Page 82 of Here's to Yesterday

“Please, have a seat.” He waves toward the leather chairs as he walks back around his desk. “I’m gonna be straight with you here, Tucker. We want you. We think you have tremendous promise and want to work with you. Your sound is raw and unique, and I think we could sell your whole image. You’ve got the tortured singer-songwriter thing going on, and the ladies are going to eat itup.”

I catch Maura shift around out of the corner of my eye at the mention of other women. I automatically want to turn toward her and reassure her, but for now she’s supposed to be my manager, not my…whatever sheis.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Darren,” Istart.

“Just Daren,” heinterrupts.

I exchange a humor-filled glance with Maura because I’m not one hundred percent sure if he wants me to call him “Daren” as in his first name or “Darren” as in his last name. I guess it doesn’t matter since they both sound thesame.

“Daren,” I amend. “I want to record. I want to play music for a living. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. But what I don’t want is the ‘hot guy’ routine. I want to sell the music, notmyself.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” he backpedals. “That’s what we want. We want to focus on the music. I mean photoshoots, music videos, interviews and meeting with fans are allinevitable…”

I press my lips into a firm line. “Sure,” I saytersely.

It’s not that I didn’t know those were all part of the music industry, but Daren’s making it seem like theyarethe music industry. I’m starting to get this icky feeling in the pit of mystomach.

“Ms. Doughers, you’re his manager. How does this all sound sofar?”

Maura peeks over at me and then back at Daren. “Music is the focus. That’s what we want. That’s all wewant.”

“Great. Glad we agree there,” Daren says in a voice that rings with false cheer. “How about we take a tour, huh? You can see what the building has to offer, maybe get a feel for theplace.”

We follow him back toward the main office. We step into the elevator, and Daren starts giving the spiel. Maura, doing a damn fine job of acting like my manager, starts asking all kinds of questions. I honestly only listen to part of it—something about in-house studios and shit—because I don’t like this. I thought it would feel different, but so far it all feels…fake. I was hoping I’d have this big moment like in the movies. You know, that one where the lonely street musician walks into the fancy record label, falls in love with everything and everyone, and then becomes a giant rockstar.

But I guess I always forget about the scene toward the end where he realizes he’s not doing the right thing, where it dawns on him that he’s too good for those record labelpeople.

I have a feeling that this may be a case of thelatter.

The elevator dings, and I shuffle my feet along to follow Daren down a darkened hallway. There are several rooms with multi-colored doors, where I assume all the magic happens. I want to peer inside them, see for my own eyes what style of music is being made, but Irefrain.

Daren turns toward us when we stop at a door near the end of the hallway. “I’m going to make sure we won’t be interrupting anything. Onemoment.”

And then hedisappears.

“Well?” Maura asks when the doorshuts.

I lean up against the wall, and she does the same across from me. I stare at my feet, unsure how to answer her without sounding like a completedumbass.

“Tuck?” she prods when I don’tanswer.

Shrugging, I look back up and stare at the wall next to her beautiful, blonde head, so I don’t have to stare her in the eyes when I admit defeat. “It’s not feelinggood.”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” she mutters. Pushing off the wall, she walks the few steps over to me and lowers her voice. “I thought I was the only one not feeling it. I don’t think you fit inhere.”

“I’ve been trying to wrack my brain and figure out what exactly it was that wasn’t feeling right, but that’s it. It doesn’t feel like me or my style. Itfeels…”

“Fake,” shesupplies.

The door clicks, and we straighten up as Daren pops his head back out. “Youready?”

Maura and I exchange a glance. She tips her head forward, letting me be the first to make the move. I hesitate, not sure if I want to continue. Finally, I take a step toward the open door because my curiosity doesn’t know when toquit.

No one acknowledges us as we step into a small dark space filled with soundboards, desk chairs, guitars, and people. Through the huge glass (or is that plastic?) window is Jackson Jones, the singer-songwriter who’s currently topping the charts and making girls lose their panties all over the world. I look over at Maura to gauge her reaction to him. She’s watching him like he’s a normal guy and not a huge rock star.Thank God.Then again, he is dressed similarly to me in an unbuttoned black dress shirt, jeans, and boots. I know for a fact his stage appearance is a lotdifferent.

He’s hunched over an acoustic guitar, appearing to be into the song, but when he slowly leans back up, opening up his eyes, I can see it. They’re empty. He doesn’t feel the lyrics. He’s not pouring his heart and soul into it. It’s not something that can be easily spotted by fans or people outside the music, but to me it’s so obvious. And all it does is raise my already too-high redflags.

The only thing that feels positive so far is this room. Not the people in it, just theroom.Being in this small box, surrounded by the boards and instruments, a producer behind the scenes, it all screamsyou belong heretome.

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