Chapter 7

CHAPTER7

TATE

I figured everyone would forget about me for sure by Monday. Some new scandal or celebrity war would come along and overshadow my performance, which, in the scheme of life, isn’t that big of a deal.

My chance at finding fame one more time shot down within twenty-four hours. Sounds about right when it comes to my luck.

But that isn’t what happens. Not even close. Monday morning rolls around, and I’m still blowing up. I have another meeting scheduled with Simon today along with someone from my old record company. The same company that fired my ass so fast my head spun.

Or maybe that was the recurring hangover I was experiencing at the time. Still not sure.

Now all the network morning shows are talking about me. Airing clips of my performance at Scarlett Lancaster’s party. They always end their segments with the kiss between Scarlett and me, asking the camera if we’re together.

It’s like they want us to be a couple, which I get. She’s gorgeous. And I can’t deny we look good together.

She’s not really my type.

I checked in on my video-sharing account, and the number of personalized-message requests is unbelievable. No way can I manage them all, so I had to write on my storefront that I’m no longer available and set the account to private. I will probably piss off a ton of people, and that’s most likely a mistake, but right now, I don’t give a damn.

I’m not about that life anymore. I’m ready to move on to something bigger.

Something better.

By the time I’m rolling into the meeting at Simon’s office, I’m a bundle of nerves, but at least I look good. Went right out and bought myself a new outfit for the occasion at Gucci. Yeah, I know Harry is the face of the company and has his own line.

If you can’t beat them, join them, am I right?

“Looking good,” Simon’s assistant tells me as she leads me to his office, her gaze appreciative. “Gucci?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand down the front of the shirt I bought off the rack. I remember back when I was in the band and they would send over clothes to us before they were in stores, allowing us to choose whatever we wanted, free of charge. They’d send over a personal tailor and everything. Times have definitely changed.

But at least I can afford the good life again.

“Don’t be nervous.” She rests her hand on the door handle of Simon’s office, glancing over her shoulder to meet my gaze. “This is all going to work out in your favor.”

I lift my brows, shocked at her encouragement. “How do you know?”

“Simon told me about you last night.” Her smile is small. Maybe even a little bit naughty. “He gets off on making money, and he firmly believes you’re going to make him a lot. Again.”

She opens the door before I can respond, and I’m left standing there for a few seconds, shocked she’d talk about her sex life with Simon and how the idea of making a bucketload of money . . . what, makes him horny?

There’s something vaguely gross about that.

“Mr. Ramsey has arrived,” the assistant announces, my cue to follow her inside the office. She turns to me. “Want something to drink?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

“Water?”

“I’ve got Voss,” Simon calls out.

I roll my eyes. Back in the day, I was the asshole who wouldn’t drink any water unless it was Voss. Such a pretentious little prick. “I’ll take some water, please. Whatever you’ve got.”

She smiles and leaves the room, closing the door behind her while I head deeper into Simon’s office.

He’s standing, gesturing toward the empty chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Roger is already here.”

I glance over to see the record exec who took us on back in the day sitting in the chair next to mine, his hair a little grayer, but otherwise he appears exactly the same. “Tate.”

“Roger.” I nod, rearing back a little when he rises, thrusting his hand toward me. I take it, giving him a firm shake, surprised to see the sincerity shining in his gaze.

“Bloody good performance this weekend.” His hand is still clutching mine, giving it a vigorous shake. “Your voice blew me away.”

“Thank you.” I withdraw my hand from his and settle into my chair, glancing over at Simon helplessly. I have no idea what to say next or why they called this meeting in the first place. I mean, I can assume they want to talk to me about possibly recording a new album, but maybe that’s a stretch.

And then again, maybe it’s not.

“Look, let’s get right to it.” Roger leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body angled toward mine. “You sounded fucking fantastic at that party Saturday night, Tate. Have you been working on your vocals? Getting some training, lessons or whatever?”

