Which meant only one thing: I was alive.
You were wrong, Dad. We don’t need to seek it out.
If we’re meant to burn, it’s already happening.
* * *
When we arrived downtown, my hulking, live-in bodyguard, Lamar, escorted me up the elevator of BHR Tower, home of my record label, Brick House Records.
Lamar then waited for me out in the Brick House reception area while I went in to talk to Trey Jones, owner of Brick House and a guy I’d known for years. I was texting my buddy Dane as I followed Trey’s assistant into his office; the west coast offices of Dane’s company, Valhalla Media Group, were also in the building, and I wanted to know if he was in the office today and wanted to meet up for a late lunch or something.
When I looked up from my phone, I was greeted by two dour-ass faces. Yash and Trey got to their feet as Trey’s assistant shut the door behind me. Trey, looking toned and slick in a designer button-down with the sleeves rolled up, standing behind his desk, and Yash, my manager and longtime friend, comparatively doughy in an orange Polo shirt and jeans, hovering in the foreground, looking sweaty.
“What’s with the long fucking faces?” I greeted them casually as I went to hug Yash, then shook Trey’s hand across the desk.
“Johnny,” Trey greeted me neutrally.
“Sit down, bro.” Yash scratched at his beard, a wild and wiry thicket that crept up his cheeks and down his neck. Yash was basically the opposite of Trey Jones in the way he conducted business. He wasn’t exactly sloppy, but he didn’t give a fuck about grooming or fashion. Told me once, long ago, that he was never going to be “that guy” so why bother. He knew his place in a room with a guy like Trey.
And with me.
Yash brought brains and logic to the equation, and a generous dose of anxiety.
Trey brought polish, a high bar and a capacity for over-achievement.
I brought chaos and talent.
Yash’s words, not mine.
“How many coffees have you had today, buddy?” I asked as we all sat down; Yash looked twitchier than usual.
He laughed uncomfortably. “Not enough for this conversation.”
I glanced at Trey, who sat back in his chair looking relaxed but not happy. Trey Jones would be the first guy in the room to try to charm you, find common ground, influence your mood with a compliment. Usually it was,Looking good, Johnny. That a new tattoo?Or,When are we going for drinks?
Not today.
“Look, Johnny. JC walked out.”
I heard Yash’s words, but they didn’t sink in. He stared at me in silence, waiting on a reaction.
“Walked out,” I repeated slowly. “Out of where?”
“He walked out onus,” Yash clarified. “He’s left the band.” He twitched, rattling his wood-bead bracelets. It was a nervous tick, and it drove me crazy. I should’ve stolen all his bracelets one night on tour while he was sleeping and burned them.
Walked out.
By the time I’d processed, I was already rejecting this information outright. My lead singer was not leaving the band. “No. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Johnny.” Yash tried to hold my gaze, but kept looking away. Another nervous tick. “He’s gone for good this time. I spoke with him this morning. He’s not coming back.”
“Of course he is.” I leaned forward in my seat. “And why am I just hearing about this now?” I looked from him to Trey.
Trey returned my look with a cool detachment.This is your problem, not mine.
No. I could not lose my lead singer. Iwould notlose my band.
I would not lose this record deal.
