Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
But as I release the angst and my fears about how I want to make it in this industry through a song disguised as a love ballad, my confidence builds.
The audience reacts, but I can’t tell if it’s positive or negative.
I only hear my guitar and my voice.
I thought that would be a good sign. Usually, there’s bar noise in the background, the steady low hum of a large crowd. Hell, some nights I feel like I’m being completely ignored up here.
Right now, there’s nothing.
It’s as if everyone in the room is collectively holding their breaths.
And when I finish out the song, the silence doesn’t stop.
For a beat or two, I think I’ve walked onto the set of some weird-ass movie where everyone’s gone mute because of some random gas leak or bioweapon attack.
It stretches forever, but in reality it’s probably only seconds before the bar erupts in cheers, whistles, and clapping.
The smile that pulls at my lips is probably boyish and not at all professional. It feels like my face is screaming, “You like me! You really like me!”
I clear my throat and tell myself to act like I’m used to this kind of praise from an audience.
I finish out the rest of my set with the songs from my demo and tell myself to ignore the giant bodyguard man and Harley as I exit the stage and head for my dressing room.
They’re not far behind, though.
I’m pacing the room with my hands on my head trying to dispel the leftover adrenaline from being out there when they enter the room without knocking.
My feet stall when a third person enters the room.
Brix closes the door behind them and stands guard. I guess he’s in bodyguard mode not boyfriend mode.
“Lyric Jones, this is Cameron Verikas,” Harley says.
My mouth dries. My palms fucking sweat.
Cameron Verikas is here. Like, right in front of me. He’s responsible for five of the biggest acts of the last twenty years.
“And judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing you already know who he is,” Harley says.
Cameron … The Cameron Verikas smiles at me. Me! “I’m gonna cut to the chase, kid. I want to sign you and find you a label.”
Harley steps in front of him. “I want to sign you to my label.”
“Together?”
Harley’s pouty bottom lip flattens.
Cameron scoffs. “This guy has no money to give you. And ten percent of nothing is nothing. So no. Not together.”
“I don’t have no money,” Harley says. “I have … little money, which, okay, is next to nothing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cameron could get your name in front of some big labels who could write you a big fat check for your first album, that’s true. But I can give you what you want. A label who wants to produce you as you.”
“But you’re both connected to Ryder, so I can’t—”
Harley smiles. “Ryder said you’d say that. I love that man like a brother, but no way would I risk a brand-new label on a favor.”
“I’m looking for a new act,” Cameron says. “I don’t go around throwing offers at mediocre artists because an old client tells me to. We’re businessmen first and foremost. Remember that whenever you believe someone is doing you a favor in this industry, okay? Favors are easy to repay with very little effort. I’ve already done more for you than any favor that’s been asked of me. I sat through an entire set just to hear you sing.”
“People like Cameron Verikas don’t do that,” Harley points out.
They’re right. Both Harley’s and Cameron’s time is valuable. And even if Ryder asked them to come hear me play—which I don’t think he did because we’ve talked about that—they didn’t have to come backstage and offer me anything.
Harley steps forward. “What we’re offering is genuine. He can make you big, but I can make your dreams come true.”
“Hear us both out, and then make your decision,” Cameron says.
“O-okay.”
If someone had told me I would have the chance to sit down with Cameron Verikas and Harley Valentine and that I’d even be contemplating picking Harley over Cameron, I would’ve told them their crystal ball was broken.
Yet, here I am, wanting to hear both of them out.
Cameron could have me shooting to the top of the Billboards in weeks. Months, tops. He’s the type of manager a guy like me could only dream of. Yeah, he managed Eleven, but he’s also been responsible for some Grammy Award–winning acts who aren’t so boy bandy.
Harley, on the other hand, is all boy band. But he wants to change that image, and he wants to give not only me but Ryder his own voice as well.
“The original out there,” Harley says. “Did you write it?”
“Yes. Uh, well, with Ryder’s help. The melody is mine. He helped me with the lyrics.”
Harley seems pleased with my answer. “You two make a great team. I’d want to keep that if I signed you.”