Not really. Only a couple of sessions to get back into it prior to the performance, but I don’t want to seem lazy. “Definitely. I’ve been working on my singing and vocal strength for a while.”

“It shows.” The sincerity all over Roger’s face almost makes me want to laugh. “You’ve never sounded better. Everyone is raving about you online. On TV. You are everywhere right now. The comeback kid, sitting on top of the world once again. It’s unbelievable, man.”

Tell me about it.

“I’m just grateful they had a good time at the party while I performed,” I say, trying for humble. Feeling, for once in my life, actually humble. I learned my lesson from the last time I had a taste of fame. Being an asshole gets you no friends. And a shitty attitude only creates enemies. “And I’m grateful that you enjoyed my performance as well.”

“I more than enjoyed it, Tate. I practically jizzed in my pants, you sounded so damn good.”

I say nothing, just stare at Roger blankly while Simon coughs to cover up his discomfort. That statement is so typical Roger. I forgot how grossly blunt he is and how he always tends to take things a little too far. “That’s . . . awesome, Roger.”

He throws back his head and laughs, pleased he rattled me, no doubt. “I mean it, kid. You have that million-dollar face, and now you’ve got a million-dollar voice to go along with it. Back when you were with Five Car Pileup, I knew you had potential, but you were held back by the other bandmates. Well, them, and your voice hadn’t really matured yet. Plus, you epically fucked everything up with all of your . . . issues.”

Always gotta remind me how I ruined everything, don’t they? “I made a lot of mistakes in my past. I’d like to think I’ve grown up and won’t act like that anymore.”

Roger squints at me. “How old are you now, kid?”

I hate how he keeps calling me kid. “Twenty-one.”

“Just a baby then.” He leans back in his chair, contemplating me. “Still drinking?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t had a drop in three years.”

And I definitely don’t feel like a baby. I’ve seen and done a lot more than the average twenty-one-year-old guy.

“Snorting your royalties up your nose like you used to?” He lifts a brow, the look on his face almost defiant. As if he wants to challenge me. Fluster me.

I remain as cool as a cucumber, remembering my past hotheaded ways. There’s no need for me to blow up at him. “Haven’t done that in a long time either. Besides, I don’t have any royalties to spend anymore.”

The checks went from measly to nonexistent pretty damn quick.

Roger appears pleased at my answer. “You’ve cleaned up your act.”

“Like I mentioned, I’ve been sober for the last three years. I’ve been working out. Working on myself.” I clamp my lips shut, not wanting to lay it on thick, though I could. And I wouldn’t be lying either.

Nothing like a huge scandal accompanied by your entire world imploding to make you do some hard self-reflection.

“And now you’re with someone on top of all that.” Roger nods, rubbing his chin. “You sound good, Ramsey. You look good. No, I take that back—you look healthy. Much better than the drunk seventeen-year-old you once were. Doesn’t hurt that you’re in a committed relationship.”

Simon scoffs.

A committed . . . “You think I’m in a relationship?”

“Don’t play dumb, Tate,” Simon says, finally cutting into my surreal conversation with Roger. “I know you’re trying to keep your relationship with Scarlett under wraps since it’s still so new.”

My relationship with Scarlett?

“You are with Scarlett Lancaster, right? I saw the photos. The videos. Pretty heavy kissing going on, yet it somehow looked romantic. Even . . . sweet.” Roger smiles. “Which makes all the girls her age swoon, am I right? Like their every dream come true. The pretty girl getting with the boy she had a crush on when she was a kid. The publicity team thinks this would be a great angle for us to play off. The redeemed boy band singer who fucked up his life by doing too many drugs, saved by the beautiful heiress who used to have his posters on her wall when she was younger. She did have your poster on her wall, right?”

I have no clue. Did she?

