StringTheory27:He’s just marking the beginning of your next era.
ChapterEighty
Kit
July 7th, 1997
The lobby smells like candy and expensive vinyl.
Every surface gleams—marble counters buffed within an inch of their lives, brass fixtures that catch the light like they’re trying to seduce it, and a chandelier so obnoxiously extravagant it looks like it wandered over from The Plaza and got lost.This is what Serena requested if they wanted her to be here today.
There’s a champagne bar tucked into the corner too.Popstars don’t just crave bubbly beats anymore—they want the real thing, chilled and ready.
I’m already sweating under my blazer, regretting everything—the flight, the heels.Most of all, the stupid ‘yes’ I spat out when I should’ve just let Bernice’s messages rot unanswered.This isn’t my job.I hate it.Of course, I didn’t say no.
Because Bernice was double-booked, she wielded that well-worn guilt like a blade.Your father needs this, Kit.Of course, I agreed because the child in me is still hoping I’ll make him notice me.Also, maybe if he knows the agency is doing well, he’ll get better.His health isn’t improving.The doctor says he’s lost the will to live.It happened around the same time Eddie and Barret went to visit him.
I wasn’t there, but I heard about it from the nurses.It was a brief visit; they were polite, nothing unusual.Everything was just like all the other visits he’s had since the stroke happened.Either way, I have to figure out a way to cheer him up and make him realize that life is worth living.
It’s like I told DeadStrings the other day, if we don’t learn to love our life, we can’t move forward.Maybe I should ask for his name and stop calling him DS or DeadStrings.Though, if I do that, it makes him someone ...real.I’m not sure I want to deal with that.Having him be a virtual friend is a lot easier to handle—also, my feelings are invalid if he’s that far away, in the internet world, right?That’s my logic, and I’m sticking to it.
When I arrive at the corridor as I was told to, there’s a girl holding a clipboard with a pixie haircut that reminds me of Demi Moore.“Kit Dempsey?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”I smile, trying to seem like I’m thrilled to be here.
“They’re ready for you in the green room.But, like—just a heads-up?Serena is in a mood.”
Of course she is.
Serena Varner.Billboard’s princess of pop.Our latest client.The one whose hit single is literally called “Don’t Tell Me No.”
She indeed hates it when anyone tells her no.In her little world, she’s entitled to everything.No one in the agency has the guts to tell her she’s wrong—including me.
The “green room” is more of a half-assed office turned diva den.Still nicer than anything I’ve seen this week.A leather couch like it’s been staged for anArchitectural Digestshoot, crystal trays of overpriced bottled water lined up like they’re on parade, and Serena herself—pacing like the walls are closing in.
She spots me, nostrils flaring.“You’re late.”
“I’m not,” I say, tone clipped, stripped of all apology.I’ve run out of sugar to coat this shit.“Your flight was delayed.You pushed the call time by two days.Hence, Bernice couldn’t be here with you.”
“Well, I’m not doing this signing without the right playlist.I gave Bernice a list—where the hell is it?And the backdrop has a wrinkle in it.I said Fiji water, not Evian.”She kicks one of the bottles like it insulted her in front of her ex.
I blink once.Then again.“The store’s sound system doesn’t take CDs.It’s vinyl only.”
She stares at me like I told her we’re projecting ambiance through Gregorian chants and blood rituals.“No CDs?What are we, prehistoric?”
I check my watch.“You’re due on the floor in four minutes.”
“I’m not stepping out there without my promo concept being visible.”She places her fists on her hips and her foot taps.“If your father were here, things would be different.Where is he?I’m done with this whole ‘he’s sick’ thing.I’m going to fire him if he doesn’t return my call by the end of next week.”
And that’s it.Something snaps low in my chest, the last string of a guitar left to rot in its case too long.Brittle and barely holding.
“I don’t think anyone here gives a shit about your promo concept, Serena.”
She stares.Her assistant gasps—one hand to her chest as if she’s about to clutch her imaginary pearls.
I’m tired of swallowing the truth like it’s arsenic.“There’s a line of fans out there, baking in the sun just to see you.They bought your album.They care.And you’re throwing a tantrum over fucking bottled water.”
Serena crosses her arms, a statue of barely composed offense.“My brand is curated.”
