Chapter Twenty-Two
Jonathan
On Wednesday morning, I say goodbye to Gabby with great reluctance when she leaves to go to class.
With a smile, and a pat on my chest, she says, “Jonathan, you hired a bodyguard for me. He’ll drive me to class and follow me around all day. I’ll be fine. I’m sure he’ll be bored to tears and wish for someone more interesting after an hour or two.”
I gather her into my arms and press a kiss to her lips. “I know. You’re right. But I don’t like it. I’ve had you to myself for two whole days, and I don’t want to let you go. Especially not out there where the vultures are waiting to pick the flesh off your bones.”
She shudders. “Thanks for that mental image. Besides, I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
With a doubtful look, I release her. It’s almost seven thirty, and if she’s going to make it to class on time, she needs to leave. “Talk to me when you’ve had to deal with them for a while.”
“Deal.” She grins and shoulders her backpack.
“Have you decided what you’re going to say when they bombard you with questions?”
She gives me a funny look. “Probably just, ‘No comment.’ Or nothing. Do you want me to say something?”
Shrugging, I stuff my hands in my pockets. “No. I mean, it’s up to you. You can answer questions if you want. I’m just worried about them violating your privacy. And I want to keep you safe.” I want to pull her back into my arms, take the backpack off her shoulders, and keep her here. I don’t like that she’s going out the front door through the pack of paparazzi that has grown since Monday. Since we haven’t left, and only Blaine and his people have been in and out of the house, they’ve gotten more curious.
But Blaine’s team has kept them from getting too close to the door. And he assured us yesterday that one of his best men, Jesse, will be taking care of Gabby while she’s at school or away from here. When she brought up staying in the dorm, Blaine kept his stoic expression, but advised against it. “Dorms are difficult to secure and would take a large team. I wasn’t appraised of that possibility, so I didn’t prepare for it. In order for us to guarantee your safety and lack of harassment, you’ll need to be within our security perimeter when not in class.”
I’d rejoiced on the inside, happy that she’d be staying here for the time being. She’ll be getting more of her things today when she’s on campus.
She steps in for one last kiss. “I think I’ll stick with ‘no comment’ for now. I can always change my mind later, right?” With an impish grin, she picks up her violin case and opens the bedroom door to go out to the living room where Jesse is waiting. Dean, the one who’s assigned to me during the day, is standing outside the front door. Together they’ll escort Gabby to the waiting car. But I know that the seemingly docile crowd on the sidewalk will surge to life, a many-headed, question-shouting beast with flashing cameras for eyes.
I wait out of sight of the front door until it closes behind her, watching through the blinds as she braves the crowd between her and the car. Jesse and Dean flank her, each of them with one hand on her, the other outstretched to keep questing photographers back, using their bodies to shield her as they shove their way through. Gabby keeps her head down, her face averted as much as she can. I’m not even sure she says, “No comment.” I can hear the shouted barrage of questions from here. Having been in the center of that cacophony, I know how overwhelming it is, especially the first time. Your brain can’t even process the many questions shouted your way, much less formulate a response, even something so benign as “no comment.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, but I ignore it. It’s either another reporter, another manager, or my mom. I’m not interested in talking to any of them right now.
My mom’s been calling me, trying to get me to release a statement through our old PR firm. “If you’re going to take advantage of this, you need to give them something,” she keeps telling me. A glance outside our window might prove her wrong. The mystery is keeping them wanting more.
For now.
That’s why I have a video chat meeting with Angela Monroe, one of the managers who’s tried to get in touch with me. I called a few of them back after listening to all my voicemails. The ones who were the least high-pressure got my attention more than the other way around. And when I spoke to Angela on the phone yesterday afternoon, we connected right away. I explained my concerns and my past experiences, but she reassured me that she was most concerned with protecting my interests and would put me in contact with labels who took care of their artists instead of trying for rights grabs and making them pay for everything out of their royalties.
Because I do want the chance to perform again. The rush of being on stage is addictive. The best high. And as much as I said I didn’t miss the fame, now that I have the chance to do it again, I can’t bring myself to turn it down. Despite all the shit that happened when Brash ended its run, I want another shot. A chance to do it on my own terms.
As the car with Gabby in it slowly pulls away from the curb, making it through the crowd of photographers, I turn away from the window. I have about an hour before before my video chat meeting, and I don’t know what to do with myself, alone in my house for the first time in days. Ben hasn’t been here since Monday, unwilling to brave the media circus outside our front door. I can’t blame him. I haven’t been willing to either.
