Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Once I have sent emails to the labels, I reach out to the security firm 4225 West uses when on tour. I explain the situation with Justine and ask to set up a meeting so we can discuss what measures should be taken.
Next, I do an internet search on Justine. This isn’t something I’ve had to do in the past, but I have this nagging suspicion something isn’t right. She tells me she’s eighteen, and if that’s the case she shouldn’t worry about her dad tracking her down. If she’s a minor, I’m in trouble. She can’t sign any legal documents without her parents, unless of course she’s emancipated.
“Ugh,” I groan and push my fingers into my temples. I want everything with Justine to be on the up and up, but I saw the fear in her eyes before she took the stage at The Helen Show. She was afraid.
My email dings and my heart races even though I know full well no one from the music industry will get back to anyone within minutes. Although, with the girls appearing on The Helen Show, there might be a scramble to sign them to a label. My eyes scan the new messages, and my heart does a double tap. A Sony rep has responded to my email. Of course, it’s the same one who signed 4225 West, but in this business, you use your contacts. The next email is from Universal. Both labels want to meet the girls, and I let out a thank you to whoever is watching over me right now.
“Holy crap,” I mutter to my empty office. “Within freaking minutes.”
“You know—”
My hand covers my heart as I startle. Slowly, I turn at the sound of my brother’s voice and find him leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, and wearing a beanie. He looks so much like our dad; Quinn could play him in a movie if anyone ever did a biopic about the band.
“What the hell, Quinn? Ever hear of knocking or, I don’t know, checking in with Debra to make sure I’m not on some important call? I could’ve been negotiating your next record deal.”
“But you’re not doing either,” he points out. I throw a wad of paper at him and glare.
“What do you want?”
“Well, that’s rude.” Quinn saunters in and sits down in the chair across from my desk. He’s rigid, unlike his normal posture of extending his long legs and slouching.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you not feeling the tracks you did with Plum? Because you sound amazing, and the mix is perfect.”
“No, that’s not it,” he says, but offers me nothing more.
“Let me guess, you want to go on this mini tour with the girls?” I lean back in my chair and contemplate. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Of the six songs on their EP, you’re on three of them. You’d be a huge draw for them. It’s just a handful of stops,” I tell him.
Quinn seems to digest what I’m saying but starts to shake his head slowly.
“All right, I give up.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. I hate this . . . game or whatever he’s playing. “What gives?”
Quinn clasps his hands together and studies me. I cock my eyebrow, hoping to convey I’m in no mood for this cat and mouse game he’s playing. Another ding, and I turn my attention back to my computer. As soon as I see who it’s from, I click to open it and pray it’s the answer I want.
“Yes,” I say loudly, and fist pump the air. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“What is it?” Quinn asks.
“The three majors want to meet with Plum. I think we might end up in a bidding war.”
“You know that’s not always good,” he says. Unfortunately, he’s right. Sometimes so much money is thrown at artists, they never make it back before their contract expires. Putting Plum in a situation where they’re going to struggle is not how I want to do business.
“I know. I’ll make sure the girls are protected and they have a nice deal.” I close the email and turn back to Quinn. “Did you and Nola break up?”
His gaze turns sharp. “Why would you ask that?”
“You’re being weird and it’s the only thing I can think of. If something was wrong with mom or dad, or even Peyton, you’d just tell me. All this weirdness,” I pause and make a bunch of circling motions in the air with my finger, “is—well for a lack of a better word—weird.”
“I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A thesaurus.”
“Hardy har har. Spill or leave. I have work to do, and you need to be in the studio. Dana booked you guys in there. She said you’re working on something?”
Quinn nods, and then clears his throat. “How’s Ben? I haven’t seen him around the office much.”