Chapter One
Rick Marcus parked two houses down. Not because anyone would recognize his car. No one cared enough for that anymore, but old habits remained. In his head, there were still cameras, still people watching, still a story that could be told a certain way to make him seem like someone he wasn’t. A sensational story to sell to the masses at his expense.
His manager’s house sat behind a clipped hedge and a neat white fence. Warm light glowed in the front windows. It was the kind of house that belonged to a man who’d never once worried about a bad review or a chart position in his life.
The email he'd received had him clenching his hands into fists. Graham agreeing to the meeting because he could fit him in. Fit him in like Rick was an inconvenience that Graham had to deal with. No, Rick was more than a mere inconvenience and he'd prove that to Graham. Prove he could hit the top again.
Rick took a breath, checked his hair and goatee in the rearview mirror, then got out of his car. He didn’t bring anything withhim. He’d thought about it, then decided it might look a little too desperate. He wasn’t desperate. He was motivated. There was a difference. He wanted to be back at the top of the charts, not begging for a chance.
The air had a chill to it now that winter had arrived, and Rick pulled his coat tighter as he walked up the path. At the door, he smoothed his hands down his jeans, wiped away the sweat, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.
He heard footsteps approach the door, then there was a pause before the door opened.
His manager, Graham Barclay, stood in a gray sweater and jeans, a glass of wine already in his hand. His dark hair was thinner than it used to be, and he had a few more wrinkles around his eyes. Other than that, the years appeared to have been kinder to Graham than to Rick.
“Rick.” Graham smiled. “How are you?” He knew exactly how Rick was, as Rick had been calling and messaging for weeks to get this dinner.
Rick smiled anyway. The smile he’d worn on red carpets, on morning shows, on stages with lights so bright he couldn’t see the front row, and the roar of the crowd deafening him.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for having me.”
Graham stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in.”
The house smelled of garlic and roasted meat, and Rick’s stomach rumbled. He ignored his hunger. He was here to get his career back on track, so he had to remain focused on that.
He hung his coat on the rack and followed Graham toward the dining room. The table was set for two with candles lit, nice plates, and glasses. It would have been almost sweet if Rick didn’t know what the evening was really about.
A conversation about his future.
They sat and ate and talked about safe topics at first. Graham’s recent trip to Spain, a friend Rick pretended to remember, anartist Graham was working with now. Some kid with a buzz-cut and a tattooed face who had a song go viral on TikTok. Rick kept his expression neutral and forced himself to listen, even though his impatience was growing. He couldn’t care less about the kid, but he nodded when he needed to because it was the right thing to do.
Every time Graham said “we,” it wasn’t Rick he meant anymore, and Rick knew it.
After they’d finished eating and the plates had been cleared, Graham poured more wine. Rick said no and took a glass of water instead. If tonight went the way he feared, he needed his head clear so he could focus on his future.
Graham sat back, elbow on the chair arm, with his glass in hand. He watched Rick for a minute with a look Rick couldn’t quite place. Not pity exactly. More waiting for something.
Rick took that as his cue and leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the table. “Okay,” he said. “So. I’ve been working. Like, actively working.”
Graham made a small sound. “Go on.”
Rick nodded. “I’ve got songs. Real songs. Not the stuff people expect from me. I’m not trying to recreate the sound I used to have. It’s… more grown. More honest and real to me.”
Graham took a sip of wine. He said nothing, but nodded for Rick to continue.
Rick kept going, words tumbling now that he’d started speaking. “And I’ve been talking to a producer. Well, not talking, exactly, but I’ve got someone who can get me a meeting. It’s a guy who’s doing a lot of work right now. He understands how to build something, you know, like momentum. How to get people to listen. And I know you said the label wouldn’t be interested—”
“I didn’t say the label wouldn’t be interested,” Graham murmured. “I said the label wouldn’t be interested in spending money.”
Rick swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s why I’m willing to do it differently. Independent. Smaller budget. I’ll put my own money into it.”
Graham’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You have money to put into it?”
Rick fisted his hand, anger building inside. “I’m not broke.”
Graham didn’t smile. He just tilted his head and watched Rick. “I didn’t say you were. I asked because you’re talking about hiring people. Studio time. Marketing. And you haven’t been earning like you used to.”
Rick clenched his fist tight. “That’s the point. I will again.”
