Had I just canceled…myself?
It was then that Alan Forrester, the show’s long-running host, stepped up to the plate. “People, there’s no need for threats. Quinn, I think what Mr. Hollis is saying is that no one’s trying to pressure you. Perhaps you thought we were too active in your song choice this week, and I would have to agree. You were right to choose the song you did. It suited you perfectly. Would we have preferred to have been warned? Sure. But what’s done is done. And the crowd loved it, so no harm no foul. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hollis? All we’re asking is that you uphold your end of the deal and go out there and make your fans happy.”
“Actually, Alan,” Hollis said, his words dripping with contempt as he pushed the lesser man aside. “What I was trying to say is, if the kid walks away now, he should know that any song he releases in the next decade belongs to me!”
That detail hit me straight between the eyes.
“That can’t be right,” I challenged.
“Oh, but it can. Why you Gen-x-y-z-er’s don’t read the fine print, I’ll never understand. But let me make it perfectly clear: I. Own. You. Quinn. Now, turn around and march back on that stage like you signed on to do, or I’ll be that sniper on the roof making sure every dream you’ve ever dreamed dies a horrible, bloody death.”
I scanned the group of the powerful Hollywood elite, the very last men any self-respecting, aspiring singer would want to mess with. Fucking fine print! Why hadn’t I read it? What was I, five? Honestly, I shouldn’t be trusted to touch knives. And now, I’d wedged myself so far into a corner that unfurling the white flag seemed the easiest way out. But did I really want fame on his terms?
“Okay.”
I’d taken so long to utter that one word that when it finally arrived, a collective sigh united the room.
“Well, halle-effen’-lujah, McKallister. You aren’t as dumb as you look.” Hollis pointed me toward the door. “Now off you go!”
Irked by his dismissiveness, I actually looked forward to the second part of the sentence he hadn’t let me finish. Hollis thought he had me by the balls, but the minute he’d issued his smug threat was the minute he’d lost me. The thing about intimidation and me was that I never shrank from it. Being the youngest of five boys, I’d learned to adapt and survive in harsh environments. Under beds. Inside headlocks. Hell, if I’d waited patiently for release every time one of my brothers shoved me in a hamper and sat on the lid, I never would’ve gotten anywhere in life.
By drawing up the battle lines with his fine-print fist, Hollis had given himself the upper hand—but the war was far from over. My nemesis was about to discover that the youngest boy in the McKallister family was never scrappier than when his back was up against the wall.
With my eye on the firing squad, I opened my arms wide and slowly backed out of the room.
“No, Hollis,” I said, a wicked smile forming. “I didn’t mean, ‘Okay, I’ll be your little bitch.’ I meant, ‘Okay, let the bullets fly.’”
* * *
Right so, my fuck-you moment didn’t go down exactly as planned. Just as I turned to make my escape, I discovered a split second too late that the PR lady was still inexplicably standing right outside the door, but instead of doing our obligatory dance, this time I plowed right into her, knocking both of us to the ground in the process.
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry,” I said, helping her up and smoothing down her collision-worthy hair. What the hell was she still doing hanging out by the door, anyway? Was that part of her job description? Because hell, I was currently unemployed. I wondered if they had any openings in the PR department.
Hollis’s henchmen saw weakness and descended, manhandling as they tried to push me in the direction of the stage. Oh, no, they didn’t. I broke free, and with no other weapon to speak of but my Gibson guitar, I started swinging my girl around like a bat.
“Back off,” I warned. Granted, I had no earthly intention of slamming my Lucia into one of their noses. That would just be cruel to the guitar. But just the threat of a broken nose repelled the manicured men. When it came right down to it, none of them seemed willing to risk rhinoplasty for their boss.
I took their cowardliness as my cue to bolt for the nearest exit.
“Go after him!” I heard Hollis shout from behind me.
“Me?” Alan Forrester whined, his voice high and disbelieving. “Why me?”
“Because I pay for your gym membership. Make it worth my while.”
I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, as I’d already flung open an emergency exit and escaped into an alleyway. A quick dash brought me to Hollywood Boulevard, where the hordes of tourists would work as my protection.
“Excuse me. Right behind you. Coming through,” I said, issuing warning after warning as I zigzagged through the crowd—not an easy feat, mind you, with the whole lot of them walking with their heads trained to the ground reading the names of the stars on the Walk of Fame.
“Quinn! Wait!” I heard Alan call from somewhere behind me. Well, shit, that gym membership was really paying off. He was faster than his leather loafers might make you think. Ducking behind a t-shirt display in front of a gift shop, I waited until Alan passed before scanning the boulevard for a more permanent solution. My eyes zeroed in on a tan sedan with a bright-yellow ride-share sticker on the back window featuring the single letter ‘R’.
And there it was.
My getaway car.
4
Jess: Runaway Rock Star
