Mal’s voice cut through it all. “What’s the plan, gentlemen?”
Finally, the silver-haired man shifted his eyes from Mal to Raine just as she looked up at him. “We’ve discussed this, and we don’t want you taking it lightly, because we’re going out on a limb here. And know that this was not a unanimous decision. Several of us thought we should cut our losses…but we’re going to give you one last chance.”
Raine knew she should have felt relief at that statement, but it was his tone of voice and the stern expression on his face that made her shoulders ache with tension more than they had mere moments ago. Still, she nodded, waking up from a numb feeling as she maintained a professional air. Her insides began to warm up like the interior of a volcano, with blistering magma starting to simmer in its depths, threatening to consume all it touched should it erupt.
Mal said, “Let’s hear it.”
“As I said, we’re shelving the album you’ve been working on. If we’re going to do this, we need some distance—not just timewise but also in terms of your work. And we’re going to have you go in a slightly different direction. You will create a new album, but this time, it’s going to be under our terms.”
“What does that entail?” Mal asked.
As if her manager hadn’t said a word, silver fox continued. “You will go to Quentin Russo’s studio in Joshua Tree, and the two of you together will write your next album from scratch. Once we see how that album goes over and if Raine can manage to keep herself together for a while, we’ll contemplate next steps.”
Quentin Russo? That name was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Wait…oh, yes, she could. She knew him. What the hell were these assholes thinking? If they thought Raine was a train wreck, she had nothing on that guy.
And Joshua Tree? Jesus…she’d never been there, but she’d heard about it. Desolate, barren—far away from civilization in the fucking desert.
But that was exactly what these guys wanted. They wanted her out of the public eye where she couldn’t cause any more “destruction.” But what a stupid idea. Her fans loved the music she wrote, often appreciated her “antics.” Why change a good thing?
And…if she said no, she could kiss everything goodbye. She already knew no other studio would give her a chance, not after last night. And what the hell would she do with her life if she couldn’t share her music?
After all that, though, she realized—it could be good for her, disregarding Quentin Russo. Maybe getting out of L.A. and away from these people who didn’t care about her…it could work. Getting away from their constant watchful judgment might allow her to breathe and create and just be.
Forcing her teeth to release her lower lip, she opened her eyes. She would do what they asked, and she would survive, and she’d be stronger for it. She’d show them exactly what she was made of. Her jaw hardly moving, she spat it out. “Okay.”
She refused to be locked away in the annals of history, forgotten, a mere blip in the music industry…and this looked like her only chance at salvation, like it or not.
Chapter 2
Quentin Russo had come a long way since his days in Jokers Wilder…but not necessarily in the right direction. His current existence was figuring out how to make it day to day, trying to get work when he could.
But jobs were few and far between.
It wasn’t that he needed money. Jokers Wilder was still an active band, churning out an album every year or so and, when they did, they sold copies of their older music, meaning Quentin would always get a chunk of fresh royalties.
It was, instead, his creative spirit that was suffering from long-term neglect.
Sitting in front of the computer in the studio he’d built in his home in Joshua Tree, he opened up his inbox to see what awaited him. He wore what was almost like a uniform—a plain dark gray t-shirt, dark jeans, and work boots, because later on he’d take a walk around his land. Although he didn’t connect with people daily, he made sure he got in contact with nature as frequently as he could. It kept him feeling grounded.
In his new life as a music producer, he’d had a few minor successes but nothing that made him a go-to guy. He did something every day to make it happen, but his past made it difficult. Yesterday, he’d reached out to a couple of indie labels in the L.A. area, hoping to drum up some business.
Among all the unwanted spammy emails, he found three emails that needed attention. One was a reply, brief and decisive, much like many he’d seen before:
* * *
Mr. Russo,
* * *
Thank you for contacting us but, at this time, we have several studios we are comfortable working with.
* * *
Other than a brief automated signature, that was it. Not even the lie that they would keep him in mind. Yet another prospect in the toilet without a second thought.
It wasn’t a surprise—and barely a disappointment nowadays. But it was exhausting.
