Page 32 of Washed Up
“When did you decide?”
I tug my jacket around me. “It’s been bubbling away since—”
“That bastard screwed things.”
“Pretty much, but I… I didn’t believe we had anything to offer anyone else until after we playedWeepto Iris. Those fuckers don’t deserve us, Reid. They don’t. They don’t deserve me.”
He blows a long breath out of his mouth, then he’s up and marching across the plaza like he’s about to storm our current label’s HQ and lob Molotovs around. At around the halfway point, he about turns and comes back to me.
“So, Stormland. That’s who you want? You’ve researched this?”
I nod. I’ve turned the possibility over every which way. I don’t need to give him the spiel. He knows who Stormland are as well as I do. They’re a boutique outfit. Independent. Owned and run by Harry Storm. They courted us back in the day, before we were signed, and made a second offer last June. I think all three of us have lamented not signing with them in the first place at some point.
“So, what, we contact them and see if they bite?”
That’s pretty much the gist.
What’s more, I find I’m actually grinning at the prospect of it. “Moving labels will give us a clean start. We can hack off all the shit and leave it behind.”
“What if they feel we’ve swung too far away from their brand? What if they’re not interested.”
“We convince them we’re ready to swing back again, and prove it with the new stuff. And why wouldn’t they be fucking interested?” I find my feet, my nerves thrumming with excitement and a pinch of pissed off. I’m done with beingdowntrodden. I’m done with the self-doubt. “We’ve an album ready to go, Reid. It’s a fucking good album.”
He nods, digs his teeth into his lip as he grips my shoulder and squeezes. “About fucking time. Wasn’t sure you were ever going to rip the gloom filter away. It is good. It’s so fucking good. It’s going to be huge.”
“Yeah. It is. We’re going to make it fucking huge.” I’m not sure when I started believing that, but I believe it now wholeheartedly. All we need to do is ditch our current representation.
Reid fishes his phone out of his back pocket. It’s a sleek affair. Cost more than twice our monthly rent on the halfway decent flat we used to share. It wasn’t so long ago his devices were held together with hope and sticky tape. He upgraded them, just not his everyday wardrobe.
“It’s quarter to midnight,” I point out. “Hardly the time to call anyone.”
“So, I won’t call.” He flashes one of his dimpled grins. The same grin that convinced me to befriend him as we stood under a bus shelter together five years ago.
“Besides, I’m messaging a guy who manages bands. Do you really think he keeps regular hours? Even if he does, he doesn’t have to respond right away.”
“You’re calling…messaging, Harry Storm?”
“Why delay?” Reid’s thumbs race across the phone keys. “There. Sent. I attachedWeep.” It’s such a Reid move. He’s unpredictable but decisive. Which is how I know he’s already deeply committed to Iris. He and Max both are already half in love with her, if not wholly smitten. Me…I’m a little jealous I’m not part of their fledgling polycule.
“It’s being read.” He offers me a cagey grin. I refuse to get my hopes up, as I watch the clouds scuttering across the gibbous moon.
Okay, my expectations are sky high, and my stomach is in my throat.
The rain finally stops.
Reid jumps in a puddle.
“And we have a response.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Iris
Time speeds up, so that the next twelve hours pass in the blink of an eye. I sat awake most of the night, and consequently slept away most of the morning.
They’re in the studio again when I find them, locking down a few loose ends so they have what they need ready for their chat with Harry Storm, now a confirmed date inked onto the calendar.
At 2pm, they pre-empt the expected chewing-out by their label and call their company assigned manager.
