t shoot the messenger, okay? Shayla was gonna tell you, but I thought I’d do it and soften the blow by asking you to drinks.
I let my phone clatter onto my desk.
“Pierre, can you please do me a favour and shoot me right now?”
He makes a gun with his fingers and fires it at me.
“One of those days?” he asks, distracted by whatever he’s working on. It’s only when he looks over and sees me dropping my head into my hands that he gets concerned. “Hey, qu’est-ce qu’il se passe? You don’t look so good.”
“I think I just lost my Sherbrooke Station story,” I groan.
“Lost it? How?”
I lift my head up wearily. “It’s hard to explain. I’ll be back, okay? I need to see what I can do about this.”
I grab my phone, intending to head into the hallway and give Matt a call to get more details. Whatever is going on, contacting the Atlas Records PR department is not an option. I doubt they even noticed my first Sherbrooke Station story, but if they’re cracking down on media relations and someone remembers me from the plagiarism debacle, there’s no way they’ll let me near one of their bands. Nerves start to claw at my stomach as I wonder if Shayla already went ahead and mentioned me to them.
A door opens across the room just as I’m leaving my desk. I glance over to see Marie-France poking her head out of her office.
“Kay, es-tu occupée?” she calls out to me.
Technically I am busy, but I guess I can wait a few minutes and see if there’s any more bad news I have to face.
“Non,” I reply.
We take seats on either side of her desk once I’ve followed her back into her office. She takes one look at me and asks me if I’m all right.
“I’m okay,” I answer. “Just a stressful week. “
She nods as if constant stress is just a fact of life she’s come to accept.
“I take it you’ve heard about that Sherbrooke Station article?” she ventures.
“I have, yes.”
“That,” she tells me, “is the kind of article I want you to write.”
I balk. “It was in a tabloid.”
“That’s not the part I’m talking about,” she explains. “I want the style to be more sophisticated of course, but I want that same kind of controversy. I want something people will talk about. Take this band down if you have to. Find their flaws.”
What she’s saying makes sense. Anyone else reporting on Sherbrooke Station will be following the trend this article has set. People will want to know more. Painting Sherbrooke Station in a compromising light would be the most obvious way to go, and from what I’ve seen and heard so far, I know I could easily do it.
I think about watching Matt go crazy on stage, about the way he looked at me during the interview when he said how much music means to him, and I realize that what I’ve seen and heard has also made me unsure if undermining this band is what I want to do.
Not that any of that matters if I won’t be able to finish the story in the first place.
“Marie-France, I might have a problem,” I admit. “You know about my...history with Atlas Records. I don’t think they’d be too thrilled to know I’m doing a front page feature on their band. I’ve gone unnoticed so far, but the Atlas PR team is cracking down and now the only way to get to Sherbrooke Station is through them. I can’t see that going over well.”
“So don’t go through them.”
I stare, waiting for her to elaborate. She just stares back for a moment and then sighs, getting up to clap a hand down on my shoulder.
“You’re a smart girl. You’ll find another way. We need this story Kay, and we need it to be the best it can be. Quelque chose d’exclusif.”
She opens the office door.
“Vraiement, Marie-France?” I can’t help complaining. “That’s all you’ve got for me?”
“That’s all I’ve got, Mademoiselle Fischer. Now show me what you’ve got.”
Reluctantly, I get up from my chair and make my way back over to my desk. At a loss for what to do, I read Matt’s text over one more time. I was so busy freaking out about Atlas I hardly even took in the fact that he asked me to drinks.
The beginnings of an idea start to form. I need to get closer to Sherbrooke Station, and I have one of their band members literally asking if he can get closer to me. Suddenly I can see a light at the end of this dark tunnel, albeit a very morally dubious one.
No, Fischer, I warn myself. Do not go down that path. You have rules about that.
An image of me showing up at a shady bar to seduce Matt in heels and a trench coat with nothing underneath pops into my head. The fact that that’s my brain’s default definition of seduction should be proof enough it’s a bad idea.
