“Can’t we get Lucy or someone from the label to sign the rest?”
I slide the cap back onto the Sharpie, unable to hide my frustration.
“They already are. There’s only ten thousand here. The label and Lucy have been working through the remaining batches.” Paul finally looks up from his iPad.
“Only!” Rob turns from where he’s looking out of the window at my raised voice.
No wonder my wrist aches.
“Yeah, we’ve had over seventy-thousand preorders for signed copies of the CD version alone.”
His eyes light up at the thought of what that means, then quickly dull.
No doubt he just remembered we won’t be getting a cent from these.
Everything with Paul is about money these days.
“How many preorders have we done in total so far?”
“One hundred and eighteen thousand. And there’s still one more week to go.”
I try to calculate how much money that will generate forRAINN before quickly giving up when Paul continues.
“You could be vying for number one on the Hot 100 with the track in two weeks’ time. Apparently, Columbia Records has paused their advertising for Mariah’sAll I Want For Christmas Is Youthat week, thinking you’re a shoo-in for the top spot.”
Me. Competing with the Queen of Christmas.
Holy Guacamole!
My phone pings and I turn to pick it up from the table.
Betty
Erica just messaged seeing if I want to head down to the spa for a facial.
You free to join? X
Sk8er Boi
You bet I am. X
The fresh-faced look that everyone complimented me on when I left the treatment facility is quickly returning to my usual drawn-out appearance, although Erica does a good job of hiding it every day.
I slide my phone into my sweatpants pocket and get up from the table.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Paul stares at me.
I bite back my first response and take a deep breath.
“To the spa.”
“Alex! You’re not going anywhere until you finish signing these.” His tone is incredulous as he reaches for one of the CD covers and throws it across the table to me.
I should just walk away, but I don’t. Paul’s demands have ignited a flame of fury inside me. I reach across the table and grab the pen.
“If you’re so obsessed with these being signed, why don’t you sign the rest of them yourself?” I fling the pen at him and storm toward the door.
An hour later, after a facial and filling my stomach with pepperoni pizza, the world feels steady again. Christopher and Erica sit across from me in the corner booth of Lago, one of the Italian restaurants at the Bellagio.
