Page 10 of Falling for the Rockstar

* * *

On my way over, I stopped to grab a drink to help calm my nerves. A lot of good that did. Using my straw, I took a sip of my juice and when I was not getting anything, I removed it from the hole and the lid came off with it, splashing big droplets of juice all over my shirt. No shops are open this early, and Brianna isn’t answering her phone for my fashion emergency. Now I am in the bathroom of the label’s building trying to clean up this mess. Instead, I’m making it worse. My phone rings again.

“This is Myka.”

“Where are you dear, he’s getting antsy. He’s had no drink or blow in twenty-four hours. He’s not very pleasant.”

“I’m in the bathroom downstairs trying to clean a stain off my shirt. But it’s okay. I’m on my way up.”

Hanging up, I step back and look at my messy self in the mirror. “Fuck me.”.

Of all the things that can happen on this day, this is not what I would pick. How about gum on my shoes, or even breaking a heel? I always keep an extra pair or two in my car. But never a shirt. A thin, white, button-down shirt is always a recipe for disaster. My inner monologue continues while I enter the elevator and head up to the thirtieth floor. When my stop arrives, I exit to the sound of men chatting and laughing. This industry is not kind to women. We are the minority and being in a room full of male testosterone is something you either adjust to or change jobs.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say as I enter the room.

“Ah, there she is. The woman who’s going to change my entire image. And I see she’s wearing the kind of shirt I like, wet.” He snickers at his comment.

I roll my eyes. “Yes, I apologize for my appearance. My morning juice and I had a fight.”

“And the drink got the best of ya I see. We can’t have that now, can we? After all, image is everything.” He stands, removes his shirt, and passes it to me.

“Here put that on so I won’t be distracted by the lovely black, caged bra you’re wearing underneath,” he comments with a smile.

His gesture catches me off guard. “Uh, well yeah. Sure. Thanks, Simon.” I pull the garment over what I am already wearing, removing all temptation.

“Bloody hell,” Simon quips.

“What is it, Simon?” Lenny asks with a raised brow.

“She looks even hotter with my shirt on.” He laughs. “That’s the first time a woman has ever worn my shirt and I didn’t have to sleep with her.” His laughter continues.

I shake my head and begin the meeting. “Anyway, thank you all for joining me. I have reviewed all the files that were provided to me, and I have a few suggestions on how to turn this thing around.”

“I don’t see the reason anything needs to be turned around, love.”

“Your actions and antics both on the stage and off, more off than any, have caused a great dip in record sales and streams.”

“What are you blabbering about? We hit number one when our last album dropped.”

“Yes, Simon, but did you bother to see how big of a drop it was from any of the five albums before that? Plus, you were only number one in your genre and not overall sales.” I pull the spreadsheet out and push it across the table to him for review.

He glances over it and then pushes it away. “It still doesn’t take away from the fact that we hit number one.”

“You may not know this, Simon, but from a financial point of view, it only seems like you’re doing well. If the money is coming to your account, who cares, right? But in reality, the record label is losing out on hundreds of thousands of dollars each time another one of your cheap one-night stands pops up and tells the paparazzi that she’s pregnant.” I place my hands on my hips, preparing for an argument.

“They’re not cheap. I spend quite a bit of money on those birds.”

“You have a long list of paternity suits that the lawyers are trying to disprove.”

“Ah, yes. But none have been proven, have they?”

“If you didn’t bed everything with a mini-skirt we wouldn’t have to worry about that now, would we.”

“I haven’t bonked you yet, have I, pretty? And you had on a skirt last night.”

I let out an exasperated sigh and rub my hands over my neck. Everything is a joke to him, and he doesn’t seem to care. “You’re missing the point.”

“And what would that be, love?”

---