“Damn straight.” I reached across to grab a massive handful of chips off his plate and shoved them into my mouth with smug satisfaction. Unfortunately, the mouthful was so huge I couldn’t even chew it properly, leaving me thinking I’d either have to spit them out or wait for them to break down.
An amused male voice spoke near the table, suspending my dilemma.
“Did I miss lunch?”
Looking to the direction of said voice, I blanched, thinking that Jensen Ackles had somehow taken a wrong turn and materialised in our dining room in Sydney, Australia.
“Jesus Christ,” Cam mumbled, obviously arriving at the same conclusion.
Henry introduced him around the table as Casey, and when his blue eyes fixed on mine, I merely nodded politely, struck speechless and only partly because my mouth was full of chips. I chewed frantically and swallowed a mouthful so big I felt it ache on the vertical downslide.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
Casey raised his delicious eyebrows as the three of us girls looked at him in silence. Could eyebrows even be delicious? I assumed so because his were.
“Uh…” I managed.
Mac nodded.
Cam sat staring silently.
Later that afternoon, as Casey waited in reception, we found ourselves sitting at a boardroom table in expensive high backed cream leather chairs, fidgeting nervously just as we had been for the past half an hour. My hands gripped the arms of the chair fiercely, fingernails digging in, while I sucked in short, sharp breaths. Mac kept giving me odd looks, but I could barely afford her a glance since I was physically restraining myself from getting down on my hands and knees to kiss the thick, plush carpet in a giddy frenzy of gratitude.
The tinted floor to ceiling windows of the June Grady building let in a sunny glare. Already sweaty from anxiety, I was left wishing I had some tissues to stick under my armpits. I evened my breathing by focusing on the iconic view of Centrepoint Tower and the Harbour Bridge.
“Evie,” Mac hissed. “Fix your hair.”
I didn’t quite catch what she said because I was too busy gagging a little. Was I really going to ralph all over the creamy expanse of carpet? Did I really need to eat that supersized caramel sundae right before we got here? Cold shivers racked my body, and I felt I was suffocating under a haze of fear. What if I cocked this up? It was an entirely possible scenario because I c*ck up most things. It would be on my tombstone. Here lies Genevieve Jamieson, strangled by a giant sheet because she cocked up her life. Too much rode on this meeting, not just for me either, which made it worse. I risked a glance at Frog and Cooper, then Jake, Henry, and Mac, who still gave me odd looks and tried to catch my attention. They looked just as freaked out as I was. Frog had a sheen of sweat lining his forehead. Cooper’s beautiful olive skin was so unnaturally pale the tattoo under his shirt that climbed around the side of his neck stood out in stark contrast. Jake clenched his jaw, and Henry was counting to a hundred; because from across the table I could lip-read him silently saying, “...eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven.”
I started bouncing my leg up and down. I knew I should have gone to the bathroom even though I went before we left. Was that a scuff on my shoe? I was about to reach down to wipe it off when Mac snapped at me, drawing my attention back to her.
“Evie,” Mac said through clenched teeth.
“Mac,” I hissed back. “What is your problem? You’ve been on everyone’s case all afternoon. We know how important this is. Stop reminding us.”
The guys all nodded their agreement. Just as I sat back to take a deep calming breath, Gary Gilmore walked through the door, swiftly closing it behind him.
We all sat up a little straighter, and I smoothed the creases that had formed on my shirt from my seat belt. I’d actually considered leaving it undone to keep my shirt wrinkle-free, but somehow I didn’t think that would fly in the face of an accident. Fancy explaining to some stern copper the reason I’d flown out the front window of the car, smashing myself to smithereens in the process, was because I hadn’t wanted to ruin my shirt.
Mac glared at me and pointed to her head.
What? I shrugged.
She shook her head back in a silent whatever.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Gary said as he walked hurriedly over to one of the chairs and quickly sat down, dumping a folder on the table in front of him. “I got held up at the studio. Sins of Descent are in the middle of their world tour, and we’ve been busy putting together a selection of supporting acts to put forward for the Australian leg in February because Menace pulled out.”
We looked at each other with wide eyes. Sins of Descent was one of top bands in the world. They currently had three songs in the top fifty Billboard Chart. They were musical gods, and their lead singer, Ethan, had been voted second sexiest male singer, only behind Adam Levine.
Gary looked at all of us and sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers, as his assistant David came running in with a coffee. David had kindly offered us drinks when we arrived, but we’d all declined for various nerve related reasons.
“I’m Gary Gilmore and I head up the A & R Department here at Jettison Records. We're in charge of discovering talent, which you seem to have quite a bit of.” He smiled at us. We stared back, hanging off every word. “Thanks for coming in at such short notice.”
