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She shifted an armful of papers and placed her hand on her hip. “Maybe I can help. Who are you looking for?”
“Nobody important.” I just wanted to get out of here and go home to Phoebe. I didn’t like the way we’d left things this morning. She knew I didn’t buy that bullshit story about calling the cops on Ryker. Phoebe was a smart woman. I didn’t get why she pulled that crap out of her ass, knowing one phone call could verify her story. I knew within five minutes of being in the locked bathroom upstairs that she’d lied. What I didn’t know was why.
Something told me I’d have a harder time getting the truth out of her than I would my brother. Ryker would fold under pressure. I had a strategy, I just needed to put it in place.
“I highly doubt that, or you wouldn’t be on the third floor,” the woman said with a knowing smirk. “Risa’s a tough negotiator. You wouldn’t be up here wandering around like a lost tourist if you didn’t have an appointment.”
I gave her a sideways glance at her mention of the receptionist from hell. “Risa needs bitch therapy.”
She laughed. “True, but she’s efficient.” The elevator doors finally opened, and she nodded inside. “You going or staying?”
I thought about it. Los Angeles was crammed with aspiring musicians. Although Lords of Lyre had a signed contract with Circa Records, an album, and an impending tour, high demand agents were hard to gain access to. Of course, an artist couldn’t take two steps without tripping over an eager one ready to represent the next big thing, but there were also horror stories of embezzlement, extortion, and just plain being ripped the fuck off. Landing a reputable, high profile agent was as easy as capturing Big Foot. Apparently, Helena considered Kristina Graham to be the best. I’d be an idiot to let my pride get in the way of what was best for the band.
I stepped away from the elevator. “I’m staying.”
“Good.” She nodded. “So, I’ll ask again, can I help you find someone?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I smile appreciatively, raking a hand across my forehead. “I had a nine a.m. appointment with Kristina Graham.”
She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost nine forty-five. You’re late.”
“She’s probably a real ballbuster, huh?”
She nodded down the opposite hallway, indicating I should follow her. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve heard she’s a demanding hard-ass, but as long as you listen, your balls should be fine.”
I followed the small powerhouse down three winding hallways to a door I’d passed by at least three times. She didn’t stop to knock. She flung it open and walked in, surprising me.
“Whoa, won’t you get in trouble for that?”
“Nah, it’s cool.”
I suppose things are done differently in California.
The office décor closely matched the lobby, and I stood taking it all in as she motioned for me to have a seat. As I sank into the enormous cushion, I expected her to leave. Instead, she walked around the mahogany desk and perched her ass on the side of it, wrinkling papers and typed contracts.
“Aren’t those contracts kind of important?” I asked, shocked at her audacity.
“Probably,” she said, smirking. “Allow me to introduce myself, Julian. My name is Kristina Graham. I’m your new manager.”
I stared at her. The smug way her eyebrow cocked with self-assuredness both infuriated me and earned my respect. I palmed the back of my neck and laughed uncomfortably. “You could’ve told me that at the elevators.”
“I could’ve,” she said, nodding her head in agreement. “But that would’ve taken all the fun out of it for me. There’s so little fun in my day-to-day business dealings, I take it where I can.” With forced momentum far outweighing her short stature, Kristina Graham swung herself off her perch and sank into her oversized office chair. “So, Mr. Bale, how’s LA treating you?”
Her strange mix of business formality and street smart diversion tactics kept me off balance. I didn’t like it, but from her smug face, it was standard operating procedure for Miss Graham. “Please, it’s Julian, and I wouldn’t know. We’ve been riding out the final legs of Helena’s publicity tour from hell.” Trying to keep the irritation from broadcasting across my face was a losing battle.
She rolled her eyes. “Well, as a band, you should be used to that by now, yes?” Apparently, Helena hadn’t revealed much to her in terms of our personal lives. The way she narrowed her eyes at me made every syllable seem like a test rather than a question. She had to know. Every tabloid in the free world knew about Phoebe. She wouldn’t be a manager worth shit if she hadn’t done her homework on my life.
“Are we really playing this game, Miss Graham?”
“Game?” I had to give her points for at least trying to appear surprised by my question.
I rested both elbows on the edge of her desk. “Look, I’m not a moron, despite what you may be used to around here.” She opened her mouth to interrupt, and I held up a finger to silence her. “Let me finish. I may be a musician, but I’m far from stupid. I have a degree in psychology and can mind-fuck with the best of them—and believe me, the best brought their A-game. I’m sure as a woman you’ve had to be somewhat of a hard-ass to gain respect in this business. I get that. But, before we entertain a partnership here, let’s be clear. No games, no shady shit. Treat me like I have a brain, and I’ll treat you like you have a dick.”
Her pursed lips twitched with a hidden smile. “Can I speak now?”
I thought for a minute. “No, one more thing. Anything regarding my personal life to the media is off limits. If you want to know something, ask me. But my fiancée and our baby stay out of the papers, got it?”
“I can’t control what the tabloids print.”
Closing my eyes, months of horrifying events flashed through my mind. I almost lost Phoebe because of my resistance to confide in Helena about having a stalker. The fallout from that decision led her father straight to her. I wouldn’t repeat the same mistake twice.
“I’m going to tell you something, Miss Graham, and it’ll explain why I’m so adamant about this.” I took a deep breath and ripped out my soul in front of a stranger. “Thanks to our friends at the shitty mag rags, I’m sure you know all about how my guitarist, Tanna, attacked and almost killed Phoebe.” She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “What they haven’t grabbed onto yet is that Tanna’s breakdown brought Phoebe’s felon father out of hiding—right after murdering an innocent co-ed in Maryland. Miss Graham, my fiancée is almost seven months pregnant, and stress put her in the hospital the other day. I need your word of complete discretion.”
Her defiance snapped back as she smacked her palms on her desk. “Discretion on what, exactly?”
I focused on her face as I delivered the truth I’d kept hidden. “Daniel Dalton is in Los Angeles.”
