"So you're coming." August wasn't asking a question when she said that. My best friend didn't deal in mealy-mouthed, wishy-washy things like "asking permission" or "reading the temperature of the room. I'd spent my most of my friendship with her apologizing behind her back.

"Really?" I whined into the phone.

The crackly connection was not enough to put a damper the full force of August Waverley's personality. I wasn't even sure why I was arguing with her. She always won out in the end, mostly because she just refused to consider any point of view that wasn't her own. "C-dawg, seriously," she huffed. "You haven't come out with me since you got canned."

"Thank you for the reminder," I grumbled. That wound was still very fresh.

"But you're working already!" she trilled, pathologically optimistic as always.

"Yeah," I snapped. "For my dad."

"Who is only the owner of the biggest major record label on the East Coast," she interrupted. "And are you, or are you not in A&R right now?"

I wrinkled my nose. "I am."

"And isn't that what you've been dying to do ever since we were sneaking into clubs underage?"

"It's not the same."

"How is it not the same?"

I took a deep breath. Of course August wouldn't get it. She came from a normal family. A nice, ordinary suburban home with a mom who worked part time at a dentist office and a dad who installed windows. Her father was never photographed jumping from his private jet and landing at his shareholder meeting. Her sister was a nurse, not a camera hungry socialite married to the cowboy hat-wearing host of a reality show. She was used to having to claw for recognition and when she did get recognized it was for her own merits, not for who her father was. "It's only because my Daddy pulled some strings and shoehorned me into a department I have no business being in."

"You've wanted to work in Artists and Repertoire ever since I've known you," August pointed out. She sounded slightly breathless and I could hear the wind racing past the receiver. She was probably out on an eight-mile run or some other highly efficient use of her time this Saturday morning. I was still hiding in my room in my pajamas. "You're the one who taught me what it even means."

"It is what I want, and it's as exciting as hell to finally be in that department. But June," I said, using one of my many month-based nicknames for my best friend since sophomore year in high school. "I'm only working there because my Dad insisted they give me a job. Even though we're all the way down at Anthem."

"The offices are downtown right?"

"So far downtown we're almost in the water," I sighed. "So it's good to not be in the same building as my Dad, but still. I'm trying to keep who I actually am on the down low."

"Huh," August said noncommittally. She knew me and my neuroses well enough to know that wasn't all.

"And until I bring in a band that gets signed," I went on. "A real, successful, working band, then that's all I'd ever be. Ricky Silver's little girl, the Paris Hilton of the record industry." I squeezed the sheets between my fist. "And you know how I feel about that."

"I know," August said, uncharacteristically gentle. "I get it C. You've been out to prove you can make it on your own merits since the day I snuck you into the Water Street Music Hall."

"You were so mad," I laughed, relaxing.

"Well yeah! We could have walked right in there if you would have just told them who you were," August huffed. "But instead..."

"We bribed the dishwasher and went in through the kitchen," I finished proudly. "I still say that was pretty damn genius."

"Walked in like we owned the place."

"Damn straight."

"So let's do that shit again," August declared, deftly steering me back to the topic at had as only she could. "Noah and the guys are playing an opening set at the Third Wheel tonight. You won't be out late and hell, maybe Sinister Affinity is the band you'll end up signing.

I bit my tongue. August's boyfriend's band was mediocre on a good day, and while I could excuse the sloppy musicianship, I couldn't excuse the lack of professionalism and the general asshole behavior from her guitarist boyfriend Noah Cochran. For some reason, my brilliant, driven best friend had saddled herself with the worst kind of guy. He was wholly dependent on her, and his band was too. In fact, I was fairly certain that tonight's booking was her doing, not his. She'd been working as their de facto manager — for free I might add — for the last few months, and they'd been getting better bookings because of it. Noah didn't appreciate it. But I did. Which was why — "Okay fine," I relented. "I'll stop being a sad sack hermit. "

"Good," August said bluntly. "So I'll meet you at the Third Wheel at eight. Think of it this way. If you're really going to make it in A&R, you should be doing this every night. Scouring the clubs, finding fresh talent, that sort of thing."

"You're right," I whined. "Why are you always right?"

"It's a curse," August huffed, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

"The sooner you start ruling the world, the better off we'll all be," I told her.

"Working on it!" she trilled. "See you tonight!"

I hung up and unclenched my fist from the sheet. She was right of course. August was always right. If I wanted to prove I had a place at Anthem, I needed to stop wallowing in my failure at Crux Records and get out and start working. Pounding the pavement. No one expected Ricky Silver's daughter to be a hard worker. No one expected me to pull my weight. And bucking people's expectations of me was what I did best.

Time to get to work.