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I learned a long time ago, as I’ve been trying to find some solace, not to go to big clubs. The only exception I’ve made is Club Sin since it’s high end enough to buy discretion. I’ve been to a few Club Sins around the country.
Booker’s hand is heavy on my shoulder before he gives it a squeeze. “Come on, man, lets go have a chat.”
I’m not completely steady on my feet as we head over to the booth, but I do alright. Once we’re settled, I look between Booker and Cole before I blurt, “How the fuck did you even find me?”
Booker flashes me a sly grin. “We know people who can track down just about anyone.”
I narrow my eyes, unsure if there’s some sort of threat in his words or not. Maybe it could just be paranoia on my part. From the way he cuts his eyes toward Kat, maybe not.
“Okay,” I hold the word out comically before leaning back in the booth and closing my eyes for a moment.
“Maybe he’s too drunk for this conversation,” Kat suggests.
I open my eyes slowly and look between everyone around the table. “What conversation?”
Booker and Cole share a look before turning toward me. Cole places his forearms on the table and leans forward. “You good?” I nod even though I’m not sure if I really am. I mean, how deep does his question go? “No, Langston,” there’s an edge of steel in his voice, “really, are you good?”
Pain slices through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol in my gut and everything to do with the constant loss which has bored a hole right through me. Instead of answering, I deflect slightly. “I want to know why you’re here.”
“Look,” Booker begins, “you’re fucking washed up.” When I look at him, there’s no judgement on his face, no disgust, or even pity. “You got handed a shit hand,” his voice goes soft, and I try to ignore the reality of him bringing up Conley. “Have you hit rock bottom?”
I shrug one shoulder, unsure what that really means. It’s not like I’m on the edge of death here and I haven’t woken up covered in vomit. At least, not for a few weeks.
“Do you know what city you’re in?”
I eye Kat skeptically. “Seattle?” Fuck, even I can hear the question in my voice.
“Just because you got it right doesn’t mean you’re doing well,” Cole points out. He’s not fucking wrong. “You could still have the music,” he tells me.
“Naw,” my voice is casual like what I’m about to say is no big deal, “I got dropped from the label.”
My gut twists because being dropped from the label fucking hurt. As if I hadn’t already lost enough.
But at the same time, I can understand it from a business perspective because I wasn’t holding up my end of the contract. How could I with Conley gone?
“That’s part of why we’re here,” Cole informs me and I still.
I know all about the record label these guys have built. They’ve made more than one unknown musician and band a household name in the last few years. White Picket Fences Records is all about the music which doesn’t surprise me considering who started the label.
“What does that mean?”
“We want to give you a chance to make music again,” Cole tells me. “But you’ll have to dry out first.”
“Fuck,” I breathe out, sobering rather quickly with the thought of having another chance.
What I can’t tell is if it’s excitement or fear rushing through me.
I do owe it to myself, and Conley, to listen to what they have to say. And to try. Maybe.
CHAPTER 2
COVE
I thought I was nervous when I was approached by WPF Records for a meeting which included all the guys in Suburban Outcasts. I was for fucking sure nervous, more so than I had ever been in my life. But that day had nothing on what I’m feeling right now.
I think it’s because this is it. This is my chance.
I’ve been putting my music on social media for years while also sending out demo tapes of my stuff to labels. I did it while knowing it was probably all for nothing. So much of the industry is about who you know, and I know no one. How could I?
