Page 51 of Fame and Obsession
“Then why write an autobiography now if he was signed overnight?” I snort then immediately grunt in pain as a booted toe kicks me underneath the table.
Ellison smiles knowingly. “Innovation, doll. In this industry, you either set the trend or you follow it. Every tramp in Hollywood has sold a secret for a buck. An autobiography written about the next Mick Jagger and published before infamy is a concept you’re going to own. It’ll skyrocket both of you.”
Speaking isn’t an option. I can’t breathe long enough to form words. However, at least the worst is over, I think.
I’m wrong.
“Because of our partnership, Julian and his band have graciously agreed to play a few songs at Ralston Media’s thirtieth-anniversary gala in two weeks,” Ellison explains. “Everyone involved agrees that your attendance with Julian will generate huge publicity.”
“What do you mean with Julian?” I ask suspiciously.
“Do I need to draw you a picture, doll? You arrive together, smile pretty for the cameras, walk the carpet, schmooze, whatever it takes to make this book sell. This is media generated by media, doll.” She arranges the multitude of gold bangle bracelets on her arm. “Your Vinyl piece on the band’s album release comes out next week, and MetroGroup will be making an official acquisition announcement around the same time. It’s a win for everyone.”
No way will I let them pimp me out. Even for a shot at my dream. “That’s really not necessary, Ellison. Besides, I already have a—”
“I’m afraid we insist on it.” The low baritone of Victor DeMarcus’s voice startles me. I dart my eyes to him. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair is coiffed into a no-nonsense comb-over.
“Excuse me, sir?” I blink at his interruption.
“The buzz from this gala will target the young adult male demographic for MetroGroup’s non-fiction sector. That market devours rock music bios. Keith Richards’s book sold over one million copies, and justified the seven million advance he was given. Your publicity with Mr. Bale bolsters our...” He turns to Julian. “I’m sorry, what did you call it?”
Julian smirks. “Street cred.”
“Oh yes, it bolsters our street cred with enthusiasts of his type of music, therefore increasing book sales.”
“Sir, I don’t need to be seen with Mr. Bale to reach your demographic. I can guarantee results.” I clench my jaw and stare at him. They’ve pulled the rug out from under me, but it all makes sense now. If Julian thinks I’m going to go along with his bullshit because he went above my head, he’s underestimated me.
“You can guarantee nothing, Miss Ryan,” he says sternly. “I’ve been in this industry almost thirty years. The plan is a good one, and it’s not up for discussion.” Grabbing his coffee mug, he stands and gestures toward Ellison. “Ms. Young, give Miss Ryan your company credit card. I’d like her to take Mr. Bale to lunch and get started.”
I sit in shock as Ellison hands me a gold Ralston Media American Express card and winks. “And people say they’re jealous of my job. Have fun, Dixie.”
Fifteen
Julian
“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, swirling a french fry through a glob of ketchup.
Phoebe lifts her head and smirks. “How about seven million of them, Keith?”
She’s pissed, but she still isn’t giving me the reaction I want, so I fuck with her a little. “Technically, we’re talking pennies, not dollars. To be a proper smartass, the correct response should’ve been seventy thousand of them. Since your profession is more literature based than mathematical, I’ll just assume it’s not your strong point.”
She stops chewing her hamburger and narrows her eyes. “You’re very antagonistic for a guy who’s not paying for his own meal.”
“Are you this surly to all your dates? I thought you Southern girls were all about hospitality?” Squinting at her, I deliver a swoon-worthy smile.
“You’re not my date, Julian,” she mutters, shaking the salt with unnecessary force.
“Are we eating a meal together?” I counter.
“Yes.”
“Am I paying?”
“Well, no.”
Popping a fry in my mouth, I stare at her and grin. “It’s a date.”
My reluctant new ghostwriter leans in for emphasis. “It’s a business lunch.”
