Page 22 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
Then I put on my headphones, turn my body away from him, and stare out the window until we’re pulling into the private parking garage of a building of luxury apartments in Downtown LA.
I take off my headphones and sit up straight.
“I thought we were going to a music studio.”
“Oh, sorry, no. My studio. My apartment.” He must see the panic on my face because he responds quickly. “It’s just a meeting. My manager will be there. My bandmates.”
I blink at him and replay what he said over in my head. Hisbandmates. I’m about to walk into Torren King’s apartment for ameetingwith hismanagerand hisbandmates.
Good lord, what have I gotten myself into?
I clamp my mouth shut and follow him stiffly to a private elevator, then I press myself into the corner with my hands folded in front of me while the elevator rockets up fifty-seven floors.
Every few seconds, I feel his eyes on me, assessing in that way that he does. That way I remember so vividly.
What does he see?
I’m a far cry from that girl at the music festival. I’m still in my stupid khakis and work shirt. My hair is dirty. I’m not wearing makeup. I haven’t slept more than four hours for the last few nights, so I know Iprobably have purple circles under my eyes. I’m fucking exhausted, and it shows, and I hate that I remember everything while he seems blissfully ignorant. He made a lasting impression, and I didn’t even make it past short-term memory.
The elevator doors pop open with a musical ding and then I’m following him into an expansive hallway. He punches in a code, unlocking a door, and swings it wide.
“After you,” he says, gesturing for me to enter, so I do.
And then I stare.
Not only is this “studio apartment” four times the size of the apartment I share with my mom and sister, but it’s got floor-to-ceiling windows and the most modern features I’ve ever seen. The most jarring thing, though, are the four people sprawled out on a large leather sectional that has to be custom-made for the space.
They’re justhanging outas if they aren’t three-time Grammy-winning rock icons.
Jonah Hendrix, the lead guitarist for The Hometown Heartless, has one of his legs thrown over the arm of the couch, while Sav Loveless, the band’s guitarist and lead singer, sits with her feet propped up on a modern glass coffee table. The drummer, Mabel Rossi, is cross-legged, her socked feet tucked cozily under her knees on the couch cushion. Even Wade Hammond is here, the manager who made headlines last year for renegotiating the band’s contract with their record label. The terms were kept confidential, but everyone knows they were groundbreakingly in favor of the band. It paved the way for a whole new set of possibilities for artists.
I hate how much I envy them despite my loathing. I remind myself how toxic they are. How they’re rarely shown in a positive light in the media. And despite the good their recent contract did for the music industry, the iron hold they have on it is despicable.
Sure, they’re talented as hell, and their rise to fame was mostly based on merit and hard work. Sure, they earned it, to an extent. But fame, as usual, has poisoned them, and now they’ll step on anyone to maintain their place at the top of the industry hierarchy.
I can’t stop the way my eyes narrow. I wish I had more control over my face, but I’m overwhelmed and running on no sleep. It cannot be helped.
“Hey.” Torren steps beside me and addresses the group. Immediately, four sets of eyes settle on me. “This is Calla Lily. Calla Lily, this is Hammond, Jonah, Sav, and Mabel.”
“Hi. And it’s just Callie. No need to drop the government name.”
The smirk that pops up on Sav Loveless’s face fills me with a surge of pride before I beat it back into submission. I do not care about being liked by Sav Loveless.
I do not care about any of them.
As if hearing my thoughts, Sav studies me closer, her gray eyes narrowing slightly and her head tilting a bit to the side. I’m a bug under a microscope to her. Another person she might be able to use. My hatred surges up my throat like bile, but as much as I want to stare her down, I can’t. I look away and focus on Jonah Hendrix and Mabel Rossi as they greet me, instead. Then Wade Hammond—or Hammond, as he seems to go by—claps his hands together once and gestures to a plush leather chair.
“Have a seat. We’ll get started.”
Like a robot, I walk to the chair andhave a seat.Back ramrod straight. Hands folded in my lap. The picture of discomfort, and everyone can tell.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Miss James?—”
“Just Callie. Please.”
Hammond nods and plows forward. “I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule.”
“Sure.”
