Page 249 of Most Eligible Billionaire CEO

The four band members and their snooty manager scampered out of here in a cyclone of indignation at our reluctance to roll over like dogs to accommodate their unreasonable last-minute requests.

“Sit the fuck down, Linc!” I demand.

He glares at me, but grants my wish.

He drops his ass in the seat across from me like a four-year-old sent to timeout. He even crosses his arms over his large chest and scowls at me, his eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

“You look like you’re about to burst,” I mock.

His blue eyes meet mine. “I’m well past that,” he retorts. He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I know working with musicians can be like working with prima donnas––and I’m fully aware I signed up for this kind of bratty attitude when I chose this profession––but Joel fucking Banner takes the fucking cake,” Linc says, jamming his fingers through his brown hair.

Linc is six years older than me. Together we’re co-CEOs of Lumen Opus Productions. The music industry is all we know. Just like our dad, uncles and grandfather, we’re part of the team of experts and tradesman who work in the background to make musicians look good when they’re on stage, rocking out their fans at concerts. Linc’s former boss was a bigshot in the industry, but he was difficult to work with, hence he went through employees like you go through tissue when fighting a cold. It was a constant revolving door. Linc was one of the rare ones who could handle this guy’s volatile temper. Since he didn’t have kids, he accepted Linc’s offer of a buyout to continue his legacy. My brother was only twenty-five at the time, but eager to prove himself. I joined him the minute I graduated from the American Film Institute Conservatory. Linc designs the actual the stage, while I’m the light show guy. Together, we make magic.

“Joel has the gall to bring a list of demands as long as the goddamn Golden Gate Bridge a month before their Vegas concert—their first on American soil, by the way—simply because he wants to upstage another British band that had a sold-out concert in Madison Square Garden last night?!” Linc balks. “This isn’t fucking kindergarten! If it weren’t for our friendship with Holt, I would’ve thrown Joel’s British ass out for having so little respect for what we do.”

“He’s clueless of the nightmare involved behind making such dramatic changes at this stage of the game,” I say.

“Damn fucking right he is!” Linc shouts.

If Joel wasn’t linking to a good friend, Linc would’ve chewed up out and spat him out.

Holt Christensen commissioned us for this gig. He’s Beckett’s older brother and the head of a record label that’s making waves in the industry. He’s living in London now, but he has offices in LA and New York. Joel’s band is signed under Holt’s label. Don’t get me wrong, the guys are talented, but they’re a royal pain in the ass—especially the band leader.

Holt wasn’t always a record label exec.

Once upon a time, Rod Wolfe, Beckett Christensen, Jace Halsey, and Holt Christensen were known as the formidable musicians behind Random Misconception, aka one of the biggest rock bands of our time. Linc and I designed the stage and light show for their farewell tour. I was really young when I secured that contract. I was hungry, too. It’s the concert that put our company on the map.

Today, the four rock gods run very successful companies. Translation, they’re acing their second careers. Along with being badass execs, Rod, Beckett, Jace, and Holt are paper billionaires. Like yours truly. Years ago, our buddy Gage Hollingsworth needed seed money to propel an ingenious idea to the next level. We jumped in. Jace’s older brother Jagger and his cousin Lochlan Berkshire are also investors. It was a risk, but the gamble paid off. It’s mind-boggling to think StreamTunes has become a multibillion-dollar company as the leader in audio streaming services. The valuation of Gage’s company is approaching the twenty-billion-dollar mark. Once he buys us out, we’ll become bona fide billionaires. Except for Beckett. He’s already a multibillionaire in his own right. The company he owns with his business partner is kicking butt as a market leader. The rest of us will be rich. Pretty boy Beckett will be filthy rich.

“I want to become a bloody legend, not just another musician, mate!” Linc mimics Joel in an atrocious British accent. “We design fucking stages. We don’t perform miracles!”

“I’ll concede he’s got a bit of a diva complex—”

“The pompous ass thinks he can walk in here and dictate how we do our job? Chill out, mate. Money isn’t an issue for us lads,” Linc mocks Joel again. “Fuck you! This has nothing to do with money, you British prick! Like he knows the first thing about building a stage with a wow factor!”

My brother is really a great guy, and he usually doesn’t swear like a sailor, but Joel managed to push his buttons during a meeting that extended by over an hour––precious time we’ll never get back.

Linc snatches a rogue pen off the conference room table and taps it to the beat of his annoyance. I open my mouth to say something to calm him down, but the alarm on my iPhone rings, reminding me of an appointment.

“Shit! I have to go,” I say.

“The four o’clock meeting with the lawyers?” Linc asks.

“Yes.”

“I forgot.”

“I allotted time after our meeting with Joel and company for us to brainstorm, but now I’m pressed for time.”

“Thanks for taking one for the team,” my brother says, his tone softening.

“No problem. You can’t possibly miss your son’s first playoff soccer game of the season.” Micah is playing off another top-ranking school. It’s a big deal.

My brother chuckles. “He’s predicting a 3-0 win. The boy has balls.”

“And ambition,” I note.

Micah wants to grow up to become the team captain who brings the FIFA World Cup to America. Linc is a firm believer in dreaming big.

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