Another day, another Atlas meeting. We’re three weeks out from the Metropolis show, and both Atlas and Shayla have been grilling us so hard on all things European tour-related I’m almost sick of talking about it—almost, but not quite. The discussions might be tedious, but they are making the idea of playing overseas finally start to feel real.

Plus, we really do need all Shayla’s last minute reminders to save us from disaster. She only discovered last week that JP’s passport is expired.

I make my way to our usual meeting room at Atlas HQ. Nadine and that asshole from PR, David, who got everyone hooked on calling Kay a snake, are already waiting. Shayla’s sitting on a couch by herself, tight-lipped with her arms wrapped around her stomach. I tilt my head in concern but she looks away as soon as she meets my eye.

I pause in the doorway, wondering if it’s my imagination of if the temperature in here really just dropped several degrees. I can almost smell the dread in the air, sharp and nauseating, like I’m walking into some kind of death chamber.

I was going to say hello, but my throat constricts just as a twisting sensation starts in my gut. Now I have an idea why Shayla’s clutching her stomach. I take a seat next to her on the couch.

“Thanks for joining us, Pat,” David greets me.

I don’t bother correcting him. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head, staring at me with what almost looks like regret. “We’ll wait for the rest of the band to get into that.”

The guys file in one at a time, doing the same double-take I did when they pick up on the atmosphere in the room. When we’re all finally seated, Nadine lifts a folder out of her bag and sets it on her lap.

“You all know who Kay Fischer is?” she inquires.

The rest of the band’s heads snap towards me. I blink, fighting to keep my cool.

My chin dips down in a nod. “She wrote an article about us in La Gare a few months ago.”

“She’s working on another article about you now.”

Nadine opens her folder and starts to pass several sets of stapled papers around. I hand one to Shayla, but she shakes her head and refuses to take it.

“I’ve already read it.”

There’s a harshness to her tone I’ve never heard before.

I glance down at the first page. There’s a title:

Next Stop: Sherbrooke Station

Underneath that is Kay’s name. I take a deep breath and start reading.

* * *

The topic of Sherbrooke Station prompts a now familiar question among Montrealers whenever it’s brought up: are we talking about the metro stop or the band? In the case of this article, the answer is the latter, an increasingly popular addition to the city’s alternative music scene who seem to generate more concern over where they’ll be drinking tonight than when they’ll be playing their next show.

A series of chart-topping achievements might suggest it’s worth getting up to speed on all things Sherbrooke Station, but a deeper look into the now infamous group’s career, which has blown up after a recent deal with the omnipotent Atlas Records, reveals a band on the edge of toppling over before they’ve even begun to build themselves up.

Sherbrooke Station’s lead singer, twenty-four year-old Ace Turner, has already fallen prey to the typical rock god vices of public intoxication and violent outbursts. The remaining members of the band have little to offer in the way of saving graces. Their attitude as a whole is perhaps best exemplified by band member Jean-Paul ‘JP’ Bouchard-Guindon; when asked what motivates the group to keep getting up on stage every night, he simply responds with: “Girls.” Clearly whatever sense of ambition got Sherbrooke Station up the first rungs in the ladder of success is rapidly on the wane.

Completed by bassist Cole Byrne and drummer Matthew Pearson, the group forms a painfully trendy ensemble of inked-up arms, pierced eyebrows, and fitted leather jackets. Don’t let their apparent ‘edge’ fool you, though; they’re a boy band without the dance routines, trading baby faces for beards and a pervading moodiness that has worked to gain them the same swooning female audience others won over with Seventeen-worthy smiles.

Admittedly, their fame isn’t completely founded in good looks. As Adam Leahy, a concert-goer at the group’s March show in Ottawa who was, “guilted into going by [his] mega-fan girlfriend,” concedes: “At first I didn’t want to be here, but they’re actually really good. I wasn’t expecting that.” As far as live shows go, the band does deliver an unexpected punch, albeit at the cost of a shot to the eardrums, courtesy of all the ‘mega-fans’ screaming out their adoration.

