Page 8 of Highball Rush
“Thanks. After all the hotels I’ve been in, it’s nice to sleep someplace where I’m not worried about what that stain on the wall might be.”
She winced. “Gross. How was the tour?”
I’d spent the better part of the last year on an international tour with Outbound Platinum. I loved those guys, but coaxing a rock band through their first completely sober tour had been exhausting. I’d been with them since they’d almost imploded while recording their last album. Oliver had sent me in to keep them from going nuclear.
My job title was producer, but around here I was known as the rock-star whisperer. I’d calmed the members of Outbound, soothed their frayed nerves and helped them redirect all that angsty energy into their music. The results had been fantastic. Their album was still topping the charts well over a year after they’d released the first single.
I didn’t always tour with artists. Usually I just went into the studio—helped with songwriting or got them back on track with the recording process. But Outbound had still been too fragile, and Attalon had a lot riding on their tour. So I’d gone along, like a glorified rock-star babysitter.
“Long. Busy. Exhausting. But also awesome. Pretty much everything you’d expect when you’re trying to keep five newly sober rock stars from killing each other.”
“I don’t know how you do it.” She tipped her fingers together. “You must have the patience of a saint.”
“Not really. I don’t even have kids, but I definitely had to break out my mom voice regularly. But they’re such good guys. They’re trying really hard to keep it together. I probably could have come back a month ago, but by that point, I figured I might as well finish the tour. Plus, the last stop was Australia and I’ve only been there once before. I really wanted to go back.”
“Please tell me you banged some hot Australian guys while you were down there,” she said. “The accents alone. My god.”
I laughed. My attempts at relationships never lasted. I didn’t stay anywhere long enough to make it work with anyone. A quick fling was nice sometimes, but those were starting to feel pretty hollow. “Not this time. But I totally agree about the accents. Hot.”
My phone rang and I set my coffee on Yui’s desk so I could dig it out of my oversized purple handbag. Half my life was in this bag. I shuffled through makeup, a hairbrush, my planner, a few cords, several power adapters, headphones, two bras, a tank top I thought I’d lost, and an unopened toothbrush before I came up with my phone.
Yui stood. “I’ll let you take that. I need to go talk to Tracey over in marketing.”
I nodded and tapped the button to answer. “Hello?”
“Maya, it’s Cole. Thank god you answered. I’m seriously screwed right now.”
I leaned back in the chair. I’d worked with Cole Bryson a few years ago when he’d been suffering from a serious case of sophomore slump anxiety. His first album had been a huge hit, but he’d caved under the pressure to follow it up. When Oliver had sent me out to work with him, he’d been swimming in liquor and self-doubt. I’d helped him pull himself together, write the rest of his songs, and finish the album. And it had sold better than his first.
“Hi Cole, good to hear from you. I’m doing just fine, glad you asked.”
He groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m just panicking.”
“Panicking over what?”
“We’re in the studio and I swear to god, nothing sounds right. I don’t know if I can do this again.”
“Of course you can do it again. You’ve done it twice. Your fans love your music.”
“I know, but—”
“Cole, listen. We’ve been down this road. There is nobut. Albums can flop, we both know that. It’s the risk you take when you put yourself out there. But you can’t worry about that when you’re in the studio. All you need to do right now is put your heart into your music.”
“Yeah…”
“What did we talk about before I left?”
“Turn off distractions. Get enough sleep.”
“Have you been doing that?”
“Yes,” he said. “I leave my phone off the whole time I’m in the studio. I’ve been sleeping normal hours, not going out partying. And no girls. I swear.”
I rolled my eyes. Like most young men who found fame, Cole had succumbed to the allure of the countless women who were more than happy to jump into bed with him. To say they’d been a distraction was an understatement. “Okay, so what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re just playing head games with yourself,” I said. “Are you still recording in Seattle?”
