“Okay, good. Is she stable?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
After a brief pause, Tristan asked, “What else?”
“I want total creative control. If you guys are hiring me, you have to trust my vision.”
“Of course.”
“And…we’ll be working on site, here in my studio.”
Tristan’s face was unreadable. “In Joshua Tree?”
“Yes—and she will live here while working on her album. I have a few guest rooms reserved exclusively for that purpose.” All that wasted space rarely used—but when he’d first moved here, the idea had always been to have a getaway for artists who wanted to live in a creative bubble for a few weeks away from all distractions. The few who had worked with him there had described it as a spiritual experience.
But he wasn’t about to sell that to these guys. They could take it or leave it.
Before they could interject, he explained. “She needs to be away from the day-to-day bullshit that triggers her and makes her act out, and she needs to focus on nothing but the music. That means total isolation. That includes people. None of you guys can be here, not even to check in on occasion. That means no suits, none of her friends—and no press.”
Malachi spoke first. “That seems a bit severe. I should be there to manage her day-to-day.”
“No. I want absolutely no interference. Those are my non-negotiables.”
“I have to agree,” said Tristan, “that your terms seem a little…overly dramatic. I imagine we’d like to pop in from time to time.”
Quentin raised his eyebrows, keeping his voice calm and steady. “No. A well-intentioned visit could very easily change the artistic direction, messing up any progress we make. It’s the butterfly effect. You guys don’t get in until I say so.”
Tristan let out a short breath of air, and Quentin wondered if the exec was going to have to send his terms up the ladder. Maybe he didn’t have the final say. But then, after pondering, Tristan said, “I suppose we can deal with that.”
Then Raine’s manager spoke up. “But I don’t like the idea of her staying in your place. That might be frowned upon by the very people scrutinizing her every move right now. We can rent a room at a—”
“No,” Quentin said again, tired of repeating himself. “If she’s here, the sessions are consistent—and I can be sure she’s not getting drunk or high every chance she gets.” He could see on their faces that they were continuing to waffle—so it was time to give his ultimatum. “Look, if you can’t agree to these terms…then I’ll walk and you can find someone else to deal with your headache.” He refrained from adding more, instead choosing to let the gravity of his words settle. And, if they told him no, thanks—have a nice day, then he would be no worse off than he’d been before the call.
A little deflated, maybe, but he’d get over it. He had many times before.
But he wasn’t about to explain it. He wasn’t some authoritarian asshole, although they likely saw it that way—and, based on his history, it would be a fair judgment. Today, though, was about far more than wanting to be the boss.
He had to protect himself.
He’d worked hard over the past several years at building a safer life for himself—one without temptation and mayhem—and he wasn’t about to blow it just for the chance to exhume his career. This house, this studio, even the isolation had been built to save him from himself and the world outside. He wasn’t about to let some slick studio executives, much less their reckless though talented punk-pop phenom, wreck what he’d so carefully constructed.
The seconds ticked by, feeling like minutes…and then hours, but Quentin knew this was the most important part of the negotiation. If he spoke first, he lost.
Malachi started muttering something about how ridiculous his terms were, but Tristan’s voice—and position—easily overpowered the man, and when he began speaking, the manager shut up. “I think we can live with your terms, and I trust you can deliver what we need. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Okay. We’ll be in touch soon to work out the minor details.”
It wasn’t long before Quentin was back in his studio by himself, staring at the blank computer screen. Turning around in the chair, he let his eyes take in this space that would soon be put to use again…this place that, at one time, had been his saving grace. His place of retreat.
His sanctuary.
What the hell had he just agreed to? He’d won the negotiation and they’d agreed to every single term he’d laid down—so why did it leave him feeling a little shaky? And why did the walls now feel so close, constricting, and stuffy?
He took one last look around the room before standing. Then just before walking out and shutting off the lights, he said aloud, as if testing out just how volatile she might be, “Raine Dennison.”
Chapter 5
