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I start making myself a coffee. “We can go ahead and get started.”

Madi sinks down at the table nervously. Dave frowns, but doesn’t protest.

“So, Madi, why don’t you outline your ideal tour,” I say. “Which cities, how many stops, what venues. What size of venue. That kind of thing.”

She bites her lip, brow furrowing.

“I was thinking maybe we do an American tour, but mainly on the eastern side,” she says finally. “From Texas to the coast.”

“Not Canadian?”

“Not this time,” she says. “I think my next album would be a really great option for a Canadian tour, though.”

We all pause as heavy footfalls sound from the stairs, then Noah appears around the corner, fastening his watch. He’s clearly fresh from the shower and smells a bit like cheap body spray. I’m sure it’s not actually cheap, not with the way he likes to spend money. He just has some strange tastes.

“Good, you’re both here,” he says, taking a laptop from the desk by the door and popping it open on the table. “We can get started.”

I don’t say that we already did. Madi goes from being nervous to closing up tight, eyes lowered.

I do not like this. Not one bit.

“Alright,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “I was up working on this. I’d like to start in LA, do a couple nights there, then Vegas, Albuquerque, Phoenix, then move into Texas—”

“Sorry, in what span of time?” I cut in.

“We can do that in the first ten days. I mean, we’ll have to if we want to hit the East Coast.”

I glance at Madi. Her eyes are knuckles white on her dripping coffee.

“Hey, Noah, can I have a second?” I tilt my head to the back door.

I go, without waiting, and when I turn around on the sidewalk, he’s behind me. We’re about the same size, both about as broad. I’m a few inches taller; I’m sure he fucking hates that. Asshole. I take a pack of Marlboros from my pocket and offer him one, lighting up.

“You have to stagger these stops more,” I say.

“We can hit those cities easily, with time to spare. What’s the problem?” He jerks his chin up, like he’s daring me to contradict him.

Unfortunately for him, I do this shit in my sleep.

“Madi’s gonna burn out,” I say. “I’d do a show a week, maybe less, at her current state.”

“A show a week? You know how much that shit costs?”

“I do,” I say. “This is my job.”

He gestures at the house with his cigarette. “Madi’s wanted this since she was a little kid. She’s ready to work. I say we let her.”

“Madi is eighteen.”

“And?”

Alright, he’s really pissing me off.

“She’s barely out of high school, and you want her working three nights a week, doing live shows with thousands in the crowd? She should be fucking going to college, worrying about her boyfriend, or whatever the fuck is normal. You are talking about working her like an animal.”

“Madi has always been mature,” he says. “She can handle it.”

“Madi will crash and burn if you ask her to do a tour of that scale.” I inhale, trying to get some nicotine in my system so I don’t swing at him. That’s the last fucking thing I need. “You pace her out. And quit with all the fucking brand deals. You don’t need that many.”