“I wonder if she has any photos from when she was younger with a poster of Five Car Pileup on her bedroom wall, where she dreamed of you at night,” Roger continues, clearly on a roll. “Oh man, that would be a great post, and that isn’t even my expertise, if you know what I mean. Maybe she could share it on her Instagram. And speaking of Instagram, why aren’t you two posting each other on there? I didn’t see the kiss photo on either of your profiles, and trust me, I checked. The publicity team thinks that would be a good idea, if you started sharing photos of each other. Together.”

The look of pure disappointment on Roger’s face is almost comical, the poor guy.

“We’ve been keeping our relationship private,” I say hesitantly, deciding to play along. More like I need to do this to make this scenario convincing. “I still can’t believe that one photographer caught us kissing. We were in a pretty secluded corner.”

“Divine intervention, Tate. You two were meant to be splashed across the internet. Two attractive people fucking. It’s like a PR dream come true. I’m repeating myself; don’t call me out on it. Just let me say this—we can’t pay for this type of coverage you two are currently delivering. It’s all-natural. Organic. Whatever the word is. Your relationship has gone viral, and we want to take advantage of it.”

I’m still grimacing over him saying Scarlett and I are fucking. She was pretty uptight when I kissed her. Yeah, she kind of got into it, but she’s young. Probably hasn’t even been fucked yet, and that’s the type of woman I’d rather steer clear of.

“What exactly are you talking about, Roger?” Simon asks on my behalf. As my business manager, it is up to him to find out what Roger wants from me.

“We want to make an offer to Tate, and I wanted to do it in person. We’d like to sign him on for an album.” Roger sits up straight, rubbing his hands together. “Thought we’d get right in here first thing so we can be ahead of everyone else. I’m guessing they’re all knocking on your door, demanding a meeting with Tate?”

Simon nods, his expression impassive. “We’ve had some interest.”

Other record companies have reached out to Simon? That surprises me.

“I don’t doubt it. He’s a hot commodity right now. I mean, look at him.” Roger waves a hand in my general direction. “That messy hair girls wanna tug on while he’s going down on them. The arrogant grin. The smooth voice and the gorgeous girlfriend. It’s a sell, Simon. You’re easy to sell right now, kid. Come back to the fold. Come back to Irresistible Records, and we’ll put you on the map.”

“Easy there with the sales pitch, Rog,” Simon says with a gentle chuckle. “We need a little time to discuss the terms first. You didn’t even come with a contract in hand.”

“Oh, but I did.” Roger picks up the suitcase I didn’t notice sitting beside his chair and opens it in his lap, pulling out a thick pile of papers stapled together. He tosses it onto Simon’s desk, where it lands dead center with a heavy thud. “I emailed you a contract as well. I’m sure you’ll have some changes you’d like to make, and that’s fine, we’re agreeable, but don’t dawdle like you normally do, Simon. We need to get on it. I want to get Tate out to Los Angeles so he can start recording.”

“Los Angeles?” Five Car Pileup recorded in Los Angeles, and I swear to fucking God that city was the root of my downfall. All the women, drink, and drugs I could ever want are in that city. It’s where dreams go to flourish and then wither away and die.

For me, at least.

Roger’s nod is firm, his expression unreadable, though his eyes seem to dance with excitement. “We already have the studio picked out. The musicians. I heard the way you put your own twist on those Five Car Pileup songs. And there was a song you sang I didn’t even recognize. It was damn good. Very . . . indie pop. Ghost pop? Something like that.”

Again, I have no idea what he’s talking about. “You liked how I changed up the beat?”

“I liked everything about your performance, and so did half the women between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five in the United States. Stop being a cocktease and just say you’re willing to sign with us, Tate. We’ve made magic together before. I believe we can do it again.”

“I’m sure we could,” I say weakly, trying to wrap my head around what’s happening. Before this weekend, life had settled down, and I figured this was it. My past fame and rise to the top, all of it was a one-shot deal. A has-been at twenty-one. I suppose there could be worse things, right? At least I was making some sort of career out of the personalized appearances. Messing around and writing songs on the side while strumming my beat-up guitar on a Sunday afternoon. No one cared what I was doing, and there’s some freedom in that.