But I have a meeting with the Dean of Students this afternoon. I wasn’t thrilled with Gabby going back to classes before that meeting, but she can be stubborn when she wants to be. “I can’t miss another day of classes. We have security now. I’ll be fine.”
I couldn’t argue with her.
That’s not true. I did argue with her. But I couldn’t win. And the reality is that she’d have to go out sooner or later. What difference would one day make in the scheme of things?
Going back to my room, I set my guitar case on the bed and open it, running my fingers over the strings before picking it up. I haven’t touched it since Saturday, the last time things were normal.
Will they ever be normal again?
Who knew that party would be a watershed moment, a catalyst dividing my life into before and after once again?
There are so many of those moments, and you never know what they’re going to be until after the fact. There’s before and after Brash. And the day I met Gabby is another one. Before and after Gabby. Now, before and after … whatever this is going to become.
Settling on the corner of the bed, I snug the guitar against my torso, leaning over it and strumming the strings, adjusting the tuning. Then I pick out a melody. Snatches of it have been floating through my consciousness over the last couple of days, but I haven’t taken the time to mess around with it, draw it out, and turn it into something resembling a song.
I spend the next hour working on that melody, picking the notes from the guitar, arranging and rearranging phrases and notes until I like what I’ve come up with. Grabbing my notebook of staff paper, I scribble down the shape of the melody, not bothering with measures and key signatures. Gabby’ll help me with that later. She’s better at that stuff anyway.
Playing it again and again, I commit it to memory, then I mess around with the chords to underpin what I’ve written. I hum the melody while I strum along. No words have presented themselves to fill in the empty spaces of the notes yet. They’ll come, though. They always do, sooner or later.
Before I know it, my computer is chiming to alert me that I’m getting a call on Skype. Good thing I thought to log in before sitting down and losing myself in my music. It’s been a pleasant distraction for the last hour.
I scramble to my desk, accepting the call and setting my guitar back in its case while it connects. When I turn back to my computer, a woman’s face fills the screen, her brown hair pulled away from her face, black glasses framing her brown eyes, her lips painted red. She’s attractive, older than me, and all business.
“Jonathan?”
I smile. “That’s me. Hi.”
She smiles politely as well. “Good morning. How are you doing?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “Okay, I guess. It’s been a crazy few days.”
“I imagine so.” She glances down at something in front of her and gets down to business. I like that she doesn’t waste a lot of time with small talk. She’s no-nonsense and knows her stuff. She dropped some names yesterday afternoon when we spoke on the phone, and today she tells me that she’s put in calls to several of them, and talked to one already. “They happen to have an opening right now that they’re looking to fill. I think you might be a great fit.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, the stubble rasping under my fingers. I haven’t shaved yet today. Maybe I won’t. Gabby likes it when I have a little scruff sometimes. “What are their contracts like?”
Angela arches one manicured eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re interested in securing my services? I don’t usually negotiate contracts for clients unless they are, in fact, my clients.”
Grinning, I drop my hand. “Okay. Let’s talk about your contract. You mentioned the most salient points yesterday, but I would like to review it in full before signing anything.”
She gives her small smile again. “Of course. I’ll email you a copy of my standard contract. If you want to jump at the chance with Imperius Records, it’d be better if you make a decision on representation sooner than later. Also, if you have anything else you could record, do so and send it to me. It’ll help me shop you around. The more offers we have on the table, the better we can negotiate.”
“Great. Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good. This has been a productive conversation. Email my assistant and schedule another call in two days. Take some time to review the contract. If you have any questions, you can reach me via email, or we can discuss it more when we speak next.”
“Sounds good. Thank you.”
Another polite smile. “Thank you. Talk to you soon.”
With that, she ends the call. I close the video chat window, a little shell-shocked by how quickly things are moving. But this is what I want. Angela was the best of the people who contacted me. I could look around some more, but unless her contract is somehow screwing me over, I’m pretty set on her. Her contacts, her approach, and her knowledge combined with her complete lack of bullshit, makes her the perfect fit for me.
Opening her email, I download and print out the attached contract so I can read through it and make notes if I need to. I’ll have to run this by my mom first, since she has a better idea of what makes a good contract than I do.
Settling onto the couch with a protein bar, a bottle of water, and a pen, I take what will be the first step in launching my career as a solo artist.