At that, she actually chuckled. Obviously, none of these assholes understood her at all. “Yeah, okay.”
“I mean it, Raine. You don’t know how serious this is.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, nodding, her pale blue-gray eyes narrowing as if assessing her options.
“Then here’s how I see it. You have one play and one play only. If you try to do anything else, it’s game over and you can kiss it all goodbye.”
“And that play is to do whatever the fuck the label wants.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Goddammit. She knew he was right, but it pissed her off that he was. So she let it sink in. What if she decided to tell them all to fuck off?
She caught a glimpse of the future…and it didn’t look pretty. If Crushed Velvet didn’t want her and every other label out there thought she was damaged goods, they’d make sure she’d never work again. She’d heard stories about artists being pushed out of the business, despite their celebrity.
And Raine was far too young to retire from the career that was the only shining light in her world. The thought of being pushed into obscurity made her bones feel cold.
Mal took a long drink from his cup, wincing because it was still too hot. Finally, he said, “The way the label sees it is we get you out of the spotlight for a bit, let all the chatter die down—and, while you’re gone, you’ll create a completely different album. Then, like a phoenix, you’ll emerge from the ashes.”
“And what if I don’t want that?”
“Then you’ll have to try to find someone else who’ll work with you. And good luck with that.”
Motherfucker. She wanted nothing more than to punch the shit out of the sleazy expression on his face.
But she knew he was right.
“Okay, fine. Let’s say I agree to a new album. Why does it have to be with Quentin Russo?”
“I don’t know. That’s who the label wants—and you’re not in a position to argue.”
Blowing out a breath, Raine pulled the phone out of her hoodie pocket and started tapping in Russo’s name. When it pulled him up, she was hit with photos first and then, as she scrolled, headlines, mostly from eight years ago or more, filled the page. “And why the hell do they think he’s the right guy?” she asked, putting her phone on the table and swirling it so that it was right side up for Mal. “If you think I’m a mess, I’ve got nothing on him.”
She noticed, however, that there seemed to be something she had in common with him—he was full of rage and hatred. Maybe his label had fucked him over too.
But that wasn’t all. The man appeared to be an egotistical prick. Back when his star was burning brightly, his ego clashed with that of the frontman of the band—and he’d quit in the middle of a tour, leaving them high and dry.
At least Raine had never done that.
Mal looked up, his face unreadable, tapping the table beside her phone. “This is the old Quentin Russo. He’s had a chance to mellow and mature…and word is he’s brilliant behind the scenes.”
Raine continued staring at the upside-down screen, seeing words like Blow Up, Out of Control, and Angry Rant…and tried to picture herself working with someone like that. A guy like that would probably want to control her—and lose his shit when she pushed back. If—if—she got stuck with this guy, she’d have to let him know immediately that she was in control, not him.
And, of course, this guy was a former heavy metal guitarist. He’d have no appreciation for her sound or her lyrics. Would he make her change her sound?
But there was something else she’d never say out loud. Although she could do all kinds of research about this guy, she didn’t know Quentin Russo from Adam. Already in her short life and even shorter career, she knew that men with power would take they wanted. Was he going to be just another one of those predators? What would she be getting into if she said yes to this arrangement?
Mal pushed her phone back to her and lifted his cup again, this time blowing through the spout in the lid, leaving her in her thoughts.
She only had two choices and she didn’t like either one.
The monster was filling her entire abdominal area, begging to be unleashed, causing Raine to want to beat the shit out of her manager, get on top of the table, and scream out her lungs.
But people didn’t want to hear any of that. They wanted her to be the good girl, to get on stage and perform, keep her mouth shut when she wasn’t singing, and then exit stage left. She’d tried…and now look where that got her.
If she said yes…what would happen?
She now fully understood what would happen if she said no. It wouldn’t be long before she was working minimum wage jobs, scraping to get by. And she might still have to deal with the predators out there, just trying to get a piece of her for free. A cold chill darted up her spine as she shut her mind to that thought, quickly replaced by anger at feeling like she only had two shitty options.
