That was Greg. When Dale told me his full name for the first time, I couldn’t believe it. Greg Richer. Managers, as a concept, were mind-boggling to me. They took twenty percent of an artist’s income, and for what? It was Dale who had put his foot down with the record company. They had songs and tracks for him all planned out—they wanted him to sing what they wanted.
Dale refused. He’d been the one to negotiate with them, not Greg. In fact, Greg had insisted he concede or there would likely be no record deal at all.
But he was wrong.
Dale had gotten what he wanted—Black Diamond had recorded all of their own, original songs. I often told Dale Greg’s last name was apropos because as far as I could tell, Greg got richer while Dale did all the work. But for some strange reason, a manager was considered necessary. A necessary evil, maybe.
“What do you want me to say? Our friends were getting married. I wasn’t going to skip out on them because there might be cameras around.”
“You didn’t have to dry hump her in the hallway!” Greg snapped. “They’ve got a picture in here of you grabbing her crotch under her skirt.”
“I was not. I was putting on a garter. It’s a tradition.”
“Image is not about what happened. It’s about what it looks like happened. And right here, it looks like you’re grabbing her crotch.”
“She’s my girlfriend,” Dale said. “So it’s out. We deal with it.”
“Jan’s got to find some way to spin this.”
“Did you come here to lecture me or was there a point to this meeting? My fiancé is waiting for me.”
“The record company wants to cancel the tour.”
My head came up off the pillow, my heart dropping to my toes. I couldn’t even imagine what Dale was feeling, hearing those words. I ran to the doorway, straining to hear.
“I told you, image is everything. So you can sing, big deal. You have a pretty face and you can play the guitar and make girls go nuts. Big fucking deal. Do you know how many others there are just like you? Kids like you come and go in this business.”
I couldn’t hear anyone then. I held my breath, trying to hear something—anything!
“Did you talk to Roy Masters?”
He was the head of Sonic House, the label that had put out Black Diamond’s album. He was a gruff old man, nearly entirely bald, who smoked cigars and rasped when he talked. I had met him only once, when Dale had taken me to L.A. to show me around—it had been my very first time in an airplane. Roy had gotten up from the chair behind his desk, which was no easy feat, considering he had to weigh three-hundred pounds, and peered at me, frowning.
“So this is the young lady who’s giving us so much trouble?” Roy mused, glancing at Dale, then back to me, where I was pressed tight against Dale’s side. “Well son, she looks like the good kind of trouble to me.”
Then he’d laughed and puffed on his cigar, sitting back down in his executive chair, the leather making a “whoosh” sound under his weight.
“He’s the only thing standing between you and disaster, punk.” Greg again. He sounded weary and I smiled. I couldn’t blame him. When Dale wanted something, he was tireless and fearless in his pursuit. And breaking him down wasn’t easy, although I’d watched it happen over the course of the past two years, inch by inch.
“That and I’ll Always Come For You just hit Billboard’s number one.”
Greg said it like an afterthought but his words seared through me like fire. I couldn’t breathe, I was so stunned. Then I was running, bolting down the stairs, jumping the last two and tearing around the corner, heading to the kitchen.
“Number one? Number one!” I squealed, putting my arms around Dale, who looked so stunned I nearly knocked him over. He grabbed me by the waist, meeting my eyes, and I laughed when he squeezed me tight and swung me around the kitchen.
“I have to call the band.”
“You have to lay the fuck low!” Greg insisted, wagging his finger at both of us. “And you, missy, you need to be invisible. You hear me? In-fucking-visible! Don’t you go anywhere.”
I laughed as Dale put me down. I heard his heart hammering in his chest when I rested my flushed cheek there. Greg Richer wasn’t going to put a damper on this day, I wouldn’t let him.
“Go to hell.” I stuck my tongue out at him and hugged Dale harder. “He’s got the number one single!”
“I know.” Greg stood, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. I was sure he had it dyed because the lines around his eyes told me he was at least fifty, in spite of the spray-on tan. “But that all happened before this.”
He picked up the newspaper and shook it at us.
“Shake the stupid paper and yell all you want, he’s still number one.” I grinned up at Dale and he grinned back,