Chapter Four
Isaac made the leap down from the stage, feeling the impact quake through his body as he jogged through the pit toward where Dylan had set up camp. His production manager directed the sound and light crews with the hand of a master—without the whip. He didn’t need one. He had an intuitive eye and an uncanny ability to understand exactly what was needed to get the effect he wanted.
He was staring grimly at the stage when Isaac reached him. “Time’s almost up; we have to shoot through in”—Isaac glanced at his phone screen before slipping it back into his pocket—“fifteen. Whatcha think? She’ll be right, yeah?”
Dylan tapped his chin and grunted. A man of few words. But then that concentration lightened the tiniest bit and an almost grin pulled at one side of his tight mouth. “It’ll be epic.”
Isaac agreed. This was the most ambitious show they’d put on, and considering how hard he tried to push the envelope, that was saying something. Live performances were, for him, more than just a stringing together of songs. They should tell a story, draw the audience in until they couldn’t tell which world they inhabited, the one they lived in or the one he’d created. This particular show had been in the works for more than a year, with bits and pieces tested over and over throughout the tour, but now it would all come together. He could taste the excitement in the air as his people got the physical lay of the land on something that had been in the conceptual stages for so long.
“The real question is, how the fuck could you ever hope to top this?”
Isaac punched the smart-ass in the arm. “How d’you think?”
Dylan grinned then. His firm belief that, after the two years they’d worked together, every show was only going to get bigger and better was unshakable. Given how fucked Isaac’s mindset was right now, not to mention its effect on his songwriting, he wasn’t so sure. Who could focus on bigger and better when you were barely focusing on now?
They discussed a few final details, and then Isaac left his friend to begin gathering the crew. He’d almost made it back to the pit when Nick rounded the corner of the stage, two unexpected guests in tow. The last two people he wanted to see right now.
Forcing his facial muscles to relax, his grin into place, he walked toward Tad Dugan and Susan Weisz, hand extended.
“Susan, I didn’t know you were in Vegas.”
Susan smiled indulgently up at him, and he thought again how pretty his manager was. She had the classic beauty of Caroline Kennedy and Jackie O. At least when she was focused on him. When it got down to business, she was a barracuda in a mermaid’s form—he wouldn’t want to be across the negotiation table from her. “It’s good to see you too, Isaac.” She turned to the man at her side. “You remember Tad.”
The record company was pulling out the big guns, it seemed. Normally he and Susan worked with the head of the Strange Eye Entertainment record label; Isaac had earned that status after his first gold album. Tad Dugan was the VP of Strange Eye’s parent company.
Big guns indeed.
“Of course.” He shook the man’s hand, meeting his intelligent gaze without flinching. “What brought you out this way, Tad?”
“Not the weather.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “Had an executive board meeting to attend, and since I was in the neighborhood…”
The man’s smile wasn’t typical of so many of the reps, the ones that were nice to your face but bit worse than a tiger shark when you turned your back to them. Tad had always seemed straightforward, and the other musicians who’d worked with him gave him a good rap. That didn’t mean Isaac thought the man just happened to stop by.
Nor was he the type to ignore the obvious. “And…?”
Tad chuckled. “Nothing gets by you, huh?” He gestured toward the first row of seats nearby. “May we…?”
Isaac led the way, twisting sideways in his seat to face his guests. He tried not to think of them as opponents—they were all on the same side here. Still, they’d want answers, and he didn’t have any.
Susan sent him a look as they settled in. He couldn’t tell if it was reassurance or warning, but he offered her a small smile anyway. He was a big boy. He could take whatever was coming.
“This looks like it’ll be one spectacular show,” Tad said, glancing around approvingly.
“It should be, as long as we’ve worked on it. You’ve provided the best designers, choreographers, performers. I don’t take that lightly.”
“No, you don’t.” Tad transferred that laser gaze from the stage to Isaac’s face, staring for a long moment. “You never have, and I’ve always appreciated that about you. So I won’t beat around the bush.”
Isaac raised his brow and waited.
“Why don’t you have studio time booked yet?”
“Because I’m not ready to record yet.” It was as honest an answer as he could give.
Tad grunted. “So when will you be ready?”
“When the concept comes together.” If the concept came together. “I have a few ideas, but it’s not solid enough to present yet.”
Tad didn’t call bullshit asap, so there was that, at least.
“Why isn’t it ready?” Tad asked, one brow angled up. “Normally you’re raring to go as soon as a tour is done. This isn’t like you, and I gotta be honest and say that has us concerned.”
There’s the shark. Lurking in Tad’s gaze, waiting to come out if necessary. But Isaac was the golden goose. “That’s true, I am usually ready. This time I’m not.” He wished there was something more he could give the man, but knowing his psyche was shot to hell, he was having nightmares constantly, and he couldn’t write worth a damn would not reassure anyone. And he sure as hell didn’t want anything getting back to his crew, unnerving them.
