Part 30 (2/2)

He shrugged. ”None,” he replied.

I nodded. ”And ... how do you think I ended up at Harvard?”

He grimaced. ”Your parents.”

”Yeah. And you saw them last night.” In a bitter tone, I mocked the words from my father. ”'Julia, you've always wanted to go into the Foreign Service.' They don't even see me. They don't know what I want, or who I am, or what I want out of life.”

He stopped pacing, checked his watch, and lit another cigarette. ”What do you want?”

”I have no idea!” I said. ”I've never had a chance to figure that out. So ... I took this risk for me. Because maybe I need to find out what I want to do. Maybe I want to do something completely different. But unless I try, I'll never know.”

”I can understand that,” he said. ”I had to go my own way. My dad and granddad were both cops. I'm sure they wanted me to do that, too.”

”So ... that's why I did it. Because maybe instead of going into the Foreign Service and living the rest of my life lonely, moving to a new country every three years, maybe I can ground myself in something that I enjoy. Something that matters to me.”

”Like music,” he said.

”Yeah. Like music. I'll never be a musician, but I bet I can be a h.e.l.l of a band manager.”

He grinned. ”You've already proved that.”

I snorted. ”Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Crank. We might leave LA with nothing at all.”

He nodded. ”Yeah. But we'll give it our best. Let's go.”

I want you guys (Crank) So we walked to the elevators, me slightly behind her, so I could look at her b.u.t.t as she walked. I never said I wasn't a bit of a pig ... or maybe a lot. But some things you just have to appreciate. And Julia, even in a business-like skirt and jacket, is just too hot not to look at.

I winked at her as we stepped in the elevator. She looked puzzled, but that was fine. A little mystery never hurts. But the second the elevator door closed, I stepped close and looked her in the eyes.

”I need a kiss. From you. For luck. Now.”

Her eyes widened, and she flushed a little. That was all the permission I needed. I pulled her close and leaned in, our lips touching, just lightly. Her tongue brushed against my teeth, and then our whole bodies were touching, and I felt alive, drunk with sensation.

The elevator bell rang, and I stepped back. Her eyes were dilated, her face flushed, and I desperately wanted her back in my arms. But the doors opened, and we stepped out of the elevator, and there were the gla.s.s doors with the logo for White Dog Records painted on the door.

I had to stop for a second and just breathe. My throat was tightening up. I was about to walk into the offices of one of the hottest record studios in the country. And meet with Allen Roark, who was one of my freaking heroes. Not to mention the head of the studio. My heart was thumping, and I had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. Most of the last five years I spent hanging out in the Pit, couch surfing, flipping burgers. And playing guitar until the tips of my fingers sometimes bled. I'd played in bars and clubs; I'd played in abandoned houses and warehouses. One time, we played in a freaking barn, and it was so cold my strings kept busting and going out of tune, and my fingers were too stiff to do any solos.

I could do this.

”Come on,” Julia said. I think she realized what was going through my head right then, but she took my arm and pulled me forward. So we walked in the door, and she introduced herself to the receptionist, and we sat down and waited while I looked around.

The office was smaller than I would have expected. But on the walls around us were some of the bands I pretty much idolized. Alb.u.m covers, autographed photos, an entire wall covered in awards. It was taking everything I had to not be intimidated. We didn't have to wait long. About three minutes after we arrived, a guy came out of the back. He was obese, probably three hundred pounds, his suit sagging as if he'd once been quite a bit larger. His hair was thinning, face red, as if he drank too much. I'd seen that look on plenty of people over the years.

Julia leaned close to me and spoke, her voice a whisper. ”That's Boris Dombrovski, he's the president of the label. Come on.”

She stood, and I did too, my knees feeling weak.

Julia gave him a broad, professional looking smile. ”Mr. Dombrovski? I'm Julia Thompson, and this is Crank Wilson. We're from Morbid Obesity.”

Boris smiled, then held out a hand and took hers. ”Miss Thompson, it's a pleasure to meet you. And ... Crank? Really? Call me Boris. It's a pleasure to meet you both. Come on to the back. I've been brainstorming with Allen, we didn't realize you had arrived.”

I shook Boris's hand and felt my heart beating, too fast. He was in back, brainstorming with Allen. With Allen Roark. Only the most successful alt-rock singer songwriter I knew of. Holy s.h.i.+t. I was really doing this.

I kept my mouth shut and followed Boris and Julia into the back.

Boris had a large corner office. In the distance, I could see the Hollywood sign up in the hills. The office was cluttered, his desk piled high with papers. A couch faced two chairs across a low coffee table closer to the door, and industry mags were scattered across the coffee table.

Allen Roark was sitting on one of the chairs. He stood up and grinned. In person and off stage, he was shorter than I expected, his long hair tied into a ponytail. He wore a sleeveless black t-s.h.i.+rt, both arms completely covered in tattoos. He stepped out from the coffee table and approached me, hand out.

”You Crank Wilson? My son Mitch played your song for me yesterday. Pure genius, man, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

I swallowed and shook his hand, and spoke, my voice cracking a little because my throat was so dry, ”It's a real honor to meet you, Mr. Roark.”

He laughed. ”Holy Christ, it's Allen. Please don't call me Mr. Roark. Seriously. Don't.”

I grinned. ”Fair enough.”

Boris said, ”Have a seat. You guys want some coffee? You came right from the airport?”

”Yes, coffee would be great,” Julia said. ”Cream and sugar?”

Boris picked up his phone and spoke into it, then waved us to the coffee table. Julia and I sat next to each other on the couch, and Boris and Allen sat down opposite us.

”All right,” Boris said. ”I'll get right to it. Allen called me yesterday raving about this song you've written, Crank. He said we have to sign you immediately. I don't even take calls on holidays, but it was Allen, so I gave it a listen. And I liked it. A lot. We can do something with this.”

Allen said, ”I listened to the rest of your music last night, at least what you've got on the website. It's solid stuff.”

I felt myself starting to grin.

”So, where do you stand, Crank?”

Julia gently placed a hand on my knee. I knew what she was trying to communicate. Shut up. She leaned forward, all business. ”We have an offer for a recording contract from Division Records, but we haven't signed yet.”

Boris tilted his head. ”Tell me why.”

She replied, ”To be honest, I'm concerned about Division's financial stability. We're not looking for a one-song deal. The band is in this for the long haul, so we want a contract which will best serve that.”

Boris nodded. ”What kind of deal are you looking for?”

I felt my throat tighten up. I wanted to jump in. I'll take anything. Single? Recording deal? Whatever! When Julia spoke, it almost made my ears bleed, and I wanted to tell her to shut up now and accept whatever they offered.

”Ideally, I want a recording contract for a full alb.u.m, plus an immediate release on the single. Budget for the alb.u.m. Decent royalties, and an advance big enough to get the band off ramen noodles in the meantime. Some introductions to help us get signed as openers for a tour ...”

Allen jumped in, ”You want an opener? We just fired our opening act for this summer's tour. I want you guys.”

She grinned. ”Excellent. That will be a big step up, I think.”

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