We murmured polite responses.
“We’ve called you in because I liked what I saw when you played at The White Demon Warehouse a little while ago, and I think you may have what we’re looking for. However, what I think and the label thinks don’t always align, which means it’s up to my department to convince them you’re worth the investment, so that in turn, leaves it up to you, as the talent, to convince me to take that risk on my reputation.”
Gary sat back to let us absorb the words while he took a sip of his coffee then waved his hand about. “I’ll run through a bit about our label shall I?” He went on to talk about the various departments. The Art Department would be involved in album covers, displays, advertisements. Marketing handled everything involved in releasing an album. Promotion made sure the artists got air time on radio stations, television spots on stations like MTV, and scheduled various interviews. He went on to talk about producers, sales, publicity, and label liaisons until it swirled around in my head dizzily.
“Today, I’d like to get a bit of background about yourselves, what instruments you play, how long you’ve played, what artists influence your music, and what direction you see the band taking.”
We all nodded so he would know we were listening.
“Then,” he continued, “we’ll set up an appointment for you down at the studio so we can get two or three songs recorded. I’ll take that, along with some video of a live performance, and if the label is happy to go ahead, we can start talking contracts.”
We went around the table discussing our musical backgrounds as Gary asked questions, eventually handing over some paperwork to Mac.
“Mackenzie, you’re the band’s official manager?”
She confirmed that she was and reached for the papers across the table.
He nodded towards the pile. “That paperwork should have all the information for the recording studio. Where they are, who you need to talk to, what’s involved. The contact information on there is for Marty Jennings. He’s who you’ll need to talk to about scheduling. The studio is pretty backed up I’m afraid, so I would suggest you ring today. At the least it will give you time to put the songs together that you wish to put forward. I’ve included a selection that I think might be appropriate.”
He looked at all of us. “Any questions?”
I scrambled through my brain for something to ask so I wouldn’t look like the dumb mute I’d been throughout the entire meeting.
“What kind of contract might we be talking about?” Henry asked, sitting back in his chair.
Gary directed his answer to all of us. “We usually look at about a four to five album deal. That means you have to produce those records under our label alone. We don’t usually stick a time frame in there, but we don’t want albums to drag out forever. If you manage to debut a popular album, you could fade into obscurity if you don’t back it up with something reasonably soon. The whole purpose is to keep your name out there, but our publicity and promotions department can work with you on that.”
We all nodded and murmured appropriately at his explanation.
“Well if that’s all...” he stood up “...I’ll get my assistant David to see you out. Mac, you have my contact information if you need to be in touch. Thanks for coming in.”
He shook all of our hands politely, and David materialised to usher us all out the door, pressing the lift button for us before returning efficiently to his desk.
First into the lift, I saw myself in the mirror and blanched. A giant strand of my straightened hair, which I thought was tucked neatly behind my ear, had somehow managed to do a double loop and pin itself back the other way so it flared out crazily in to the air. God! Gary must have thought I was a complete twat.
“Mac,” I shrieked, madly brushing the offending tuft of hair back to where it belonged. “Why didn’t you tell me about my hair?”
Mac let out a huff as I frowned at all of them through the mirror in the lift and patted it back into place.
“Didn’t notice, Evie,” Jake said.
Frog and Cooper just shrugged.
“Evie,” Henry muttered as we made our way out of the lift and into the hideous heat.
“What?”
“We’re about to hit a real live recording studio for a potential signing and your worried about a strand of hair?”
Frog picked me up and whirled me around crazily, and then a group hug had us dancing about wildly and accidentally jostling the annoyed and sweaty pedestrians who had the misfortune of getting in our path.
It was cause for a celebration, and Casey had the thankless task of detouring to a supermarket so we could stock up on party essentials. Mac busily texted everyone we knew in Sydney to invite them over while I strolled the aisles alongside Casey. Thankfully he didn’t share Jared’s health food affliction. He didn’t so much as glance at the giant pile of food I loaded into the trolley, nor did he appear to notice that every woman we encountered embarrassed themselves trying to get his attention.
Later that night we were two hours into the party, and I’d barely seen Jared for more than two minutes because we were surrounded by friendly well-wishers that were anxious and curious for details.
The crowd mingled on the back deck and yard, eating the piles of marinated chicken wings and munching from Mediterranean platters. There were giant pitchers of sangria and beers piled high in the surrounding eskies.
Finishing up a song at the request of the group, Henry leaned his guitar against the wall while I kept strumming slowly, sitting on the edge of the deck table, feet on the seat. Much to everyone’s amusement and laughter, I finished off with a limerick.
There was once a young lady named Mac
Who had an unusually large bum crack
“Evie!” Mac screeched.