That had been in his pre-Sarah days. Jeff had the vague feeling Joe had gone home with a pair of twins, but he wasn’t going to ask about it. Although—“What didyoudo?” he asked Trix.
She stretched her legs out—sandals discarded on the floor of the car—and propped them in Max’s lap. The two of them had shared a room for their first several years as a touring band. “Honestly? I went back to the hotel and sobbed in the shower for ten minutes because I couldn’t believe we’d done it, and then I went to bed and slept for eleven hours.”
“I remember that,” Max said. “I thought you must’ve had way too much to drink. I tripped over my own feet when I got in and you didn’t even move.”
“Emotional catharsis is better than any sleeping pill.” Trix rubbed the back of her neck. “Finally getting to prove people were wrong—that you could be a rock band with a girl drummer and she didn’t have to fuck any of the guys to earn her spot….” She lifted a shoulder. “Sweet, sweet vindication.”
Jeff let himself sink into the rightness of it. With the sun streaming down on his face, he felt like he’d been personally blessed by his decision to stick around. They hadn’t given up. And now they could reap the rewards of their labor.
Monique cleared her throat as they passed the next block. “All right. Let’s go over our plan for the meeting one more time.”
She walked them through it—reiterating to make sure she knew exactly what they were asking for, reminding them to defer to her and let her do the talking if things didn’t seem to be swinging that way. They hadn’t booked return tickets, just in case they needed to stick around New York to label shop, but Jeff didn’t think they’d have to.
This was the best album they’d ever put together. It might be theirRumours… and everyone knew that was Fleetwood’s best album.
If these executives knew what was good for them, they’d give Howl whatever they wanted and be grateful for the opportunity.
Fingers crossed.
The car pulled up to the office a few moments later, and Monique strode to the reception desk in her sky-high Manolo Blahniks. “Monique Huberdeau and Howl for Zephyr Kendrick.”
The receptionist looked up through thick-framed plastic glasses, wide-eyed. He took them in and then pressed a button on his phone. The elevator doors opened behind him. “Go on up. She’s expecting you.”
Jeff furiously ignored the churning cement mixer in his stomach. Suddenly he missed the butterfly effect.
Half of him expected a typical conference-room setup, but instead they were shown into a casual office with comfortable lounge furniture and a sound system that would’ve had Sibel diving for the manuals to drool over the specs.
A woman and a man met them in the lounge.
“Monique,” the woman said, coming forward for a handshake—except once they clasped hands, they leaned in for a kiss on each cheek. Apparently this wasn’t their first meeting. “How long’s it been?”
“Let’s not count the years since twelfth grade.” Monique stepped back with a smile and gestured the band forward. This was Jeff’s cue. “Zephyr Kendrick, may I present Jeff Pine, Trix Neufeld, Max Langdon, and Joe Kinoshameg, better known as Howl.”
They went around with handshakes—the man with her was the label’s executive vice president of A&R, Amir Basri—and then Zephyr gestured them to the couches. “So. Monique tells me you’re ready to make the leap from Big Moose.” She waved her hand. “Once some administrative details are out of the way, of course.”
Jeff glanced at Monique for permission. She nodded infinitesimally. “Very,” he said.
Zephyr smiled. “Well, then.”
Jeff knew Monique had transmitted the files digitally in some supersecure manner, but he didn’t know if Zephyr and her team had listened to them. Surely to God they weren’t going to have to listen to an hour plus of their own music while sitting with a room full of music executives? There weren’t enough antacids in the city of New York.
But the smile only widened. “Welcome to Spin Cycle.”
THE INKwasn’t even dry on their check—metaphorical check—when they booked their last-minute tickets back to Toronto. Jeff felt like he spent the entire flight bouncing his knee. He didn’t dare text Carter, didn’t dare even check to see if their trip to NYC had made the internet. None of that could matter until the contract with Big Moose was officially terminated.
Monique’s superlawyer status must give her some kind of clout, because they didn’t have to wait for an appointment there either.
Still grimy from the dual flights, punch-drunk with apprehension and relief, they followed Monique into the executive boardroom at Big Moose.
Dina was there, as well as Tim, which Jeff would’ve been angry about except that he was really going to enjoy watching the man’s face as his golden goose crapped all over him.
Tim didn’t even let Monique get a word in edgewise when they entered the room. “Ah, Howl. I hope you’re here to deliver your album?”
Monique smiled like a shark, but it was Max who stepped forward.
“We’re here to deliver our letter of resignation.” Ignoring Tim completely, he stepped up to company president John Cannon’s desk. “We’re breaking our contract.”
He slid the check across the desk.
