I start walking toward him, and the photographer scurries back. “Who are you talking to?” he yells. “Do you have an invisible friend?”
“Screw you!” I start to run. “Give me that camera!”
The photographer leaps over the short wrought-iron fence, remarkably agile, and bolts down the road. I keep running, following him until my lungs give out and I have to stop in themiddle of the road. The paparazzo races around the corner and disappears from view.
“Goodness,” Ginny says, appearing beside me. “That guy’s an Olympic athlete. Freaking Usain Bolt of paparazzi. Don’t beat yourself up—I don’t think you stood a chance.”
I bend in half, still trying to catch my breath, my hair hanging in a stringy curtain around me, and surprise myself by starting to cry.
Chapter 38
Theo
Saturday, September 7, 2024
So this is what it feels like to be on top of the world. Literally, because the Billboard “Grammy Buzz” party is happening on the terrace of the Sunset Tower Hotel. And figuratively, because I’m sitting at Roger’s right hand at the Manifest Records table, and there’s an actual line of people waiting to talk to him. The sharply dressed men and women—all versions of the West Coast hipster if that hipster was put in charge of a board meeting—are milling around, sipping drinks and pretending they’re not waiting for their turn to approach the king. I’ve never witnessed so much ring-kissing. Once again, figuratively and literally—one woman, an A&R rep at a smaller label, after gushing over Roger’s bespoke emerald-inset pinkie ring, actually kissed it. He’d wiped the ring against his jacket the moment she stepped away.
There are hundreds of people at this party. Penguin-suited waiters walking around with trays of champagne and red wine, a cold seafood bar with rows of crab claws perfectly nestled on beds of ice and towers of oysters occupies one corner, swag bags with Bose headphones wait at every table. Roger and I are sitting inside, but the space opens seamlesslyto the outside terrace, with a lap pool, cabanas, and rows of glimmering candles in tall glass votives. I have a perfect view of the people mingling under the stars, and it strikes me that the artists have gathered out there, while the label execs and PR managers and ticket system CEOs have clustered inside. Art and business separating like oil and water.
Among the artists on the terrace are Ripper, Kenny, and Hannah, though they’ve put as much distance between themselves as possible. Kenny’s standing near the pool with a lithe redheaded woman and a few acolytes who look like they time-traveled from the seventies. Ripper’s taken over one of the striped cabanas with a whole group of guys, several in tight leather pants despite the balmy weather. And Hannah’s leaned against the bar, talking to Chase Benjamin, a former boy bander turned multiplatinum solo artist. He’s the biggest artist here, and he’s handsome in a slender, Victorian vampire kind of way, dark hair falling to his shoulders, pale skin, and striking cheekbones. Liberal use of black eyeliner. Hannah seems fascinated by whatever he’s saying. Honestly, it can’t be that interesting.
Roger elbows me and nods at two men approaching us. “These guys run Coachella.”
“Roger,” calls one of them, sticking out his hand. He and Roger shake vigorously.
“Benji, great to see you.” Roger turns to the other one. “And Andro. I heard you’re trying to get a festival going in Eastern Europe.” Roger wags his finger. “Those political sanctions are going to kill you.”
“See no evil, hear no evil, do no evil,” Andro says. Both men laugh, and I seize the opportunity. “Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. “I’m—”
“Theo Ford,” Benji says, taking my hand.
“Your reputation precedes you,” Andro adds.
I blink back my surprise. “Oh. Thanks.”
“What you’ve done with the Saints is remarkable. From zeroes to heroes in sixty seconds flat.” Benji raises his tumbler to me. “Here’s to the secret puppeteers running this industry.”
“And making us a shitload of money,” Roger adds.
“Hear, hear.” Andro laughs as they toast. I raise my beer but don’t sip, strangely put off.
“We just wanted to pay our respects,” Benji says. “Congrats on all the buzz with the Saints.” He points at me. “We’ll be back to talk to
you about getting them out to Indio.”
I nod. “I’m sure they’d love that.”
“You boys stay out of trouble,” Roger booms as they walk away. He turns to me. “That’s a good connection for you.”
I take a sip of beer. “I’m surprised they know who I am.”
“I’m not.” Roger slurps an oyster. “This is your first Billboard party, right?”
“Guilty.” Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Chase’s said something that has his hangers-on rolling with laughter, including Hannah.
“Well, it’s not going to be your last.” Roger sets the oyster shell down, wipes his hands on his white linen napkin, and faces me. Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I’ve never seen Roger look so serious, outside of the times he’s red-faced and yelling. “Let me bring you up to speed, kid. When the Saints become famous on the outside, you become famous with the insiders. Your star and theirs are linked. And you’re all on the rise.”
I can’t resist glancing back at Hannah. I wish I could tell her that something great is happening to me from across the room.