So why wouldn’t a deal with one of the biggest labels in the country be anything other than a guaranteed ticket to international success? Part of Sherbrooke Station’s inevitable downfall may lie in that record deal itself. While Bouchard-Guindon fills the stony silence of his band-mates with assurances that, “[Atlas Records has] been pretty great so far. We wouldn’t have our big tour coming up without them,” not everyone in the group agrees.

After requesting an interview on his own, Pearson informs La Gare that, “this just isn’t how it was supposed to be,” going so far as to admit, “we’re just the Atlas Records show horse, and once they make us drop Shayla [McDougal, the band’s manager of the past two years] things will only get worse.”

The band’s prospects have indeed already taken a turn for the unfortunate. A physical altercation that took place on April 22^nd led to Ace Turner’s detainment by Montreal Police and to a violent photo of him being highly circulated online. Turner defended the episode as an attempt to “protect a girl from a creep.” According to Pearson, however, “[Turner] was being a drunk asshole like he always is. He would have punched somebody over way less.”

Whether orchestrated as a misguided PR stunt or simply the product of uncontrolled excess, Ace Turner’s alcohol-fueled antics have shifted media attention away from the band’s actual accomplishments. As Pearson himself says, “lately I haven’t felt like it’s my music that’s had an impact on anyone.”

Some fans have even turned their backs on the band altogether. In a public Facebook post that recently went viral, Emily Laframboise, a Montreal mother who purchased tickets for her sixteen year-old daughter to attend Sherbrooke Station’s upcoming Metropolis show, demands “a refund, since this event obviously isn’t somewhere it’s safe for my underage child to be,” and urges other parents to do the same.

Unimpressed fans, label drama, and an unfortunate knack for being around the wrong camera at the wrong time all spell out a recipe for irrelevancy. The band’s career hasn’t yet laid the foundations to support the drama they’ve surrounded themselves with, and they’re bound to wear out the patience of fans by playing the role of entitled rich rock stars—long before they’ve earned a sense of entitlement or even gotten rich. The group has as much staying power as that ‘Ace Turner Gets Punched’ meme you probably saw, shared, and promptly forgot.

Sherbrooke Station might be the next stop on the line, but it certainly won’t be the last. It’s safe to say that when their five minutes are up and the fame train starts rolling again, these amateurs will be too busy sorting through the quagmire of their own meagre success to even bother hopping on board.

* * *

I flip the sheets of paper closed with so much force one tears away from the staple.

“She didn’t write this.”

David shrugs. “That’s her name on it.”

“Where did you even get this?” I demand.

“We keep an eye on what the press is saying about our bands,” he answers cryptically. “We saw the article in La Gare back in March and looked into it. We had to shut down one of Kay Fischer’s stories in the past.”

She never mentioned anything about that.

“I don’t believe she wrote it,” I repeat, louder this time.

I toss the article onto the table before I can start ripping it to pieces in front of everyone here. The rest of the guys are only just finishing now. Cole looks up at me and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“You told her all this?”

JP doesn’t show any reserve in mashing the papers into a ball and tossing them over his shoulder.

“Câlice. Bien sûr she wrote this. Who else would know all this shit? I told you she was a snake. Tabarnak, Matt, if you hadn’t been thinking with your dick—”

David coughs to cover up a laugh.

I wheel on him. “Is something funny here?”

“Not really, no.”

I glare at him until he seems threatened enough to give some kind of explanation.

“Kay Fischer tried to get us on plagiarism accusations last time. She was...seeing one of our interns during her research.”

A bomb goes off in my head, the explosion so loud it leaves my brain ringing.

“That’s enough,” Nadine interrupts.

I can barely focus on what she’s saying. Kay never told me about an ex at Atlas.

Does he still work here? Have I met him before? Why would she hide that?

“We’re not here to talk about Kay Fischer,” Nadine continues. “What La Gare says about you, good or bad, doesn’t matter. It’s La Gare.” She waves her hand like she’s swatting away a mosquito. “We’re here because you went against your agreement to refer all contact with the press to our PR department.”

