Biting down the fury filling her tiny five-foot-four frame, she tightened her abdominal muscles and finally dared to let out the breath that had been trapped in her lungs. As she saw it, she could do nothing…or keep her head held as high as she could and take this deal. She would do it, but she’d do it her way.
“Yeah, okay. Fine. Do I need to sign something?”
As Mal responded, she retreated inside herself, immediately hating it, knowing they were probably right.
She needed this, like it or fucking not.
Chapter 4
Well, this was it. Quentin had agreed to meet with the label to discuss terms of producing Raine Dennison’s next album. Ever since that moment, however, he’d been questioning the decision.
Still, he hadn’t signed a contract yet. Until then, he had the option to say no, so it wasn’t like he was up against the wall. There was, of course, one other possibility: the label could also walk away after they talked—and there was always a good chance of that happening. Because if he was going to do this, it was going to be by his terms.
And, after all his research on Raine Dennison, he knew that calling all the shots himself would be the only way to get it done.
Why the hell was he feeling so uptight? As he paced in the studio waiting to log into Zoom for the meeting, he tried shaking his arms to let out some of the tension, but with little relief. And he’d been here before, so it shouldn’t have been nagging at him so much. Even though the opportunities had been few and far between, it wasn’t like he’d never negotiated a contract before.
But he knew why his muscles were so taut. This could be his last shot at making something of this second career.
Letting out a slow breath, he approached his computer, picking up the coffee mug next to the keyboard and taking a drink, checking the clock again.
It was time.
As he sat down, he scrutinized the desk and, next to it, all the equipment he’d be using to mix that woman’s next album—if the label would accept his terms. Everything was just where it should be, nothing out of place, not a speck of dust or scrap of paper to be seen. That—the act of observing the order and neatness of the space—if nothing else, steeled his nerves. After clicking on the link in the email, he typed his name into the boxes and waited for the meeting to begin.
But the guy named Chad who’d sent the email wasn’t even in the virtual meeting. It was just two other men who, when Quentin appeared on screen, introduced themselves. The man who looked to be in his mid-forties but whose hair was already gray said, “Quentin, thank you for taking this meeting. I’m Tristan Jackson with Crushed Velvet Records.”
“And I’m Malachi Storm, Raine Dennison’s manager.”
“Good to meet you both,” Quentin said. So far, so good—but that would likely change soon enough. And there was no sense getting friendly. He didn’t want them thinking they could push him around, even if they thought they had him by the balls. He didn’t need this…
Did he?
“Just to make it clear,” Tristan said, “as we’d said in our emails, we’d like for you to produce Raine’s next album. After the…events that occurred last week, we believe the only way to rehab her career is for her to completely change her image—and that starts with her next album. Have you heard Raine’s music before?”
“A little,” he lied. After he’d sent a reply agreeing to the meeting, he’d done his research. If it was a possibility that he might be working closely with her, he needed to become familiar with her sound, her vibe…and her promise to her audience. It had been hard getting past all the gossip from last week, but he’d been able to get a pretty good bead on her as well as get a feel for her music. Regardless of the whispers about her behavior, Quentin knew talent when he saw it—and she was a hell of an artist. Some musicians could be great with a lot of hard work and desire; others were innately talented but sometimes, like a rock, had to be polished a bit.
Rare others just clicked, as if they were plugged into the collective consciousness, knowing inherently how they could connect with the people.
Raine Dennison was one of those unusual talented souls—and, after watching several of her performances and listening to her music while untangling it from the scandal surrounding her antics—he knew working with her would be a chance for him to prove to the world that he still had it. He tried telling himself that she was young and that was why she’d done a lot of the shit she’d been excoriated for…but, from personal experience, he suspected age had nothing to do with it.
“So what do you think? Would you be able to shape her sound? Take her raw material and create something new, something that sounds like her old music but also has a new feel? Could you elevate her enough that people can forgive her recent…missteps?”
Quentin nodded, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. “I think we could come up with something worthy.”
“Great. Then I’ll have my people draw up—”
“But I have some terms.”
Tristan paused, realizing he’d gotten ahead of himself. He probably thought Quentin would be desperate enough to accept anything. But that was where they were wrong. He had to be very careful…because if this girl was as loose a cannon as she appeared, she could damage everything Quentin had worked so hard to repair in his own life. He couldn’t just walk into this without making sure he could survive it. “Oh, of course. What might those be?”
“First off…is she currently sober?”
Tristan made a motion with his head, indicating he wasn’t the best source for that information, so her manager spoke. “Now? Yes. As you probably know, she, um, fell off the wagon for a bit. But I can confirm that she is clean and sober as we speak—and she usually is when she’s recording. She occasionally smokes pot when she’s writing—”
“I can’t have that here. She has to be completely off everything if she’s going to work with me. I don’t care what she does anywhere else, but she needs to be clean while we’re working. No alcohol and no drugs of any kind.” Then he added, “And I don’t mean just while we’re working during the day—I mean the entire time we’re working together.” After what she’d done last week, Quentin thought it might be prudent to state explicitly that he wanted nothing at his place that could be abused. If he’d suspected she smoked or huffed, he would have mentioned the paraphernalia for those addictions as well. But if they refused to keep that shit away from his sanctuary, it would be a deal breaker.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Malachi said.
