Page 2 of Catching Sparks

Music and screaming voices attack my eardrums, making me flinch. My scowl deepens to the point of discomfort.

“Hello? You’re wasting my time,” I add tightly.

“Shit, sorry, boss. We have a bit of a problem here. The crowd is out of control, and the venue doesn’t have any extra hands to lend us,” he explains, each word a panted breath.

Frustration wells up inside of me. All of it due to the security team we pay way too fucking much for and their lack of ability to control a concert crowd.

“You assured me you didn’t need a second team when we sat down only three days ago.”

“We didn’t expect this number of fans—” A crash interrupts him, followed by a symphony of frantic orders and a squeal. “It’s insane here. Jocelyn is about to head onstage, but there’s only so much we can do if they try and jump the barriers.”

“You’re telling me you can’t take care of this problem right now?”

A pause. “I’m asking for you to send out a second team to ensure we can keep Jocelyn safe.”

There’s a knock on the door of the empty room I’ve snuck off to, and I look toward the sound to find Nathan waiting with brows raised and hands deep in the pockets of his black slacks.

“They’re antsy. Pissed about losing that vote,” he says softly, carefully.

I nod once at him, and he lingers even after I turn away from him.

“I don’t have a second team to send you. I took you at your word and apparent abilities, while misplaced, it seems, to do your job and sent the remaining two out with other artists, both of which are not even close to your location. You’ll have to figure something out.”

“You’re kidding me,” he huffs.

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? I don’t have the time for this.”

Footsteps sound behind me, and then Nathan is there, far too concerned and downright snoopy.

“You can’t be serious, Garrison. This isn’t a joke. This is a serious safety concern,” Bruno warns.

“Am I laughing?”

“You might as well be.”

“Don’t push me right now, Bruno. This is on you, not me. We could have planned accordingly, but instead, you assured me everything was good to go. You have to figure it out. Like I’ve said already, I don’t have the time for this.”

“Then find someone who does!”

I pull the phone from my ear and inhale through my nose. Nathan’s cautious gaze is too much.

“Are you alright, Garrison?”

I ignore him, unable to focus on anything but the lack of responsibility shown from my security team and the brave back chat that has got to be taking place in the meeting while I’m out here dealing with it. It pisses me off, turns the logical, problem-solving part of my brain off with the flick of a switch.

I’m the boss. Everyone relies on me. There are always far too many judgmental stares and muttered words the moment I make a bad call. I’ve become stressed beyond belief the past few months—years, if I’m being honest. Likely to the point I should consider seeing someone, a therapist, maybe. But I have no doubt they’d quit after our first session. I know it sounds incredibly “woe is me,” so at least I’m not failing in the self-awareness department.

Yet, despite how boohoo it all appears, I still can’t help myself from growing frazzled at the multiple shouted voices in my ear and the muttered words of warning from my VP. It’s all too much. That’s my only excuse for the way I hang up on Bruno, pocket my phone, and storm past Nathan on my way back to the meeting.

It isn’t my first bad call this week, but it’s the worst. By a fucking long shot.

“Repeat that,” I demand.

My hold on my whiskey glass turns ironclad as I leave my back to my father and stare out the windows of my office. The Toronto Skyline at night is the one beautiful part of this overpopulated city. Tonight, it does nothing to soothe me the way it sometimes does.

“Open your emails. Check your phone. Hell, look in the empty halls. Hear how silent they are. I don’t need to repeat myself for you to know what’s going on.”

“I’m aware how silent my halls are. I feel that silence. Feel the judgment. I do not need you to remind me of it,” I hiss, knocking back the rest of my drink.

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