“Look,” he says. “I’m not telling you to be unsympathetic. But between us, I need you to get that woman in line. I mean it. They sent me a demo of their new stuff and it was horrible.”
“Some of the new songs are bad, but ‘Six Feet Under’—”
“Exactly. I need all their songs to be like ‘Six Feet Under’ from now on. They’ve got to be hits. I mean it, Theodore. Remember, this is a group who’s never had a successful album. I don’t want ‘Six Feet Under’ to turn into another ‘Head in the Sand,’ where we get all excited about a breakout single, only to find out the band doesn’t have the talent to sustain the momentum, and they shit the bed with the album.”
“Roger.” The censure is out before I think twice.
“Ah, kid.” Roger chuckles. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
“I just don’t think we should be betting against them—”
“Listen. All I’m saying is, this attention they’re getting needs to translate into money for us. So get Hannah in line.” He uses a clipped voice that tells me he’s about to hang up. “At the very least, don’t let her get drunk and fall off any stages again.”
Again?Jesus. I must’ve missed the first time in my research.
“I’ll have Maureen send you the details about the new tour stops.”
“But—”
“And for the love of God, what’s your number one objective?”
I sigh. “Make Manifest money.”
“That’s right. Peace. Be well.” Roger hangs up.
I look in the mirror. The phrasesoulless corporate droneechoes in my mind and I have to admit I can maybe see where the Saints are coming from. Roger doesn’t seem particularly interested in them as artists. Or people. But he’s a busy man, and a business icon—
That’s when the raised voices hit me. I jog into the hallway, heart pounding, and the voices only get louder. By the time I burst onstage, I find Hannah and Ripper squaring off, their cheeks red, body language screaming. Kenny’s watching them, pale-faced, behind his drums. Bowie, God help him, is between Hannah and Ripper, arms outstretched.
“What the hell?” I boom.
Ripper points at Hannah. “Her ego is out of control.”
She looks incredulous. “Myego? News flash, Ripper: I’ve played guitar since I was ten. I’m better than you. That’s a fact.”
“Come on, guys,” Bowie tries, but Ripper’s not listening.
“It’s not just lead guitar. You think you’re in charge of everything. You’re the one who gets to decide whether we’re a band or not.”
“I thought we moved past this,” Kenny says.
Ripper shakes his head. “You always have to have it your way, or nothing.”
“Trust me, Ripper, none of this is my way.” Hannah’s voice is sharp. “You know what would be my way? If we acted like Ginny existed instead of pretending she never did.”
Ripper’s face turns stony. I register the change in the pit of my stomach.
“There’s no need to say hurtful things—” I start.
But Ripper cuts me off. “Just because Kenny and I haven’t let our grief consume us doesn’t mean we don’t miss her. But someone’s got to keep their shit together while you go off the deep end.”
“Of course you’d say that.” Her voice is lower and more controlled than I’d expected.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes are dark. “You didn’t love her as much. That’s why you can just move on. It’s easier for you.”
Surprise etches into every line on Ripper’s face.
