Amanda. I’m sorry. Can we talk? -Callum.
I’m no love expert but I do know women love flowers. And this bouquet is sure to catch her eye.
Afterwards, I head to my office to start my day. Within the hour, Hardin Records is buzzing with its usual busyness. With the launch of several new artists, we have a lot going on. Not to mention Noah has been scouting for two more bands to sign within the month.
“Business is a hurricane. Might as well ride the wave,” as he says. Scouting is Noah’s area of expertise, so I leave him to it. It gives me more time to focus on the inside work. The agents. The writers. The music.
Speaking of that.
Around 10:34am I look up at my door for the hundredth time since I sat down at my desk. I press the button to page my personal assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Hardin?”
“Is Miss. Ambrose in the building by chance?”
“I have not seen her today, Mr. Hardin.”
Hmm.
I don’t want to ask more. Not through a pager anyways. Finally, I make the decision to go talk to her. Maybe she’s nervous. Maybe she didn’t see the flowers. Not that I am sure how she wouldn’t have seen the flowers. I am pretty sure that you can see them from the space station right now. Either way, the waiting game is giving me stomach ulcers and I’m over it.
I make my way toward the recording studio. It’s a room I love, a room I frequent, a room that brings me peace. But ever since Amanda inhabited it, it’s a room of thick magnetic air. A room that makes my heart race and my skin clammy. It’s a different room than I’ve ever known.
Just before I reach it, I take a hard left turn into Noah’s office. He’s sitting on his desk, feet on his chair, strumming onan old Ibanez. The lights are dim, and the shades drawn. The entire aesthetic is very him. I close the door harder than I mean to and he looks up.
“You look like hell,” he says, his fingers still picking at the strings.
“Is she here?”
“Is who here?”
“Amanda,” I bark out, then lower my voice. “Is she in the building?”
“Doubt it. Listen I don’t know how things went down but I don’t think firing her was the way to go. Especially with the launch of January–”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't fire her.”
Noah stops and sets the guitar aside, his brow stitching together. “Really? Because I heard she doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since the day you and Avery beat the ever-loving shit out of each other. Which, by the way, I think is bullshit. I very much wanted to watch that fight.” Noah hops off the desk with little to no care in the world. Meanwhile, I’m coming apart at the seams.
“She walked out,” I say, suddenly realizing what must have happened. She was pissed that day. But my focus was on Avery. After that, I tried to call her but as usual, it went to voicemail. Considering my splitting headache, an aftershock of a split lip, I let it go so I could pop a couple aspirin and pass out for about twelve hours. “Has she not been back since?”
“Beats me. Why do you think the place is in such a frenzy? January wants to change the intro to the song and Avery is fighting her on it. She wants to talk to Amanda.”
“And Amanda is completely MIA?” I ask, my heartrate picking up the pace with each word.
“MIA. AWOL. Dipped from the sound of it. Nothing but radio silence.”
“Fuck,” I run my hands through my hair before opening the door again and marching out. Noah follows.
“Have you not talked to her at all?” he asks.
“No. I mean I’ve tried but she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. I just don’t get it. She can’t be gone. All of her stuff was still here this morning. I was in her office.”
“You were snooping in her office?” Noah asks with a grin.
