Page 143 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

He asks me what patterns I noticed. I tell him. He pushes for specifics, and I give them. We build little frameworks out of the conversations I had downstairs. What each band’s strongest angle is, what audience they naturally pull, where their current image clashes with the music, what can be fixed quickly and what needs to evolve over time.

Gabe takes notes while I talk.

That alone feels strange.

A man like him shouldn’t be writing down my opinions with that level of focus. At one point, I get up and start pacing because it’s easier to think while moving.

“These two bands can’t be marketed the same way,” I say, flipping back through my notebook. “South Avenue needs discovery. Grassroots. Let people feel like they found them first. The other band⁠—”

“Riot,” Gabe says.

“Right. Them.” I point with my pen. “They need authority. Not polish, exactly. Just confidence. They already sound established. Their visuals should catch up to that.”

Gabe nods, typing something. “That tracks.”

I stop pacing and look at him. “You keep saying that.”

“Because your thinking is consistent.”

“That sounds like a line.”

“It isn’t.”

I hate that I believe him.

He looks up. “What?”

“You’re very annoying to compliment.”

“That’s an interesting criticism.” He leans back, assessing me with that calm, focused gaze. “Would you prefer I was vague?”

“No. I’d prefer if I had thicker skin.”

He goes still at that.

And before he can say anything careful or kind or dangerous, I drop back into the work.

“Anyway,” I say, glancing down at the page again, “you should have artists doing small local appearances before anything bigger. Not all the time. Just enough that the town gets used to them as people, not an invasion.”

Gabe catches the pivot and lets me have it. “That would help with resistance.”

“Exactly. Right now half the town thinks celebrity means disruption. If the artists show up at a market, or a bookstore, or Friday Night Live without turning it into a spectacle, that changes.”

He nods. “Integration instead of intrusion.”

I point at him. “See? That’s why you get paid the big bucks.”

“I also get paid the small ones.”

“Still not enough, apparently.”

He smiles then. It changes his whole face in a way that should be illegal at a federal level.

I look back at the notebook because I’m not strong enough for that.

By the time we’re done, I’ve filled six pages. Full pages. Not scraps. Not daydreams. Work.

Real, useful work.