“Hold on.” Cole leans forwards in his seat. “This was all agreed to by PR. If some journalist you approved wrote an article you don’t like, we’re not at fault.”

“You never received approval to communicate with Kay Fischer.”

“Yes we did!” JP crows. “Matt said...”

His face falls as the realization catches up with him.

“You fucker,” Ace breathes. “You lied to us.”

“Speaking of lies.”

We all turn to Shayla, who’s been so silent I almost forgot she was here. She straightens up, twisting slightly away from me on the couch as she does.

“When were you all going to tell me you planned on letting me go?”

“We never planned on letting you go, Shayla,” I urge.

She nods to the papers on the table. “Sure sounds like it.”

“That’s a lie! It’s all twisted. It’s—”

“So you admit it,” Ace cuts me off. “The snake fucked you over.”

“No. She didn’t. She wouldn’t do this.” I grab at my hair. “None of this makes any sense!”

Nadine clears her throat and raises her voice higher. “As I said, we’re not here to talk about Kay Fischer. We’re here to discuss your contract. Part of your record deal was handing off all PR responsibilities to the Atlas team within six months of signing it. You’ve broken that part of the contract.”

“We booked Kay’s interviews before that.” The justification sounds feeble even to my own ears.

“Trust me, Pat, if we decided to sue—which we could—we’d destroy you.”

“But we aren’t taking that path,” Nadine interrupts David, “for now. We believe this is all tied to a management issue.”

Shayla tenses beside me on the couch.

“This has nothing to do with Shayla,” I argue. “This was all me. If you want to fire someone, fire me.”

“Good fucking riddance,” Ace mutters.

I try to ignore how much that stings. This is Ace, my best friend, the guy I started writing songs with when Sherbrooke Station was just a shadow in the back of our minds, flat-out telling me he wants me to leave the band.

Nadine turns to Shayla. “Do you mind leaving the room?”

She stands up beside me, adjusting her bag on her shoulder before crossing over to the door. I stare at the back of her head, willing her to turn around and see all the words I’m struggling to say written across my face, but all she does is pause with one hand on the doorknob. Her shoulders stiffen and for a moment I think she’s going to turn towards me, but then her posture slumps and she leaves us without looking back.

“Shayla can’t handle a band like you, not anymore.” Nadine almost sounds gentle now. “I know you have a close relationship, but Atlas thinks it’s best if you move on to someone with more experience.”

JP asks the question that I’m sure is on all our minds. “Can you make us fire her?”

It hits me how helpless we are, how vulnerable we’ve let ourselves become. I should know what my own record deal says about the band’s management, but the truth is that I have no idea what the full extent of Atlas’ power over us is.

“We’re strongly suggesting you let her go.”

“And I think you’ll find,” David adds, with the hint of a chuckle, “that it’s best to do the things Atlas Records strongly suggests.”

“We’ve set up a few interviews with some managers we think will suit you. Someone will be in touch with the schedule.”

Nadine tucks her folder away, gathering up her things like everything’s settled and the meeting is done.

“Oh, and if any of you contact another journalist without going through us, we will take this further. Much further.” David smiles like a shark.

* * *

The silence between us as we leave the building breaks as soon as we see Shayla standing out on the curb, staring down at her cell phone. JP starts calling her name.

“What do we do?” he demands, as we all flock around her. “Shayla, how do we fix this?”

“I’ll walk,” I offer, as pain shoots through me at the idea. “If it will make things better, I’ll walk.”

She shakes her head. An air of gravity hangs around her—not the thunderstorm of rage I was expecting, just a grey and hopeless downpour seeping into every line of her face.

“You guys haven’t figured it out yet, have you? They don’t care about Kay. They don’t even care about the article. They could take care of La Gare with a flick of their wrist.”

She waits for some kind of realization to hit us, and when it doesn’t she sighs.

