Page 31 of Washed Up
“No.” He stands. “Not the work. Not us. I just don’t know that I trust them. They’ve already screwed us once. They’re the ones that brought in—”
“The knob-end,” Reid curses.
“Quite.”
“But if we don’t deliver, that’s it.” I’ve experienced many of Max’s hugs now. I’ve never seen him look quite as much like he needed one. If he was a chibi animal, his ears would be turned down, and his eyes flooded. “Do we really want to be let go? Wynt?”
I pull my feet away from Reid. In his agitation, he’s pressing too hard.
“He’s got a point, man. We fought fucking hard to get to this point. I don’t want to risk it all getting flushed down the pan.”
“What if there’s an alternative?” Wynter draws a card from his pocket. His band mates lean in for a look. It’s a black and white business card, with the word Stormland across it in big bold lettering.
“They’re a fraction of the size of the company we’re with. It’d be taking a backwards step.”
“Or a step towards freedom,” Wynter suggests. “The pair of you—the three of you—have spent the last week telling me a backwards step is sometimes the right one. I think we should consider this. Really consider this. Yes, Stormland are an indie label, but they specialise in our genre. Our actual genre, not the one our current management keep trying to shoehorn us into. And we’ve met Harry. We know he’s sound. He won’t bullshit us.”
“What’s to say he’s even interested?”
“He made us an offer before.”
“Ten months ago,” Reid counters. “I don’t know, man. It’s risky. We’ll need to think about it.”
“Obviously. I’m not suggesting you don’t.”
Me, I wonder how long that card’s been burning a hole in Wynter’s pocket, and I wonder if his band mates realise his decision is already made.
“How long do you have until you have to make a decision?” I ask.
“Tomorrow evening,” Max replies.
Shit! “That soon?” I swallow, as reality pinches at my flesh. When they said through to the end of the week, I’d rationalised that as until Monday morning, not Friday evening. I’ve hardly any time left with them at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wynter
I get as far as the sea wall, to the stretch that surely has my butt cheeks imprinted on it by now. The tide is on its way in again. It’s still drizzling. The chill of the wet brickwork seeps through my jeans and chills my arse. A week on from finding Iris, and my heart is still in turmoil. Not for the same reason though. I get it, it’s a risk I’m asking Max and Reid to take, but staying with our current representation is impossible for me.
There’s no trust left. I can feel my hair standing on end from considering the possibility.
I have considered it.
We need to talk it out. The guys need to understand that if they opt to stay, I’m not staying with them. Even if it’s a no from Stormland. I’d rather go back to being a nobody than endure more of the shit I’ve faced these past months.
I hear footsteps and look up, half expecting to see Iris. It’s Reid. His brown hair is increasingly curly thanks to the sea air. Not even the rain can flatten it. He comes to a halt before me and rubs his arms against the wind rolling in off the sea. “You dressed that up as an option, but it’s not an option, is it?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
“Shit!” He slumps onto the wall beside me as he rubs his mouth and jaw. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t…”
“We’ve a whole fucking album’s worth of material.”
“I know. I’m not saying that you and Max—”
“We’re not splitting up.” He stands again, to labour that point. “We’re not, Wynter. We’re in this for the long haul. Shit.Oh, fucking shit!” he howls into the sea. Then, he about turns and sits alongside me, blowing hot air into his hands.
