Some might say she knew they had me on the hook. I preferred to see it as she trusted I wouldn’t split with the very important Ripper Records trade secrets about the necessary tightness of denims.
It occurred to me as I was signing, I should have my own agent look it over. Assuming I had one, which I did not. It also occurred to me I had much bigger problems than predatory record contracts.
Such as the fact a noose was tightening around my goddamn neck with every day I didn’t have measurable progress for Jerry.
He wasn’t one to just go with the flow. Never had been since I’d known him, and much more was at stake now. I owed him. How many times had he told me that? And I paid my debts.
Even if I regretted them with every fiber of my being.
I’d hoped this contract I’d signed would go toward buying me some time. Enough money wasn’t changing hands to take the heat off for long. I hadn’t expected that much. What I’d agreed to only provided a measly signing bonus, with the bulk of money being made on profits from touring and merchandise. And eventually, a record. I’d signed for two EPs on this initial contract, though everyone knew digital copies brought in a fraction of what touring did. If I wanted to make enough money to reduce my debt, I’d be on the road a long fucking time.
But that was fine. It was better than the alternative. I didn’t want to be that guy if I didn’t have to.
If I could find any other way.
Not because I’d gone soft after actually meeting Simon. Sure, he was my brother, but he hated me. He’d made that plain. My very existence was a thorn in his side. Some of that was likely due to the method I’d chosen for our first contact. That had been a mistake.
Next time I met my long-lost brother, I’d just send a card and flowers rather than outing myself on the telly.
But the bottom line was, Simon didn’t need me in his life. His was already very full. And mine was…
Well, let’s just say spending my days on the road suited me just fine. Or it had until I’d come to LA.
Already things were beginning to change. Small shifts. Maybe it was just the new environment. Giving me ideas.
Some of them were finding their way to paper. In fact, I was writing more than I had in months. Not since before Jerry had come into my world had my brain and heart unlocked to this extent. My fingers were bloody from playing until the wee hours of the morning, and that was after climbing off the stage in whatever rinky-dink club Sabrina had booked me in that night.
The goal right now was exposure, and on this short of notice, the venues weren’t the best. So I’d gone where I was sent night after night, and I’d sold the music the way we’d discussed. Not just working on my delivery, but on my persona. Sabrina was remaking me into what she considered the ultimate fantasy, and though I thought that was a load of bollocks, I couldn’t deny the results.
My social media numbers were doubling and tripling daily, even with the small venues and lack of advance tickets. It had become a game of sorts online to see where I’d surface that night. What covers I’d drag out of my repertoire, which wasn’t nearly as big as I’d believed. I had my own material too, of course, but not enough. Why I was writing like a goddamn fiend.
They were bringing in producers and hot, cutting-edge writers to work with me. Me, for fuck’s sake. Like I was their investment.
Like I had a real chance.
I put the camera on the nightstand and climbed on my bed, fresh from a shower. Time to work on the same fucking song I’d been trying to get out for the last three days. Long before that, really. Since I’d met a sharp-tongued blond with eyes like hot caramels who didn’t give me an inch.
Who didn’t respond to my tags when I uploaded pictures to my Instagram feed.
I took snapshots of her camera in every location I performed in each evening, therefore inflaming all the fans who’d been following me since the first night at the Blue Rhino.
/> A segment of them were even campaigning Zoe to respond to me. Most told me she wasn’t worth my time and they would blow my mind—except in far dirtier language.
I’d heard less lascivious talk on the porn channel.
Sabrina called my pictures “brilliant marketing.” A couple weeks ago, according to her, I’d been treading on ground I didn’t dare walk on when I took Zoe’s camera.
Amazing how things had changed.
Sabrina probably didn’t care since she knew I had little time to mess with Zoe with my current schedule, unless we banged in a bathroom between sets. I was that booked.
Besides, Sabrina noticed all the reposts my shots got all over the place. Zoe? Didn’t even acknowledge them. She just kept posting her random photos every few days, oblivious to how my stomach tightened into fists every time I got a notification.
Wondering if she was okay. If anyone had hassled her since that day.
If she ever thought about me too.
Not that I dared go back to the beach. Somehow, that stupid story had gotten out about me fighting those two bastards and I’d been labeled a goddamn hero. Thereby sealing my fate that Zoe Manning would never contact me, ever. Not when she probably believed I’d used her attack as fodder to build my career.