“Put it on the list,” he says. “Doesn’t cost anything to consider it.”
“You sound like a guidance counselor.”
“I’ll take it.” He smiles. “You need anything before I go back down?”
“I need to not be a headline.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Tell Salem I said thanks.”
“You can tell him yourself when we get back.” He squeezes my shoulder and heads out.
I open Notes and draft something I might post later, if I hate myself less.I’m okay. I’m moving on. Please leave strangers alone on my behalf; they don’t know me. I won’t be answering questions at this time.I add a line that saysDon’t Google meand decide you know what I deserve.I delete that one. It’s too honest for the internet.
The internet does not do nuance.
I leave the note in drafts and close the app. My DMs are already boiling. Half the messages are from people who followed me for Troy and stayed to hate-watch. Half are from women who are tired. The first group thinks I’m a climber; the second keeps telling me to block the word “whore” and take a bath. Some suggest a toaster bath.
I don’t do any of it. Instead, I stand, shake out my hands, and refill my water.
The suite smells like coffee gone cold and hotel air. I prop the balcony door wider and let the heat in. Vegas is already moving past lunch with a hangover and a smile. I grew up in this light and spent years trying to get it off my skin. Today, it feels almost comforting.
I sit again and refine the Sagebrush silhouette. I add a sun disk behind it and then take it away. Too on the nose. I draw a broken pencil over the roofline and hate it immediately. I sketch a hand instead—just the outline—and let the index finger drag a charcoal line across the facade. Back to the drawing board sits on that line like it means it. Better.
I can live with that.
Just like living with my childhood crushes. Who I’m sleeping with. Who are my ex’s older brothers.
This won’t get weird at all.
10
KNOX
Quincy arrives five minutes early,which is his way of reminding us he can still outrun our excuses. Tall, lean, white, late sixties, the last gray fringe holding on around a head that gave up on hair a long time ago. He takes the head of the small conference table off the backstage hall and sets his phone face down.
“Keep your noses clean,” he says instead of hello. “Deliver a new album recorded in the old studio in four weeks.”
Four weeks lands like a snare hit. Salem slouches deeper. Houston nods once. I sit straighter because someone has to.
Quincy looks at each of us to see if we’re going to blink. “Yes, it’s a squeeze,” he goes on. “You work well under pressure. You always have. The chatter’s loud. This Lou Navarro’s name is in it. That’s not good for the new album.”
I shrug. “Rumors move faster than facts.”
“Facts are for press releases. Rumor sells tickets, but the novelty wears off fast.” He taps the table twice. “We’re not going to feedit trash. We’re going to deliver songs so sharp that the rumor looks like a cheap coat over a suit.”
“No pressure,” Salem mumbles.
“I’m in a do-your-job mood,” Quincy says to him. He turns to me. “How fast can you get Sagebrush blocked out?”
It’s a reasonable question for any other studio. “This afternoon. It’s not like anyone books there anymore. I’m surprised they can keep the lights on. We’ll work days to avoid bleed from the night schedule at The Gold Bar. Engineer on call. We’ll need a runner. Gear list is the usual, plus a couple of ribbon mics. Old room likes ribbons.”
“Budget says yes to anything that gets me a record in four weeks,” he says. “Within reason.” He gives Salem a look that has history in it. “Reason means receipts.”
“I keep receipts.” Salem smirks. “They make great blunts.”
Quincy ignores the commentary. “Good. Now. Lou.” He lets the name hang between us. “You three intend to treat her like a person or a headline?”
