Page 1 of Ring My Bell

Chapter One

IGGY

“Where’s Raymond?”

Vicky and Monty gave me half-hearted shrugs, neither quite meeting my eyes.

“Seriously,” I pressed. “He’s supposed to be here. He told me to meet him for drinks at eight, but Leroy said he had to take some call, so he was still at the office…” A little wildly, I glanced around the huge den. My meeting-slash-date with Raymond had been rescheduled three times until I finally put my foot down. (Okay, maybe I whined and possibly, just possibly, pouted.) I was not ashamed to admit I was pissed. He had managed to weasel his way out again. Something as important as my freaking career, and my own freaking manager was missing the freaking meeting?

Okay, so maybe he was more boyfriend than manager some days. However, when it came to the upcoming label meeting with Pink Stone Records and possibly opening for Regina Dora—only the most freaking famous drag queen turned pop star in the history of ever, thank you very much, who loved my song Ring My Bell and told me so in person in the bathroom at Drama-Dairy, this cute little club in WeHo so he needed to put his manager pants on and show up for the meeting!

Vicky, Raymond’s right hand, busily tapped away on her tablet, but she kept darting glances at me like she was waiting for a chance to bolt. Monty, Vicky’s right hand, was already easing back towards the door. Probably hoping to escape to the wing of the house where Raymond’s office and home recording studios (yes, studios, plural—my man was a mogul, or damn close) were tucked away.

Narrowing my eyes, I pointed at him, making him freeze in place. “Why are you two acting so sketchy? Did Raymond tell you to put me off or something?”

“No,” Monty drew out. I supposed his expression was meant to look amused but came out constipated. “We’re just working.”

“On a Saturday night. At his house.”

With a sniff, Vicky set her tablet aside, folding her arms and legs so she became a beige-silk-clad box of superiority complex and condescension. “Mr. Walters is one of the top producers in the industry.” I swear, she started every damn conversation like that, Raymond’s very own Greek chorus reminding the audience of his importance. “He doesn’t get weekends off, and neither do we. He doesn’t have time to go on dates with you just because you’re bored and want attention.”

Monty made a choked, annoyed sound. His expression, when he thought I wasn’t looking, was of annoyance and concern, brows drawn down and lower lip caught between his teeth. When he noticed me seeing him, he smoothed it out, putting his usual bored mien in place.

“We had a meeting scheduled. Specifically to discuss—why am I telling you? You should already know,” I pointed out. “You’ve got his calendar memorized. Who could be more important than this?”

“This being you?” Vicky muttered.

“This being one of his clients he’s been dodging for a month now,” I barked. Hearing it out loud made that slimy, greasy, seasick feeling I’d been fighting since my birthday the month before swell in a rising tide in my gut. “Tell him I’m here.” I marched to the overstuffed armchair furthest from Vicky, closest to the gold-painted door leading to Raymond’s business wing.

Monty and Vicky had an entire conversation in facial expressions alone. Monty nervously peeked at me between his brow-raised head-tilts at Vicky. Vicky’s jaw was set in a grim, determined jut. She glared Monty down until he dropped to sit in a hard-backed chair with a small table beside it. Reluctantly, he picked up his own tablet and stared at the screen, not even bothering to pretend to work. “Mr. Walters is in a meeting with a high-priority client.” Frost formed in the air between us. “You are not high priority.”

“I have a single sitting at number three on the charts.” A burst of pride and sheer terror cut through that gross nausea. “Regina Dora’s team has been trying to reach him for weeks.”

Vicky rolled her eyes. “Regina Dora is a two-bit attention whore—”

“Yeah, and? You just described most of the music industry.” I huffed, tossing my quilted silk bomber jacket (thrifted, thank you very much—I was cultivating my image on a Savers budget). “Look, I waited at Princip’s for an hour, me and my sad little blood orange martini. He didn’t even bother to text, and that’s fucking unprofessional.”

Monty made a funny choked noise. When I swung my glare in his direction, he was busily tapping away on his tablet, pointedly ignoring me.

Vicky groaned and finally unfolded from her perch, shoving her tablet into the Balenciaga tote she kept at her side like it was vital to her survival.

How the hell does a PA get Balenciaga money?

I need to talk to Raymond about my percentage…

I need to get a percentage…

“The point remains that he is busy, and you’re not. Go home, go clubbing, whatever it is you do with your copious free time.” She raked a gimlet glare over me, her glossy lips twisting in a sneer. “He’ll call you when he decides he wants you.”

Monty made another choked noise.

“Oh my god, are you channeling that mouth-breathing pug of Raymond’s or something?” I demanded, whirling to face him. “Both of you are being so fucking weird! Look, he missed a meeting, and I’m stuck trying to do his job for me, okay? This is ridiculous. I’m paying him for his time—”

“And that’s not, I don’t know, weird to you?” Monty murmured.

Vicky hissed at him to shut up, but the damage was done.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

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