Page 3 of Serving the Maestro

“You know, if you’re really hurting for money, you could ask your dad.”

Narrowing my eyes at Stephen, my manager, I bit back a pithy retort as the server put our drinks in front of us. “I prefer to work for my money, not ask for a handout from the asshole who knocked up my mom—and half a dozen other women.”

“Ouch.” Stephen winced at my sharp tone. “You’re in a shitty mood, aren’t you?”

“I wonder why.” Taking the glass of Kentucky rye bourbon, I sipped and stared off into nothing while I brooded over the way the past year had unfolded.

My last big project tanked. Usually, something like that wasn’t a huge blow, but not only had I written all the music, I’d also been an investor in the film.

But my bad luck hadn’t ended there.

I’d been in a car wreck—nothing major—but I was the one at fault. Which just fucked up things more because my license and registration were expired. I’d been so engrossed in writing the musical score for the last project I’d forgotten annoying stuff like paying bills.

The insurance company refused to pay, and I’d had to cough up money to pay for the car repairs for the other driver. They’d been steep, too. Steep enough that I still hadn’t bought a new car to replace the one I’d totaled.

I needed another project. Soon. Eying Stephen across the table, I swirled my bourbon and wished he didn’t have such a good poker face.

“So, are we here to chat, or do you have a line on a project for me?”

“You’re no fun when you’re broke, my friend,” Stephen smirked. “There’s no catching up. No asking how I’ve been. Just jump right to business.”

“I talk to you almost every damn day,” I pointed out. “What do we need to catch up on? Unless you met the love of your life while picking up your dry cleaning or parking that ugly-ass car of yours, I already know what’s going on with you. And you know what’s going on with me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sipped the bourbon and grimaced. “Why’d I let you talk me into this? I hate this rye shit. Anyway, you’re being a bitch because you’re broke, and you can’t get a new car until you pick up a new project.” He cocked a brow. “I told you not to back that Steinert deal. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Contrary to what you think, I told you so isn’t a good look for you. Or anybody.” I grinned as he took another sip of the rye, mouth tightening in distaste. He had no appreciation for the finer things in life. Served him right, too, for being an asshole.

“Wipe that smug look off your face, pal, or I won’t tell you about the possible gig I’ve got for you.” He put the nearly empty glass on the table and flagged our server. After ordering a Jameson whiskey, he pulled out his phone, tapped on the screen, and studied it for a few seconds.

“What gig?” I demanded, glaring at his lowered head.

“Gimme a minute.” He kept reading another ten seconds, then put the phone away. As he leaned back in his chair, he said, “You aren’t going to like it, man, but it pays well, and there are some sweet side perks. I almost wish I could bang out a song myself.”

Too used to him by now, I ignored the comment about banging out songs and focused on the critical part—pays well.

“Tell me.”

When he explained the initial specifics, I almost said no, right off the bat—I bit my tongue because I couldn’t afford to say no if it paid anything decent.

But then he started detailing the perks.

“They’ll set you up in a corporate apartment near Central Park, with two-thousand dollars weekly for meals, entertainment, expenses, whatever you want. It gets direct deposited into your account, and you can do whatever the hell you want with it.” Stephen grinned as my brows shot up. “Yeah, man. Room and board and I haven’t even discussed the fee yet.”

“So get to it.” Even with a corporate apartment near Central Park and the weekly funds, I wasn’t sold on the idea. Transcribing a recent Broadway musical into a piano score? I wasn’t sure about this.

Before the epic failure, the last project I’d done had received Oscar nominations. One bad turn of events, and I was doomed to transcribe someone else’s songs?

Well...beggars couldn’t be choosers and all the shit.

“What’s the transcription fee?” I asked, cutting Stephen off as he started waxing on about the musical’s director and the composer of the original score—the composer was a fan of my music. They both wanted to be involved in the process if I took the job. That was another reason to say no.

“Thirty grand.” Stephen gave me a smug smile. “And because I’m just that good, that’s your cut. I talked them up a little.” He named a slightly larger figure. “That’s the total offer, but I get my usual percentage, leaving you with thirty large. And I’m not expecting a cut from the weekly living expenses.”

“How considerate.” I flipped him off while mentally running some figures in my head. Two grand a week—I could live pretty well in New York City on that and still save money, especially since I didn’t have to pay rent. “Where would I be working?”

“That’s up for discussion.” Stephen smiled. “Did I mention the composer’s a fan? They really want you for this job. They’ve also promised to fly you to NYC first-class and when the job is done, give you the same treatment on the return flight.”

I’d grown up with a single mom who’d barely scraped by above the poverty line. I had more than a little disgust for the sperm donor who helped conceive me—a rich son of a bitch with more money than sense—more children, too. I shouldn’t so easily be swayed by the nice, but unnecessary perks Stephen detailed.

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