Superfan

by Bowen, Sarina

  I have to get my songs back from that man. I just don’t know how.

  “For the love of God,” Becky hisses, pressing down on my wiggling knee. “You’re not behaving the way someone who had sex three times last night should behave.”

  “Wait.” I rotate in my seat to face her. “Who told you that?”

  She bursts out laughing. “You did—just now. And I do appreciate it.” She tips her head back onto the headrest. “Wow. Three, huh? Does he have any friends? That is some serious stamina.”

  “Shh.” I rise up and peek into the row behind us. But the octogenarians in 2a and 2b are both asleep. And Mr. Muscles is back in the main cabin, because I didn’t upgrade him like I did for Becky.

  “Tell me everything,” Becky whispers. “Is he good with his hands? Do goalies do it better?”

  Her question makes me picture Silas’s hands, which have always fascinated me. And my face heats just thinking of all the places he put them…

  Becky laughs again. “Your face says it all. And nobody deserves a fun night like you.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “You’re welcome!” She beams. “Look, there are a few things we need to talk about before we get back to California. Some are more fun than others. I have a few business items for you, and then today’s Sparkle. It’s the best one ever.”

  We have this silly tradition. Becky deals with a lot of bad news—gossip pieces and other bullshit in my life—so every night she gives me something good. It might be a fan letter, or it might be a video of a kitten being rescued off the median of a highway. It’s always something worth cheering over. We call it the daily Sparkle.

  I fucking love Becky.

  “We still have this meeting with Charla Harris, right?” I ask first. The whole point of a morning flight was getting back in time to see a manager in the late afternoon. Of all the names we reached out to, Harris was the only one who said it would be tricky to “squeeze me in” this week. Though she has a great reputation.

  “Yep,” Becky says. “I emailed her your existing contract with Ferris. But last night she asked for a royalty statement, and I balked. I didn’t want to send her any dollar figures without talking to you first.”

  “Wow. She needs to make sure I’m worth the money, so she knows whether to cancel the meeting?” I’m only twenty-six years old, and already I have a jaundiced view of the music industry. Music is beautiful, but its business people are all sharks. Most days I think I should just go live on a mountaintop somewhere with my guitar.

  “You can give her the royalty statement this afternoon, if it still seems like a good idea,” Becky says.

  “Okay. What else?”

  She makes a grim face. “Two items. Neither is very nice.”

  “Spit it out already.”

  “A news thing.” She sighs. “Just a stupid gossip column about you and Brett. I just want those stories to die.”

  “Where? What does it say?”

  “The Post has a shot of you walking into his office building yesterday. And there’s a snarky line about how you were done with Brett Ferris because he already gave you your big break.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s the typical misogynistic bullshit. Men deserve all their successes, but women probably sleep their way to the top.”

  “The joke’s on them,” I grumble. “I only wanted him to love me.” Or anyone to love me, really. I was such a needy little thing. And Brett knew that. He spend three years doling out affection with an eyedropper, and I was always waiting there, needing another hit.

  “Someday the record will be set straight,” Becky says. “Brett Ferris is a weasel, and the world will know.”

  I feel another rush of love for Becky, who—in spite of trading in gossip for a living—still believes in justice and happy endings. She’s twenty-three, exactly the same age as I was when I met Silas but then started sleeping with Brett. It’s an age where you still believe that anything is possible.

  “Nobody cares, though,” I point out. “The people who read those stories aren’t looking for justice. They just want something lurid to enjoy with their morning coffee.”

  “I know, Delilah. Jeez.” She opens the folder on her lap. “But I can’t do this work every day without imagining that the good people can come out on top.”

  “There’s a sex joke in there somewhere.”

  “Yes! At least you’re making sex jokes. That’s progress.”

  “What’s the other bad thing?”

  “You got another cocktail napkin in the mail.”

  My gut twists. “From where?”

  “The Polo Lounge.”

  I stare at her. “Who did we tell that we had a drink there? It wasn’t even planned.”

  She shrugs. “Could have been that somebody Instagrammed it, and we didn’t notice.”

  “Ugh. Was the note creepy?”

  “They’re all creepy, Dee.”

  I suppose that’s true.

  “The guys are going to send the envelope and the napkin out for fingerprinting. He’ll screw up eventually. Are you ready for today’s Sparkle?”

  “At this hour? What if we’re back to gloom and doom by evening?”

  “Then I’ll find another one. But I can’t wait to show you this. It’s a letter from Silas Kelly.”

  “What? Why?”

  She clutches a folded piece of paper to her chest and sighs. “When I called to break your date with him, he said he needed to give me a letter to you. Said it was really important. And since he could tell that I thought it sounded creepy, he told me I should read it and decide for myself if I should give it to you.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly.

  “So while you were at that meeting with buttface, I met Silas at Starbucks. And he gave me this.” She tosses the page into my lap.

  Delilah—

  I don’t know if you’ll remember me. But three years ago I was the bartender at Roadie Joe’s in Darlington Beach, and you were the highlight of my day. I was going through a really rough time, thinking I had to start from scratch on my Plan B.

