"Hunger Strike," Temple of the Dog
Cruz
Itappedmyfingersagainst the clipboard of my Friday morning maintenance tasks, swiveling in my chair while prioritizing whether to replace lightbulbs or clear the sidewalks.
But my attention kept shifting to the paper under the checklist: the record contract.
A year ago, I’d have signed without thinking twice. "Say yes and figure it out," I would’ve told myself, diving headfirst into the adventure. But now? Now I wasn’t so sure.
I spent half the night reading every clause, trying to figure out if this deal would catapult my musical career or bleed me dry. The half-million dollar advance seemed huge, but how far would it get me after paying back recording costs and promotion? Not to mention the limited creative control. The numbers swirled in my head, making my stomach twist.
I hadn’t told my mom yet. She’d be thrilled that my childhood dream was finally in reach, but I wasn’t sure the dream was worth chasing. Horror stories haunted me: artists losing control of their music, fighting for fair payouts, burned out by endless tours.
I considered calling Alex for legal advice, maybe even asking him to represent me for the meeting with the record company … but his wasn’t the opinion I wanted. And every time I reached for my phone to text Victoria, I froze. What would I even say? “Hey baby, I know you haven’t responded in a month, but I have a legal question for you …”
By morning, I was looking into how much it would cost to fund my album, maybe crowdsource it … but without the advance, it was an uphill battle.
My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on my office door. I spun in the swivel chair, expecting a tenant, and my heart sank when I saw who it was.
Arthur Blackstone stood in my office door frame, hands in the suit pockets of his tailored suit, silver eyes impassive. It had been a month since he’d shown up at Victoria’s office, now he was here to start shit with me?
Whatever he was selling, I wasn’t buying.
“Looking for directions? Head south,” I said. “Your daughter is no longer a tenant here.”
He straightened his sleeve, revealing gold cufflinks. “Funny, she’s still paying the taxes.”
“Her decision,” I said, tapping my pencil against my lip. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Can’t fit me into your busy day unclogging toilets?”
“Actually,” I checked my clipboard again, “Seems like my top task today is pest control.”
Hislipcurledindisgust at the diner’s worn vinyl booths and mirrored ceilings. When he promised he’d leave after buying me lunch, he probably expected me to pick an overpriced steakhouse that I could never afford on my own. But as much as I wanted updates on Victoria, him being here without her left me wary.
Plus I still had to record today’s song on my lunch break. Should I allude to this meeting in the video? Did she know he was here?
When the waitress approached to fill our coffee mugs, her gaze darted between us—him in a ten-thousand dollar suit, me in my work polo shirt—before she asked me, “Is Tori coming too?”
Arthur’s scowl deepened in disbelief that his daughter would be caught dead in this dive. I just smiled. “Not today.”
“Too bad, we keep gluten free bread in stock for her,” she said, filling our coffee mugs. “Tell her we’re all rooting for her, ok?”
“I’ll tell her tonight,” I said, reaching for the creamer. Last night was the first night I hadn't sent a bedtime text, leaving an uneasy feeling in my gut. Was that why her dad was here?
But no, she wouldn’t send him to do her dirty work. Would she?
When the waitress left the table, I asked Arthur, “Does she know you’re here?”
The vinyl seat groaned under his weight shifting. He didn’t answer, staring at his manicured hands. His wedding ring clinked against the ceramic coffee mug. My gut clenched tighter but I didn’t want to give away my anxiety. I leaned back as if I didn’t give a shit why he was there.
“My daughter … " His nostrils flared as he glanced around the restaurant, full of hungover college students, truck drivers mainlining coffee, and camo-clad Navy staff coming off the overnight shift. “She made an impulsive mistake this week.” He lifted those gray eyes, like I’d also been animpulsive mistake. “The blowback will damage her career. And the media will realize your connection to her.”
My pulse quickened. I’d been careful in all my videos to not use her name. What had she done that would connect us?
I leaned closer, dropping my voice to a harsh whisper. “Arthur, is she safe?”
The color drained from his face. “She’s unharmed.”
