“It’s nice to meet you, Lizzy.”
“Wait.” Her eyes bulge and jaw drops on a gasp. “Are you the new drummer for Three Ugly Guys?” The question tumbles from her mouth so speedily the words almost mesh together. She shakes her head and blushes again. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”
But I don’t get the chance to answer.
“Leighton!” My uncle barks out my name and I lift my gaze to meet his hard stare. He’s not happy to see me.
“Gotta run.” I wink and push off the desk to strut over to Bedo.
His brows form a scowl so harsh they could probably sour milk, and his heel taps with impatience which only causes me to walk slower. “You’re a day early.”
“What can I say? I’m excited to practice with my band.” I waggle my brows and rub my hands together.
He scoffs, but a trace of a smile flints on his lips before he shakes his head. “Parents took the news well?”
“Something of that sort.” I chuckle remembering the abhorrence on my mother’s lips.
“Not surprising.” He nods for me to follow and doesn’t wait as he beelines for the stairs, taking them faster than most men half his age. “Might as well take advantage of the extra studio time. I think we’ve got one of them open today.Your bandwon’t be in until tomorrow. Besides, I wanted to talk to you privately.” He struts to the end of the hall and ushers me into his office.
“Nice digs.” Floor to ceiling glass, his window looks out on the street and the hills beyond. I saunter around the oversized room, a desk and chairs on one side, but on the other is a sitting area and wall full of awards, trophies, and photographs. I examine the pictures of my uncle, some current and others from when he was my age, all snapshots of him with executives or once-nobodies-now-famous artists and musicians.
He shuts the door with a slam and sits behind his desk. “Not so bad. Take a seat.” The request is an order and my guess is most people jump at his command.
My lips kick up in a grin and I glance over my shoulder, still perusing his display of accolades. “Maybe I’d rather stand.”
“So, it’s gonna be like that?” He rolls his eyes and points at the empty chair across from his desk. “Sit the fuck down or I call my sister.”
“Fine . . . Only ’cause I want to.” I draw out the words and strut over to the chair, sit, and lean back to stretch out my legs. My grin pisses him off and it only makes me smile wider.
He points his finger. “I pulled a lot of strings to get this for you.”
“And I’m eternally grateful.” I bring my hands together and steeple them over my heart.
He narrows his stare. “And eternally silent. If you tell anyone what you saw at your party . . .”
I shake my head. “I’ll be like the Go-Go’s. My lips are sealed.”
He holds my stare, a silent inquisition as if he’s waiting for me to break or give in. I don’t look away, and try to keep the grin from taking over my face.
“Good.” He nods, evidently satisfied, and reaches for his cell phone. Without looking up he taps on his screen with a practiced skill and enthusiasm that rivals any teenage girl. “And one other thing . . .” He only pauses to glance up a moment before going back to his texting. “Let’s not mention you’re my nephew.”
“Dearest Uncle? Don’t want to be associated with the likes of me? That really stings.” I make a show of pressing a hand to my chest.
“It’s not that, you little shit,” he mutters as his fingers now bounce between his phone and the keyboard on his laptop. “I have a reputation to uphold. If this arrangement goes south, I don’t want to be attached to the sinking ship.”
“Tell no one. Got it.”Ouch. I shrug it off and act as though it doesn’t bother me in the least. Not that I expect the gold star treatment, but the fact he has such little faith in my talent stings. “Even the band?”
His eyes flinch and he scowls. “Especially the band.”
“Speaking of which, when do I meet these Ugly Guys?”
Bedo’s gaze flicks with irritation and he gives a curt tip of his chin. “Not soon enough.” He grumbles and shakes his head. “I’ll get one of the techs to set you up in the studio to practice with recordings of the set list. That’ll have to do.”
Disbelief clouds the chuckle that escapes my lips. “Don’t we leave for the tour in two days?”
My uncle’s stare wavers for a second and if I weren’t watching him I would have missed it before his lips press into a hard line. “I know the goddamn schedule.” He swipes his phone off the desk, leans back into his chair, and just like that I’m dismissed.
Maybe I’m confused. Maybe this is how he runs things, but from my world the manager not only sets the schedule but also calls the shots. “Shouldn’t I practice with them?” I’m good, yeah, but he doesn’t expect me to jump on stage at the first show without one rehearsal? Or does he? “Wouldn’t they want to meet me first?”
