“What time is it?” I asked him in my most serious voice.
“Half-past eleven.” He glanced at the magazine in my hand and back to my face. “Are you waiting for Steve?”
“I’m here for the band recording on the eighth floor, but the coffee machine here is better.” I pointed to the glorious device in the corner. “Once I’m fully awake, I’ll head there.”
“Who are they?” The guy perked up with interest.
“An up-and-coming rock band. Very edgy. The way I see it, they’re destined for greatness.”
“Really?” He glanced at the door in front of us, then his watch. “I’ll go check them out too.” He picked up his briefcase and headed to the elevators.
“I’ll be right there soon.” I lifted my coffee.
As discreetly as I could, I craned my neck. Yup, he pressed the button to go up.
I did a similar speech in a few more waiting places, then got into the elevator with a lady in a faux-leopard coat.
“Have you heard of this new band recording on the 8th floor today?” I asked her conversationally. The pass on her lanyard said her name was Flora.
“No, I’m on my way to check out The Screaming Tomatoes,” she said, never lifting her gaze from her phone.
“I’m here all morning bouncing from studio to studio, but I’m heading to the eighth floor now, as I’ve heard great thingsabout77 Rotary Roadon the grapevine.” I folded and unfolded my magazine, wishing it would be appropriate to crunch some lollipops.
She stopped tapping her phone and touched her gigantic silver necklace with her long nails. “I’ll go with you. If there’s a newcomer or drama, I hate being the last to know.”
The elevator pinged, and the doors opened on the eighth floor. Hopefully, I didn’t fuck it all up with my blabbering again.
I clicked the door to the studio area open with the pass on my lanyard and let the lady through first.
Trying to keep my composure, I took in the crowd of about a dozen or more watching77 Rotary Roadrecord from behind the glass.
Well shit.Did my yapping work?
Upon seeing me, Charlie gestured for us to step outside.
He burst out the door, then dragged me by the sleeve into the bathroom.
“I don’t know who most of those people are, but at least one of them is a producer who already asked to speak to us when we’re done. Something weird is happening, but the recording is going great. I’m so happy to see your face.” He squished my cheeks and kissed me. “I figured you got bored, which is fair, but I’m glad you’re back.”
“Bored? No way. But I did wander around the building.” I kissed the inside of his palm. “The lady is from a record label, judging by the info on her lanyard. Those two gay-haired guys are agents, as is the girl with the blue hair. The dude in the leather jacket is a journalist from Rolling Stone magazine.
“How do you know all that?” Charlie frowned. “Holy hell, it was you? You brought them here?”
I grinned. “I talked to them in the halls and in the elevator.”
“This is huge, Trent. What did you tell them?” The joyous smile on Charlie’s face was worth talking to stiff people for hours.
“I said I heard fantastic things about this band recording on the eighth floor and that they should check you out. All of it is true.”
“You created such a buzz, they’re interested in us.” His expression fell, and he ran a hand through his red-tipped hair. “But what if we’re not good enough?”
Platitudes wouldn’t work now. “That’s for them to judge. You always said you need people to know of the band first. Now they will and they can see how great you are and go from there.”
“You’re crazy.” Charlie hugged me tight and buried his face in my neck. “This is nuts.”
“Maybe.” I pushed him away and towards the door. “So go kick some ass and show them what the music industry has been missing.”
He cupped my face, his calloused fingertips razing my cheek. “I love you, Trent.”