  It would have been a terrible summer, except you came in every day for a beer—a cold one in a bottle, unopened—and just talking to you made the whole day right.

  You might remember that we were supposed to go surfing. I deeply regret that I did not show up that day. I was in a mad dash to the airport with all my belongings. Now there’s a story I’d like to tell you in person. I sent a friend to the beach to find you and tell you why I didn’t show.

  He was two hours late, though. Because obviously an employee of the restaurant I’d just walked out on wasn’t the right person to ask this favor. That’s on me. I’m sorry for that screwup and for leaving you standing there.

  (Although, I feel obligated to point out that if only you’d given me your phone number the 73 times I asked, this could have been avoided.)

  Lucky for me, I haven’t needed your number to see that your Plan A is kicking serious ass. Even though I don’t see you between the lunch rush and happy hour anymore, I am still paying attention. My wish came true—I heard Sparkle On playing on many different radios. You don’t know how happy that makes me. (Spoiler: really happy.)

  Every time I hear your songs, I smile. And while I’m still wishing I had your phone number, I just want you to know how proud I am of you. You deserve every good thing that comes your way.

  And I hope you’re still wearing that T-shirt—the one that says Kind of a Big Deal. Now it’s not ironic anymore.

  Love always,

  That Guy Behind The Bar With the Ralph Name Tag

  AKA Silas Kelly

  Becky is dabbing at her eyes when I look up. And—fuck—I’m dabbing at mine, too. “That boy is seriously good at letter-writing,” I sniff.

  “See?” Becky squeaks. “There are good men in the world, Dee. The rescuers of kittens are out there.”

  I laugh and wipe my eyes again.

  “When are we seeing him again? I think we need to get that on the sc
hedule.”

  “It’s hard,” I hedge. “We live on opposite coasts. He has a job with hours that are even crazier than mine.” I peeked at the Bruisers schedule on the way to the airport. Silas wasn’t exaggerating when he said his schedule was inflexible during the season.

  “But you want to see him again,” Becky presses.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I can’t believe he spent the night in your room!” she whispers. “His letter is just about the most romantic thing I ever read. But it didn’t sound like you guys were, um, super close.”

  “Oh, I had it bad for him,” I admit. “But I was in town for just a few weeks, so it would have been only a fling.” Even as I say it, I wonder if that’s really true. “And I was trying to juggle Brett and trying to get heard. It was not an easy time.”

  “There are no easy times,” Becky says. “And this guy really likes you.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “And he likes me for me. I don’t have to wonder if he’s just interested in my strange job.”

  “He has his own strange job!” Becky reminds me. She sounds gleeful. “Again, if he has any friends…”

  “I know just where to send them,” I promise.

  * * *

  There isn’t time after our flight lands to make a stop at home before my meeting with the manager. And I don’t even mind, because the hollow little furnished studio I’m renting doesn’t hold much appeal for me.

  Mr. Muscles drives me to an Art Deco building on Wilshire Boulevard, where the offices of Charla Harris Talent Management reside. It’s a pretty little building with a stern security checkpoint and thick carpets.

  But Charla is not what I’m expecting. She’s not L.A. glamorous. She’s…

  Okay she’s terrifying. She’s wearing a black power suit. Her salt-and-pepper hair is cut short in a way that makes her head surprisingly cube-like. She has pale skin, accentuated only with bright red lipstick.

  And the first thing she says—even before hello and introducing herself—is: “Never show your contract to anyone who’s not representing you.” She waves a sheaf of papers in the air. “This right here is enough ammunition to make your life hell. Christ, your social security number is on here.”

  I’m speechless, hesitating beside the chair facing her desk. Did she just threaten me?

  “Girl, I’m not actually going to use it against you! But stop being so trusting. Let’s break that habit right now.”

  “Oh,” I say, sounding quite stupid. “It’s a lifelong habit, I guess. And I have the scars to show for it.”

  “I’ll bet.” She throws the papers onto the desk. “Sit already. You should know that this is the weirdest contract I’ve ever read. And I’ve been in the business twenty-five years. Way to pick ’em.”

  “Should I just go, then?” I ask, trying to keep the exhaustion out of my voice as I collapse into the chair. Only jet lag and a night of great sex prevent me from crawling over this woman’s giant desk to choke her. “Is there a point, here? Or did you only need someone to patronize for a few minutes?”

  For a second she just stares at me. And then her square face splits into her version of a smile, and she promptly cracks up. Her laugh is a lot like her personality—big and unpredictable. “We’re not done yet, girl! I can help you, but first you need to acknowledge that you need help.”

  “Like it’s not obvious? After I brought you the worst contract in twenty-five years.”

  “Indeed. This document is both arrogant and strange. It reads as if he spent, oh, fifteen minutes researching recording industry contracts before deciding he could do better than a lawyer and a hundred years of entertainment law.”

  “That sounds very much like Brett Ferris,” I admit. “Mine also might be the first contact he ever wrote.”

  “He was a producer first, right? With Daddy’s help?”

