Taking another large gulp of coffee, he walked back to the computer and sat down, looking at the email again. Sliding the rejection into a folder so he’d know not to contact them again, he began perusing through the remaining list in his inbox. For several emails, he simply clicked the box next to them so he could delete them all in one fell swoop. Most were from companies selling various products or services—nothing he wanted now but might someday.
And that left one lone email in his inbox.
It was from someone named Chad Barnes and the subject line read “Production Inquiry.” Quentin hated how his heart started beating slightly faster just at reading those two simple words. Still, as he stared at it, for some reason, he found it a bit insulting, considering his past—not his reputation as a bad boy of rock but as a consummate musician and producer. The subject line read almost as if he were a last thought.
Maybe he had been.
But, as he stared at it, he let out a slow breath, letting it settle in.
He would read it later.
He didn’t dare hope that it could be something good. Until he could manage his expectations, he’d leave it closed.
With the stroke of two keys, he put the computer to sleep and walked out of the studio to get a cup of coffee. That email was nothing—an empty promise like several supposed inquiries before, and he knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up about it—and he certainly wasn’t going to respond until he worked through his emotions.
So he spent the remainder of the day doing almost anything else—anything other than opening that email that was sure to be a disappointment at worst and, at best, a shitty offer that he wouldn’t be interested in.
Had it not already been close to one-hundred degrees outside, he would have considered a long run to distract him. Instead, he decided to walk around his fifteen-acre property, donning a baseball cap and carrying a bottle of water.
He loved this place and had not once regretted moving here. It gave him peace and privacy and a sense of serenity he’d never had before in his life. To some, it might have seemed barren, but that was because they weren’t looking at it through his eyes. The boulders and shrubbery, the faded dirt and prickly pear cacti, the yucca and their cousins, the Joshua Tree, from which the town got its name, surrounded by rugged hills and mountains further in the distance—all of it filled Quentin’s soul in a way that nothing in city life ever had. He never would have considered himself the type of person who connected with nature, but this desert…it had changed him.
It understood him. It protected him.
Half an hour later, he was entering the house again, knowing that damned email was waiting.
But this was how he coped. He’d do whatever it took to avoid looking at it again for as long as possible. As long as he could control when he opened it, he could better handle whatever disappointment waited inside.
So he changed into workout clothes and went into the small room where he kept weights and a treadmill and spent over an hour there before making an elaborate lunch that involved chopping lots of vegetables and cuts of beef.
And then he focused on the house. When he’d first moved here, he’d hired a housekeeper to come once a week…but, although she was nice and did a good job, it often felt like an invasion—so he began doing the work himself. Besides, there was never too much to do in terms of cleaning. Now was as good a time as any, and he started sweeping and mopping, dusting, wiping down every surface in the kitchen, changing the sheets, and washing two loads of laundry.
By the time the sun was low in the west, he decided he was ready, ready for whatever that damned email contained—and, as he walked down the hall toward the studio, he decided that, no matter what it said, he was going to turn it down. It was clear just by the tone of the subject line that they didn’t really want him—and he refused to be a desperate has-been.
He only wanted to work with people who really wanted him.
Once the computer was awake again, he deleted more new extraneous emails, leaving only the one with the subject line Production Inquiry. After opening it, before looking at anything else, he read the signature area:
* * *
Chad Barnes
A&R Representative
Crushed Velvet Records
crushedvelvetrecords.com
* * *
The last bit of info was the guy’s phone number, but Quentin didn’t plan on making any calls. Although he didn’t know this guy, Crushed Velvet Records was a rising brand, signing big rock, pop, hip-hop, and alternative artists, and they seemed to have a keen ear for finding true talent. They’d made a lot of smart moves in the recent past and had some huge musicians signed with them.
Finally, Quentin’s eyes drifted to the top of the email, all while he toyed with deleting it instead of reading more.
But there was no stopping himself now.
* * *
Quentin Russo:
