Page 45 of Fame and Obsession
“Helena, does Surge have a community chat room?”
She shrugs. “I guess, why?”
“Can you get me a printout of last night’s chat with screen names?” I ask, still staring at the paper. It’s a long shot, but I have to at least try.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Folding the paper, I slip it into my pocket. “Just something I need to check.”
“Look, Julian, if you piss off the label, your career can be taken away, just like that.” She snaps her fingers in quick succession. “Wake up. You don’t have the longevity to burn bridges. You play by my rules or get off my team.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Just stating facts, Julian. Starting right now, no more fucked-up performances. You step one pinkie toe off that stage before the last fifteen seconds of your set, and I’m out.” Pushing off the desk, she lowers into the chair beside me. “You disappear down some hallway again, I’m out. You disrespect me like you did last night, I’m out.”
“So, basically, what you’re saying is that you’re out.”
Helena laughs, her earlier anger diffused. “You’re a pompous ass, Julian, but you’re not stupid.” A long pause hangs in the air before she turns to face me. “So, am I going to meet the near cause of my demise?”
My mouth curves in an unwanted smile. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“She’s pretty,” she says, propping her feet up on her desk. “This one seems smart, despite contrary, blowhard, editorial opinion.” She eyes me curiously. “She’s different.”
“She is different,” I answer honestly, shifting in my seat. What I have to say next might blow everything to hell again, but I can’t let the opportunity pass. “Which reminds me...”
“Sweet Jesus, boy, what now?”
“The favor I mentioned...” My skin vibrates with anticipation, but I forge ahead. “I’ll stop bitching about doing the autobiography.”
“Oh?” She cocks an eyebrow. “At what cost?”
“I need you to arrange for her to be the ghostwriter. No big deal.” Her stare is fucking lethal, so to avoid it, I get up and pace.
“No big deal? Julian, this is a massive deal. I can’t, in good conscience, push for a toddler to paint the Sistine Chapel.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a Pulitzer piece, Helena. We’re talking about a rock table tent book. These are my terms—take it or leave it.”
She stiffens. “Am I not the manager here?”
“You’re the boss.” I glance at my watch, and my stomach tightens. “But I sign the checks. Shit, I have to go. Call me when it’s done. It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“It’s never fine with you.” Closing her eyes, she concedes with a sigh. “Be careful, Julian. There’s only so much damage control I can do.”
“Trust me.”
“Never have, never will. It’s why I’m still in business.” She pauses as if deep in thought, then opens her eyes. “Was she worth a stage-jump?”
I catch her stare and hold it. “Have you ever known me to stage-jump before?”
She seems to mull that over. “What’s her name again?”
“Phoebe Ryan.”
She mouths her name slowly as if testing the feel of it.
“I see your wheels turning, Helena. What is it?”
“Does Phoebe Ryan know you have a mentally unbalanced stalker you refuse to take seriously?”