Susan stepped in. “Tad, I think we should consider the fact that four years of nonstop touring and recording is a long stretch of time. A break would allow for some creative breathing space, a fresh perspective…”
“We don’t want something new,” Tad argued. “We want the Isaac millions of fans know and love.”
“And that’s what you’ll get.” Susan’s sweet face sharpened, her barracuda rising to the surface. Isaac relaxed into his seat a bit, letting her do her job. “But not if you burn out your number one artist.”
And that was the rock and hard place they were all between.
Tad’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of breathing space are we talking about?”
“I don’t think six months is unreasonable,” Susan told him.
The edge in the record exec softened the slightest bit. Obviously he’d expected something longer, but whether this was burn out or not—and he wasn’t sure either way—Isaac didn’t want to stay away from music that long. He’d pushed himself just as hard, maybe harder, than the record label ever had.
That was assuming, of course, that the music was still there, somewhere beneath all the chaos in his head. He just needed to find it again.
Tad was silent for a long moment. “We can wait six months to book studio time. But I want some assurance of what you’re working on. A concept for the next album.”
That he could work with, surely. “When?”
“In two weeks. I’ll be back the weekend of the concert,” he said, jerking his chin toward the empty stage. “I want the concept then.”
And from the look of him, that was as far as he’d give. A vise tightened around Isaac’s head, promising a helluva headache on its way. “I can do that.”
Tad stood. “Great.” He held his hand out for a firm shake, keeping hold of Isaac’s slightly longer than necessary. “I know you’re not some flaky artist, Isaac. I do. I also know this”—he gestured between them—“is not your MO. When I say I’m worried, that’s not a one-sided deal. We want you happy and creating.”
He didn’t want worry. He was worried enough for all of them, and it didn’t help a damn bit. Nothing had except the little distraction he’d found this morning.
“That’s what we all want, yeah?” he said.
Tad dropped his hand, giving him a nod of agreement. “Good. Don’t let me down.”
Isaac flashed his trademark smile, keeping the edge he felt carefully concealed. “I make it a point not to.”
“Tad.” Susan gestured the exec toward the aisle. After he passed her, she reached over to give Isaac a hug. “I’ll give you a call later?”
Isaac gave her a squeeze. “Anytime,” he told her. Only as he watched them walk away did the tension in his body ease.
When he looked back toward the stage, it was to find Nick at the side, waiting, watching. Worried, if that nasty frown was any sign. Isaac took a deep, steadying breath and crossed to the duffel he’d dropped near the stage, kneeling to pack it, gripping the handle so hard it hurt as he turned back to his friend and announced that he was ready to leave.
They didn’t say much on the way out of the arena, not till they reached the black Escalade Nick had rented. It was already running, the air conditioner on full blast, cooling the inside. Two members of his security team guarded the vehicle, but it was Nick who handed Isaac’s bag off to one of them, then opened the back door, gesturing Isaac in. Isaac tapped his friend on the belly as he passed, a backhanded thank-you for a common courtesy he didn’t expect but appreciated nonetheless.
Nick sat beside him in the rear seat, the empty middle row giving them some privacy as Nick’s men took the front and they began the drive back to the Sovereign. Isaac didn’t realize he’d reached into his pocket until the rope caressed his hand, and he drew it out, forming the knots almost without conscious thought. The repetition centered him, allowing him to breathe again.
“Everything okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Total lie; he and Nick both knew it—and his friend’s snort of amusement proved it. “Stop blowing smoke up my ass. I might believe Susan came all the way out here for an informal powwow, but Dugan? No way. What did they want?”
“They want to know when we’ll start on the next album.”
His pause said Nick knew that wasn’t as simple a question as it sounded. “And?”
“And…he gave me two weeks.”
“The album concept in two weeks; studio time in six months.”
“Huh.” From the corner of his eye, he watched Nick’s fingers tap a rhythm out on his knee. “How do you feel about that?”
Isaac snorted. “So we’re talking feelings now?”
He wasn’t sure what his feelings were, much less telling them to anyone else. For five years he’d pushed himself, first to break into the rock music industry when his arrogant father had told him he’d never make something of himself doing what he loved. His family had waited in the wings, waited for him to fail, but he hadn’t. Within a year he’d not only won a recording contract, but his first single had climbed to the top of the charts. He’d earned his rock royalty status with nonstop recording and touring for the past four years, proving he had what it took to stay on top.
He couldn’t lose it now. He wouldn’t.
Every time he faced his crew, his band, his agent—hell, sometimes even his best friend—he felt the pressure, the same pressure that had pushed him through tour after tour and album after album: the pressure to perform. To succeed. His career and his psyche demanded it. Except now, when he reached for that place inside him where the music waited, he found…chaos. There was no order, no song. Not even an inkling.
The music was just…gone. The only clear thing in his life right now was how fucked up he was. Not only would he not be ready in two weeks; he had no fucking clue when he might even be close. Because he had no fucking clue how to fix himself. He didn’t even know what the hell was broken.
And he was running out of time. The noose was tightening, and the longer this went on, the more likely he was to hang himself.