  “Right. But I was the first artist on his brand-new label.” It had seemed like a victory at the time. And maybe it was. I lacked confidence. I still do. “And then he sold out to MetroPlex two years ago, because he needed more capital.”

  Charla’s smile becomes more motherly and less terrifying. “Brett Ferris told you not to bother hiring a manager, right?”

  “Yes,” I say glumly. “I was twenty-three, and nobody else wanted to sign me, and I was afraid that if I got a manager, Brett would be scared off.”

  “And now all you wish for is to scare him off,” Charla Harris guesses.

  I nod.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “You’re in pretty deep here. And he’s sitting on your second album?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whether it’s Brett’s decision or someone higher up at MetroPlex, that’s a vindictive, shitty maneuver,” she says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I notice you didn’t send me the royalty statement I asked for.”

  “That’s because I knew better than to share information with a stranger who might use it to hurt me.”

  She gives me a big, evil grin. “Good girl. But I have a theory, and if we work together, your royalty statement might prove it.” She pats my contract. “You have an escalator in here.”

  “A… what?”

  “Your contract stipulates that he has to pay you a big bonus once you sell a million records. He probably never expected that to happen. If I had to guess, you’re nearing the threshold. So he doesn’t want to bounce you into the top one hundred right now with new music.”

  “Why?”

  “Your first album will get a big boost when your second comes out. That always happens.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. When industry professionals talk business, I always feel incredibly stupid. “I should know all of this already.”

  “Nah,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You should have a manager to keep track of it for you—to be your bulldog.”

  “I just want to write the songs and have my label release them on time,” I whine.

  “Yeah? Well I want a month in Fiji and pony riding lessons. If you sign with me, I will try to bully these assholes into releasing your record. But it will not be easy. I can’t promise success. In the meantime, you’re going to have to hold your head up high and get to work on album number three.”

  “Because…?”

  “Once they see you’re lining up a third album, they’ll have to release the second one. There are some things we could do to make it look like you’re making an end-run around them.” She rubs her hands together, as if there’s nothing more fun than manipulating Brett Ferris.

  Against all odds, I’m starting to like her. “So, if the contract is weird, does that give me any way to break it?”

  “Delilah, I will never ever lie to you. Breaking any contract is very hard. If we work together, I’ll lean on him to release your album. And if he doesn’t, I’ll try to break this contract. But in my twenty-five years I have never gotten an artist out of a contract, no matter how bad. And even if we found legal grounds to sue him, it would take years.”

  I slump down in my chair. “My career will be dead by then.”

  “That’s the risk. That’s why suing him isn’t your best option. You’re going to have to force him to come around to doing things your way. Now, you know you can’t release a single on another label, because your contract prevents that.”

  “I know,” I grumble.

  “But.” She grins. “My attorney agrees with me that you can independently release an entire album without violating this contract. He hasn’t rejected your work, right? He’s just sitting on it.”

  “Right.” Although the word “rejected” makes my stomach hurt. “There is nothing wrong with that album.”

  “Good. So my best advice to you is—after signing with me, of course—go home and ask yourself, ‘What does my third album sound like?’ We’ll find you some collaborators. You’ll record a couple things with a new producer. You play the role of someone who’s getting on with her life.”

  I try to picture this, and i
t sounds fun but also terrifying. “So I’m just supposed to pretend that my second album doesn’t exist?”

  “For now,” Charla agrees. “Brett Ferris needs that second album, too. He doesn’t work alone anymore. He has overlords, and they’ll want the cash.”

  She’s probably right, I realize. MetroPlex is one of the biggest record companies in the world. Brett still retains creative control over his artists, but he answers to Metroplex on financial matters.

  “Maybe it isn’t going well for him at MetroPlex,” I say slowly. “That’s why he’ll do anything to get me to sign. He could fight even dirtier. He could reject my album.”

  “He won’t,” Charla says. “And that’s where your weird-ass contract is going to help you for once. Because it says that if he rejects it, we can buy the album back for production costs. And even if those costs are as inflated as Brett Ferris’s ego, the price tag is still peanuts compared to that album’s worth.”

  My head is spinning. “I can buy it back?”

  “Only if he rejects it. And you’d still owe him ten more songs. You’re locked in this dance until he releases something. So go home and write your angriest music yet. And force his hand.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking a slow breath. This madwoman has finally shown me a path forward. It’s not easy, but I never thought it would be.

  “Look, I know this isn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. But Brett Ferris isn’t stupid. He’s arrogant, but he’s not dumb. If you hire me and meet some new producers, that looks serious. That means action. He’s going to notice. His little plan to bully you into a new contract isn’t going to look so good anymore.”

  Every cell in my body hopes she’s right.

  “I can’t make this easy for you. But I promise you this—if we work together, I will not ever back down. And you don’t have to do this alone. It will become my job to get in that weasel’s face. And I will do it with pleasure. In fact, I’ll have to insist that you don’t take his calls and you don’t meet with him face to face.”

  “That’s worth fifteen percent right there,” I mumble. “Send me your contract.”

  “I will. But what are you going to do with it?” she asks.