What Roger is proposing sounds like it will take away every inch of my freedom, and that is fucking terrifying.

But it’s also fucking irresistible. No wonder they named the record label that.

“We’ll discuss it.” Simon rises from his chair and rounds the desk, coming to stand beside Roger. Ready to escort him right out of the office. “And we’ll be in touch.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to give me, Simon? How about dinner tonight? You want to go to dinner, Tate? It’s on me. It’s on the label. They told me whatever it takes to get you, do it. I’m here for you, Tate. I’ve always been here for you. You were always the one with the talent. I’ll call you. Okay? Your number hasn’t changed, right? Wait, I bet it has. I’d have changed it if I were you. Simon, get me Tate’s number, will you?” Roger keeps talking as Simon escorts him across the room, depositing him just outside the office before he shuts the door with a not-so-gentle slam and turns to face me with a shocked expression on his face.

A look I’ve never seen on Simon before. Ever.

“He seems determined,” I finally say just to fill the silence in the room.

“You heard him. You’re a hot commodity.” Simon returns to his chair and settles in, picking up the contract and giving it a quick once-over. “I haven’t done an in-depth read of the contract yet, of course, but I caught a glimpse of the advance they want to offer you just now. You’re going to want to consider this.”

Excitement bubbles up inside of me, and I remember what it was like before. When we were just a bunch of kids grouped together on a freaking singing competition. American Idol came first, and then all the other copycat reality shows followed suit. We were featured on a copycat. One with subpar ratings that got it canceled after its second season.

It didn’t matter. We were formed into a band during the first season, and we were considered the breakout group. The one that was going places—and it turned out we were the only ones from that particular show. We had a couple of Billboard hits. Hell, we were nominated for a Grammy as Best New Artist.

We didn’t win, but it got us onto the Grammys, where we actually performed, which was pretty damn amazing.

“That good?”

“The terms are probably shit.” Simon scans the contract, flipping one page after another, his brows drawing together in concern.

I pace around his office, unable to keep still, eventually approaching the window and staring at the city spread out in front of me.

This is where I’m from. Where I grew up. My mom took me to the audition for that reality show in Brooklyn, and I made it. Was flown out to Los Angeles, where I stayed for over two years.

Until I came home a broken, strung-out mess with hardly any money and a drug habit that cost me hundreds per day. Mom immediately shipped me off to rehab, and it actually worked.

I haven’t touched drugs or alcohol in years. I’m the most clearheaded I think I’ve ever been.

Why would I want to go back to a world where drugs are king, the stress is high, and temptation is everywhere? I’ll be dodging land mines left and right until one eventually blows up in my face.

And knowing me, that’ll happen sooner rather than later.

“The terms are actually not shit,” Simon eventually says, glancing up at the same time I look in his direction. “This is a good offer, Tate.”

I turn fully to face him. “Yeah?”

Simon nods. “But here’s the deal. There’s an . . . unusual clause.”

“What is it?” They probably want me to sign something where I agree to unannounced drug tests. No sweat. Or maybe they have to put insurance on me because I’m a risk and that might come out of my royalties if I flake on them or OD or whatever.

Fairly standard stuff, I think.

“They want your little girlfriend to be part of the package.”

I frown. “What do you mean, part of the package?”

“They want to include Scarlett Lancaster as part of the promotional package. Like, she has to make appearances with you. Her social media has to include photos of the two of you together. They want you with Scarlett by your side as part of your image.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I hesitate. “Not really.”

“They don’t know that. No one has to, if you get what I’m saying.”

I’m incredulous. “You want me to ask her to be my fake girlfriend?”

“If you want to make this happen, I think you should.”

Panic makes me break out into a sudden sweat. “And what if she doesn’t agree?”

“I don’t know. This looks like they want her as part of the deal.” Simon’s eyes narrow as he studies me. “Can you make that happen?”

“Absolutely,” I say with a nod, ignoring the knot in my gut.

First, I just need to convince her.