Jagger
Boredom and agitation go hand in hand, but which comes first? The inability to keep your mind focused on what’s going on around you, then the irritation that nothing is enjoyable? Or is it annoyance at everything around you that causes you to find it all mundane and mind-numbing?
In this case, it’s all the above. An acute exasperation of stupidity.
Fire explodes in my throat as I sip my drink and bridle my frustration with the prick across from me. This conversation has been downhill since we sat down an hour ago, yet his hands still fly around comically as his client sits next to him, looking stressed.
Dealing with Arnold Maulden is like chewing gravel—abrasive, infuriating, and completely pointless. “I’d love nothing more than to give you everything you’re asking for, but my hands are tied.” It’s a lie. I have plenty of freedom to make concessions when I sit down for these negotiations, but what he’s asking for is absurd. “The label simply can’t afford to give you what you’re asking.”
His fat, ruddy face gets brighter. A bead of sweat trickles from his receding hairline down his temple, his shifty eyes narrow. His fist comes down on the table with a bang, rattling the silverware. “That’s a load of shit, and you know it. They have more money than most labels combined.”
I roll my eyes, resisting the urge to groan. “You’re confusing the owners with the company.”
“It’s the same thing,” he hisses.
I don’t blink at his dramatics. I’ve dealt with this guy and so many other back-alley agents and managers over the last few years that I’m used to the entitled demands. Maybe it’s because of my age that they believe they can intimidate me. I’m twenty-four, so to most, I’m just a wet-behind-the-ears newbie trying to make a name.
I don’t give a fuck about a name. At the end of the day, I’ll still be former music mogul, Maxwell Davis’s son, or billionaire prodigy businessman, Graham Davis’s brother. Whatever I accomplish will never survive under their shadows, so I don’t bother trying to achieve greatness. Instead, I settle for finding it in others.
His client looks worried. The guy wants this deal. It’s the chance of a lifetime, and he knows it. Just like he knows his manager is about to lose it for him.
“You tell those assholes at that label they can either make a better offer, or we walk.” He keeps barking, oblivious to his client’s desperate attempts to shut him up.
I’m about to reply when the server appears. My eyes follow her path. Again. She’s been in my line of sight all night. Copper hair, button nose, freckles dusting her cheeks. She carries herself with poise and confidence. Not the arrogant, entitled kind I’ve seen most of my life, but a genuine understanding of her worth.
Which means I can look all day, but she’s not someone who’d ever be interested in me.
“Need anything else tonight, gentlemen?” she asks as she sets a fresh glass of water in front of me and collects the half-empty one.
“A refill would be great.” I rattle my glass at her, then nod across the table.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Jeremy, the guy desperate for the recording contract, says, looking defeated.
He should. This deal flatlined the second I sat down.
“Another scotch, sweetheart,” Arnold says as he tracks his beady eyes over her body. “And your number.” He winks at her.
A snort bursts from her before she presses her lips together. “Another scotch on the way.” She spins, her long red ponytail swishing as she hurries away, but I can see her shoulders shaking with laughter as she goes.
Like I said, she knows her worth, and it’s more than the sleazeball across from me.
“Fucking bitch,” Arnold mutters.
My jaw tightens. The urge to knock his teeth out tightens my fist. “Stop shooting out of your league, Maulden.” I finish the last of my bourbon. He opens his mouth, but I’m over this meeting. I was over it before it started. It’s one of the few parts of my job I fucking hate. Dealing with the bullshit agents and managers who are no better than con artists and hustlers, making their living off the backs of struggling, desperate artists. “Back to the conversation. If you want to walk, there’s the door.” I nod toward the exit across the restaurant. “I’ve offered a very generous contract. Jeremy’s a rare talent. But he’s got no following, no online presence. You’re lucky Sin Records gives a damn about raw potential. Anywhere else? He wouldn’t even get a meeting, but I’ll be glad to tell theassholestheir generosity wasn’t enough. For the record, Arn, the owners, board members, and stockholders’ individual worth has nothing to do with the company’s worth. They’re not going to hand over their personal income and assets to satisfy your greed.”
“Fine,” he huffs, then looks at Jeremy. “Come on. There are better deals out there than this bullshit.”
Not likely.
Jeremy stands, his head hanging. He looks like he wants to tell Maulden to go fuck himself, but the leash of their contract is too tight.
When my dad and his partner, Nichols Lockwood, ran L&D Records, they told me to keep my mouth shut. They didn’t want a lawsuit because I interfered.
But this kid will not get a better deal. And I can see how badly he wants it. Of course, he does. He’s not a hip-hop artist. He’s not a dancing pop star in the making. The guy is a rocker. Somewhere between alternative and metal. Sin Records specialty.
He aspires to be signed by the label owned by Sons of Sin, the rock band that went from obscurity to owning not just some random indie label, but one of the big five labels—now under a new name—overnight.
Of course, it wasn’t overnight, but most don’t realize or forget that.
