CHAPTER ONE - ANDI
A GUITARIST IS singing at the street crossing outside the high-rise building where I work.
I feel bad for him standing out there, singing his heart out in the hopes that one of the record execs might hear and think he deserves a shot at fame. What’s even more is that he’s actually pretty cute, and were he already famous on some social media site, one of these headhunters might have picked him up by now.
Despite the fact that I’m running late for my meeting with the big boss, I pause beside him.
“They hate this, you know,” I say to him.
His smile widens, blue eyes seeming to gleam my way. “I know,” he replies.
“So why are you doing it?” I ask.
He shrugs and plays louder, still smiling beneath his beard. “You never know when today might be different.”
It’s a cute sentiment. Nevertheless, as I look past his shoulder, I know someone upstairs doesn’t feel the same way. “Tell the cops that.”
“Shit.” He throws his guitar around his back, snaps his open case shut, and then, with a grin at me, he bolts down the sidewalk through the throngs of people.
I start my music back up and let it play through the headphones around my neck, just loud enough to hear it as the cops dart by after him.
I kind of hope he comes back tomorrow.
Inside the building is the lobby of Dead Tower Records. I have to smile as I pass through it. It’s probably one of the only high-rise buildings with a lobby decorated for Halloween. It’s the only holiday our CEO celebrates, and she tends to go all out.
She even has the elevators fashioned to look like old hotel lifts.
It’ll all be wiped out overnight on November 1st, though, and we’ll return to our everyday decor of signed records on the walls.
I wave to the security guard, Jessie, who’s behind the front desk, smiling at me. He points to his hair, and I know he’s referring to my freshly colored strands.
“New color?” Jessie asks.
“Thought I would try a violent plum for the holidays,” I reply.
“I like it,” he says. “Do you have plans?”
I scoff and point to the elevator. “I don’t. All the same, something tells me Cynda has plans for me.”
Jessie raises his brows, amusement in his eyes as if he knows something. With a look around us, he leans over the counter and jerks his chin to motion me closer.
“What’s up?” I ask when I lean in.
“I hear your brother’s band is sans photog for their homecoming run next weekend,” he says, and I feel my expression sour.
God fucking dammit.
“Well, that makes perfect sense,” I mutter.
Jessie chuckles. “I thought this would be good news,” he says. “Thought you could sweep in and grab the gig. It’s Young Decay, after all. Pretty big assignment.”
I'm fully aware of just how popular my half-brother’s band has gotten over the last five years. He and his friend, Maddox, started out in our old garage back in high school, only finding two others to join them during their freshman year in college. And since then…
“Thanks for the heads-up, Jessie,” I say, tapping twice on the counter. “I’ll let you know what Cynda says.”
As I push through the security check toward the elevators, I glance to my left, where a photo of Young Decay is, along with a framing of their first gold record after signing with Dead Tower. As usual, I give the record two subtle pats before filing in line for the elevator.
The mere thought of going home has my insides twisting. I shouldn’t get myself worked up. For all I know, Cynda wants to assign me to photograph more indie bands down at The Hole.
