I sip my drink. “Oh, I’m enjoying it. Tremendously. But, still, my gut feels like she’s got something up her sleeve.”
Josh shrugs. “Maybe she thinks you could put in a good word for her with CeeCee.”
I sip my drink. “Yeah, that could be it.”
“If it’s anything at all. Maybe, just maybe, she’s a twenty-one-year-old journalism major who went to an event to meet CeeCee and unwittingly hooked a huge marlin on her line, when she hadn’t even gone there to go marlin fishing. Maybe she’s elated to catch the eye of a rich baller, who’s not half-bad looking, who can take her backstage to meet Red Card Riot or Aloha Carmichael or 2Real or 22 Goats, any time he wants. Not to mention, take her to the best parties in town. And the best restaurants. Or to Paris on a whim. You’re an exciting guy, Reed. To any woman. But especially to a kid like her.” He claps my shoulder. “Stop being so fucking cynical. Not every woman in Los Angeles is looking to exploit you for professional gain. Some of them want to exploit you for your money, hot body, access to parties and private aircraft, and backstage passes.”
I laugh. “You’ve gone soft on me, Faraday. Before Kat, you were even more paranoid than me about women’s ulterior motives. You were a gold medal athlete in the sport of sniffing out gold diggers. We were brothers in paranoid arms, remember?”
“Yeah, before Kat, I was a paranoid asshat who didn’t know the true meaning of happiness and wouldn’t have known unconditional love if it bit me in the ass. So don’t make my paranoia sound more glamorous than it was.”
“Oh, for the love of fuck. Not this again. You swore at Henny’s wedding you’d never again torture me with another speech about Kat ‘saving you from?—’”
“Thanks again for the generous tip, Mr. Rivers.”
It’s Georgina, standing before us with my credit card and receipt.
I smile and take my card. “You earned it.” I motion to Josh. “Georgina, this is my best friend, Josh Faraday. Josh, this is Georgina Ricci. Bartendress extraordinaire. Aspiring journalist. Fellow UCLA alum, as of next week. Hustler. Chess enthusiast. Full-grown adult.”
Josh laughs. “Hi, Georgina.”
“Hi, Josh. Nice to meet you. And, for the record, I have no idea how to play chess.”
Josh indicates the mess of drinks in front of us. “Looks like you know how to make drinks, though.”
“I fake it pretty well. Reed figured out a clever way for us to hang out during a busy Thursday-night shift.”
“That’s Reed for you,” Josh says. “The Man with the Plan.”
“Oh? Wikipedia says he’s The Man with the Midas Touch. Gasp. Is Wikiwrong?”
Josh chuckles. “No, he’s that, too.” He bats my shoulder. “Come shoot pool with us whenever you’re done chatting up the bartender, brother. Take your time.”
I open my mouth to tell Josh I’ll follow him in two seconds, just as soon as I say a proper goodbye to the lovely bartender, when a female voice shrieking my name behind me splits my eardrums. It’s a voice I don’t recognize. Not at all. But I know, instinctually, it’s attached to someone I’m going to loathe, whoever the fuck she is.
11
REED
The woman shrieking my name is, indeed, a stranger to me. A young, blonde, high-strung one with a flash drive in her hand. After shrieking my name, she launches into an elevator pitch about her music, saying all the same things I’ve heard a million times before. She’s a UCLA music student who saw me at today’s event, she says. And, surprise, surprise, she’s the next Adele.
“I don’t accept unsolicited submissions,” I say, putting up my palm. “No exceptions. And just a tip, Courtney. Don’t compare yourself to Adele. Nobody is ‘the next Adele.’ You sound like a fucking amateur when you say that. Also?—”
“Excuse me,” Georgina says, and off she goes to the other end of the bar.
Fuck.
I’d forgotten Georgina was standing there, watching this entire exchange. Fuck! From Georgina’s tone and body language, it’s clear she thinks I’m being too harsh with this girl. But what am I supposed to do? Sit here smiling every time someone ambushes me during a relaxed night with friends? And more to the point, when I’m hitting on the hot-as-fuck bartender? If this girl hadn’t bombarded me, I would have had a tantalizing “see you later, Cinderella” moment with Georgina. I’d have walked away from her on my own terms, leaving her wanting more. As itis, though, this girl is in my personal space, elevator-pitching me, while Georgina is standing ten feet away, looking upset.
“Enough,” I say sharply to the blonde, cutting off her rambling. “When I told you I don’t accept unsolicited demos a minute ago, that was your cue to fuck off.”
The girl’s mouth hangs open, just as Josh shifts his weight next to me, letting me know he thinks that was too harsh.
But fuck it. What this girl and Josh and Georgina don’t understand—whatnobodycould understand, unless they’ve walked a mile in my shoes—is that I’m not on this earth to give out participation medals. I’m here to find and disseminate rare musical greatness, while also living my best life. And guess what? Pretending to give a shit every time some wannabe ambushes me with a demo isn’t living my goddamned best fucking life!
I’m pissed as hell this blonde torpedoed my “see you later” with Georgina. And in the process quite possibly outed me to Georgina as the asshole that I am. But those aren’t the main reasons I just told her to fuck off. In truth, the far less prickish reason for my behavior is that I’m helping this kid out. Teaching her something. If she truly wants to make it in music, she’s going to encounter assholes far worse than me. On a daily basis, she’s going to discover nobody will hold her fucking hand in this business. Not even if she’s “the next Adele.” Which she’snot.
I glance at Georgina at the far end of the bar, making sure she’s not overhearing anything, and to my relief, she’s busy serving a customer. “Courtney,” I say, “I’m doing you a favor here by not sugarcoating anything. Music is a brutal business, filled with savage, endless rejections that are going to crush your soul and disembowel your spirit and make you question your talent on a daily basis. And, to be perfectly honest, I can already see in your eyes you’re not built to withstand any of that. Do you honestly think you are? Tell the truth. Swear on a stack of bibles you’re up for that kind of abuse.”
