“Which brings me to the good news.” Roger claps a hand on my shoulder. “You did everything I wanted with the Saints and then some.” He points around the party. “This recognition?You earned it. You put in the work. And you know what else? You earned a promotion to president of artist relations.”
I’ve never felt the floor drop out from under me in a good way. “Roger, are you serious?” The high pitch to my voice is nothing like the cool way I’d dreamed of accepting the news, but now that the moment’s actually here, I don’t care.
Roger beams. “The youngest-ever department president at Manifest.” He slides my beer away and beckons to a waiter. “We need champagne.”
It’s everything I’ve wanted for years. The shock of finally getting it is a bit overwhelming, but in the mix of thoughts and feelings, one thought rises clearly to the top:My dad would love this. Out of everything I’ve ever done, getting this promotion—becoming an honest-to-God record label executive—is the one thing I’m certain would have him whistling and saying,Wow, Theo. That’s really something.
I throw my arms around Roger and hug him. He chuckles and pats my back. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
He takes two champagne glasses from the waiter who approaches and hands me one. “Here’s to the new president of artist relations. No more mucking about with bands, no matter how good you happen to be at coddling their egos. You’re going to manage the managers from now on. Teach them your tricks and train me a bunch of mini-Theodores.”
“Cheers,” I say, and clink glasses.
“Here’s to you and me, partners for the long haul,” Roger adds. “I think we have great things ahead of us.”
Roger wants me by his side. He wants to stick around. Screw the champagne. I pick up my water glass and chug, ice cubes hitting my teeth, then press the cold surface to my heated cheeks.
A high-pitched laugh cracks across the terrace. Roger and I both turn to find Hannah bent over, her eyes closed, hanging on to Chase Benjamin’s designer vest, a silk number thatlooks like he could’ve stolen it off the set ofInterview with the Vampire.
“She’s getting drunk,” I murmur.
Roger chuckles. “I’d be surprised if booze was all she was on. It’s the Buzz party.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s the way of the industry. You’re not a rube—you know.” He tips his chin at Hannah and Chase. “These aren’t the Ivy League kids you’re used to. They didn’t grow up getting straight A’s and Boy Scout badges and tucking themselves into bed by nine. Music is a hard-knock industry that attracts hard-knock people. A lot of them have been using since they were young.” He shrugs. “It makes sense. The pressure to make it. And then when you do, feeling eyes on you all the time, people touching you in the streets. It’s unnatural. You gotta take the edge off.”
It’s strange to hear this matter-of-fact assessment from the man who’s done everything in his power to get more eyes and hands on Hannah and the Saints.
He nudges me conspiratorially. “I told Chase to pay attention to her tonight.”
Hannah and Chase are taking shots now. Chase’s entourage is taking pictures, and behind them, a row of professional photographers snap away. More and more heads at the party turn to watch.
“By morning every site will say they’re dating,” Roger says happily.
I feel a flash of something unpleasant.
“Oh, here we go,” Roger says gleefully. “This should be good.”
A woman who would be recognizable anywhere, with her strawberry hair and dagger-cut nails, saunters in Hannah’s direction. Sasha Thee Pop Princess. I push back my chair and stand.
Roger throws out an arm to stop me. “Let it happen.”
But I’ve learned my lesson from theSNLparty. I’m not heeding Roger’s instructions when they conflict with my gut. I brush his hand away and circle the table. Sasha says something to Hannah I’m too far away to catch. All the heads at the party swivel in their direction. Sasha’s grinning like the cat who ate the canary. My diagnosis of her as an attention hound seems accurate.
Hannah says something sharp. I make my way onto the terrace, trying to wind around the pool. The smile drops from Sasha’s face. She takes a threatening step closer.
I hear the wordbitchas I push my way through the people ringing the bar. The next thing I know, Hannah’s saying “If the shoe fits,” Chase’s covering his mouth as he laughs, and Sasha’s winding her arm back.
I leap past Chase and pull Hannah to me as the glass shatters against the side of the bar, splattering us with ice and shards and whatever Sasha was drinking. Partygoers gasp—I can see people converging on Sasha, but I’m focused on removing Hannah from the scene.
“What the fuck?” she yells at Sasha, wrestling against my arms. “You threw a drink at me, you psycho?”
“Come on,” I grunt, tugging her around the corner of the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I see both Ripper and Kenny standing at attention. Ripper eyes Sasha with a venomous expression.
“Why am I the one getting taken away?” Hannah protests, then hiccups.
“We’re defusing the situation,” I say, and find what I’d hoped for—an empty alcove behind the long line of cabanas. At the far end, dumpsters are lined up next to a door stamped “Service Only.” The odds of any industry people coming back here are slim.