“This is all just about getting rid of me. They needed to force you into an ultimatum and you just gave them the perfect opportunity. They want you managed by someone in their pocket, someone who will make you easier for them to control. They’ve been trying to push me out since you signed the deal.”

“You don’t have to go,” Cole urges. “They can’t make us do that, can they?”

“They’re going to make your life hell if you don’t. They’re going to make my life hell. These people get what they want. I just didn’t think you’d become so valuable to them so fast. I thought we’d have more time before we had to deal with this shit.”

Time. Lately it’s been stretching and contracting so much that some days feel like months and some hours are compressed into seconds. I’m still reaching my hands towards the future, even as it’s slamming into me at full speed.

“We’re not going to fire you, Shayla. We need you.”

JP states that like it’s a fact of life and Shayla almost smiles.

“You don’t have to. I’m resigning. I’ll give you my formal notice later today. This fight just isn’t worth it, boys. You’re going to do big things, and I won’t let myself stand in your way.”

She says a quick goodbye and heads over to a car that’s just pulled up, not even giving us time to reply. I feel all of the guys’ eyes on me as I watch her drive away.

“Happy now?” Ace snarls. “I knew you were a jealous bastard, but I never thought you’d take it this far.”

“Jealous?” I repeat. “Of what?”

“Of me.”

I actually laugh. I can’t help it. The sound rips its way out of me and something in Ace’s glare darkens to the point of danger.

“You always thought this band was about you, that you were the one with all the direction and big ideas. You couldn’t handle it when Atlas wanted to focus on me. That’s why you started all your conspiracy theories. You tried to make us think they were out to get us when they were just watching our backs and protecting us from people like you. What if they hadn’t caught that article? What if it got published?”

“If you’re as great as you seem to think you are, a little bad press shouldn’t bother you.”

“You’re trying to make everyone think I don’t care about this band, when really it’s you who doesn’t give a fuck. You’re so wrapped up in your own bruised ego and that little journalist tramp—”

My fist flies toward his mouth, but the fucker dodges it. Next thing I know he’s clutching the neck of my shirt and spitting his words right in my face, his features twisted in a way that almost makes him look insane.

“Watch yourself, Matt. I’m a ‘drunk asshole,’ remember? I’ve punched people over way less.”

“Knock it off, guys.” Cole marches over to us with his sleeves rolled up and forces us apart. “This isn’t helping.”

“You stay away from her!” Ace barks at me from a few feet away. Both of our chests are heaving. “I swear to god, Matt, if you go back to her after this, we’re done. Nothing between us will mean anything anymore.”

Even as my hands are twitching to toss him to the ground, the hint of pain in his voice slices through me. I hardly recognize him most days, but he’s still Ace. He’s still the guy I’ve had by my side for the past five years. He’s still the guy I’ve watched turn the darkness inside him into art and tear himself apart onstage for the entire world to see.

He gives me a hard stare before he turns and heads down the sidewalk. Cole’s still got a hand on my shoulder and only drops it once Ace jaywalks across the street.

“This is fucked up, man,” he tells me. “This is all really fucked up, but I agree. You can’t talk to her anymore, not if you want this band to survive.”

“Block her. Right now.” JP has his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He nods to the pocket where I keep my phone. “Tell her you read the article and you aren’t talking to her again.”

I pull my phone out and stare at the screen. Part of me is still clinging to the hope that Kay will have some kind of explanation, but what possible reason is there to give? No one else could have written that article, and her past with Atlas Records was clearly something she wanted to hide.

My mind catches on a memory of her lying in bed beside me. She’d fallen asleep, and for a few minutes I’d watched her breathing. Her porcelain doll features were shadowed by the half light of dawn, the edge of her tattoo stark black against the white of the sheets.

That tattoo.

The sword and the shield.

She protects herself. She defends herself. What if that doesn’t leave room for anyone else?

Picturing Shayla with her hand on the meeting room door, shoulders slumped in a defeat I never thought I’d see her submit to, I send the message off to Kay.