I pack the thought away, my hand still hovering over the message. Strategic seduction might be off the table, but Matt and I have a connection. I can’t deny that anymore. The thought of being dependent on anyone—especially him—makes my skin crawl, but maybe if I suck it up and tell him I need help, there’s a chance he’ll be willing to give it.
I find Matt waiting outside the cafe on St. Laurent he mentioned. He’s leaning against the wall, wearing a deep green jacket over a pair of tight jeans, and straightens up when he sees me approaching.
“Look,” he says, pointing to my army jacket and dark blue skinnies, “we’re twins.”
“Right.” I bite my lip to hold back a grin.
Inside, the cafe is long and narrow, with dusky red walls and a musty, old bachelor kind of vibe. A few pairs of grey-haired men are sitting at tables with chess boards painted on them, eyes fixed to their games. Other than that we’re the only ones here.
“Hey, Roxanne,” Matt calls to the woman behind the counter.
Somehow she seems both strikingly out of place and like she fits in here perfectly all the same. She’s tall and graceful, her narrow waist hugged by a wrap top, dark strands of straight brown hair falling into her eyes. She looks like she could have stepped out of an old European film.
“Hey, Matt,” she replies. Her voice is tinged with a Quebecois accent. “Ҫa va?”
“Ҫa va. This is my friend, Kay.”
She dips her head at me and then asks what we’d like to drink. Matt orders a coffee spiked with Bailey’s and smirks at me when I get a large French vanilla with whipped cream on top.
“There’s that sweet tooth again,” he teases, as we take a seat at a table by the front windows. The chairs are basically antiques, and I can feel the hard wooden frame through the threadbare padding.
“Oh, shut up.” I set my drink down, running a finger up the side of the mug to catch some stray whipped cream before bringing it up to my mouth. I don’t miss the fact that Matt watches my lips from the corner of his eyes. “So you come here often? She knows your name and everything.”
“Sort of. Roxanne is Cole’s...” He searches for the right word. “She’s, uh, a constant theme in Cole’s life, if you will.”
I nod and can’t help asking, “You ever have one of those? A constant theme?”
Matt shakes his head. “Nope. Haven’t been blessed with one yet, or maybe cursed is a better word. Those two have been to hell and back more times than I can remember.”
“She looks hot enough to be worth going to hell over.”
He laughs and then gives me a searching look. “I’m kind of surprised you agreed to meet me. You didn’t seem too into the idea when I asked at the hot
el.”
I decide to just get it over with and come clean.
“I needed to talk to you about the Atlas thing.”
Something close to hurt flashes in his expression before he covers it up with a wry smile.
“And here I was thinking you enjoyed my company.”
“Look, it’s not that I don’t. It’s just...” I trail off, not even sure where I’m going with this. “I’m a professional. This is a professional thing we’re doing here, and—”
“And you also slept in my t-shirt a few nights ago,” he interrupts.
I pick up my drink, gulping down a few sips to stall the conversation until I can steer it back on track.
“That was a mistake,” I say finally. “I’m sure you saw the article those tabloid reporters put out. That’s just one example of why we can’t...why this isn’t...”
I trail off as he leans forward across the table, reaching to where my hand is resting on it. We both watch as he flips my palm over and runs his thumb over the paper-thin skin of my wrist. I feel myself shiver, at both how unexpected his touch is and how such a simple point of contact can feel so suddenly intimate.
“You keep telling yourself that,” he begins, voice low, eyes still fixed to the pad of his thumb as it criss-crosses over my veins, “but you’re here right now anyways. You can’t tell me you don’t want to be around me. I know as well as you do that’s not true.”
“Matt...”
I try to pull my hand away but my arm is too heavy, held down by the weight of his spell.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult, Kay. Just tell m—”
“I need your help, Matt.”
With an extreme effort of willpower, I slide my wrist away from his grasp and clasp my hands in my lap.
“That’s why I’m here right now. That’s why I agreed to see you. I have a problem, and I...I think you might be able to help me with it.” I force the words out, hardly able to look at him.