“Scout?” Cheyenne asked curiously.
“A label scout,” Vin told her. “We’re gonna get f**king signed. We’re gonna be f**king famous!”
“Vin, keep it down,” Miller said, punching him on the arm.
“Sorry, girls,” Vin said. He leaned forward and planted a bold kiss on Cheyenne’s lips. “Next time you see me, I’ll have graduated to rock god.”
Cheyenne laughed and shook her head. Yeah, she wants him.
I nodded at the girls and didn’t even glance at Blondie before turning and following my brothers to where we would meet with the label scout. Anticipation buzzed through every inch of my body, and by the time we made it to a private back room, I was practically bouncing from the shot of adrenaline. This was my future right here, my boys’ future. Our moment for fame was dangling before us on a string, and all we had to do was walk into this room and take it.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” a guy in a black suit said.
With greasy short hair, a fake smile, and beady, observant eyes, he looked exactly how I’d pictured label scouts.
“Please, sit. You want beers or water or something?”
We all shook our heads.
McAvoy was last into the room. He shut the door and took a seat.
“Great. We’re all here. I’m Frank Boseley with BankHead Records. I’m glad that I was able to come out and hear you guys live. Look, I’ll just cut to the chase. I’m not sure you’re exactly what our label is looking for right now.”
My stomach plummeted. Shit! The boys deflated around me. I knew that this was just the first of many rejections we would likely see in this industry, but we had killed it tonight. If a label didn’t want us off of that performance, when would they want us?
“Thanks for inviting me out. I wish you luck in your future.”
Miller, always the best of us, walked up and shook Frank’s hand. Miller handled the business side of the band, so he’d had the most contact with Frank. It must have hit him the hardest even though it was clear we all felt like someone had punched us in the gut.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Miller said and then he turned back to us. “Come on, guys.”
I stood in dismay and started to leave with my friends. I couldn’t believe what had just gone down. My high was diminishing quickly, and I was going to need a drink and at least a blow job to get over this.
“Grant,” Frank called, stopping me in my tracks. “My man, do you mind staying after for a minute?”
What the f**k did he want? Miller, McAvoy, and Vin looked like they wanted to know the same damn thing. I was too curious not to stay though even if the man gave me the creeps.
“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”
“Just close that door for a minute.”
I nodded at the guys reassuringly before shutting the door. “What’s up?”
Frank crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “I know I said that the label isn’t interested in ContraBand, Grant, but that’s only partially true.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“They’re not interested in ContraBand. They’re interested in you.”
Oh. Motherfucker thought I was a sellout?
“The reason I’m here today is because of you. We’re looking for a front man. Solo acts are selling right now, Grant, and I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime to sign with BankHead Records.”
“What about the other guys?”
“Fuck the other guys. You don’t need them. You carry that band. You’re the it factor, and you’re the person fans come to watch. The screaming crowd was for you, my man. People were cramming into this bar for you. You’re filling a dive bar, and we’ll fill arenas together.”
I laughed and scratched the back of my head. Arenas. Shit.
“So, what do you say, Grant? You with us?”
“What do I say?” I said. I looked straight into that f**ker’s beady eyes and told him exactly what I thought, “No. I’m going to have to say no.”
“No?” he asked in shock. “You have no idea what you’re missing out on.”
“You’re a f**king piece of shit if you think I’ll ditch my brothers for you. I’m not a sellout. I’m not a f**king dick you can jack off with the delusional promise of sold-out arenas. If I’m f**king selling out arenas, then it’s happening with my boys behind me. Without them, this business isn’t worth the headache of dealing with pieces of shit like yourself.”
I stormed out of that room like someone had lit a fire under my ass. I pushed past the guys and ignored their questions. They could see the murderous look on my face, but I didn’t have it in me to tell them the audacity that prick had.
Blondie was waiting for me as well, but I wasn’t in the mood for that bullshit tonight. I’d barely been in the mood for it before Frank Boseley had f**ked up my entire night.
Now, I was only in the mood for one thing.
“Where do you live?” I asked Cheyenne as soon as I reached her.
Chapter 10: Aribel
I was not sulking just because my roommates had all gone to the ContraBand show in the city and left me behind. I hadn’t wanted to go, and I certainly hadn’t wanted to see Grant McDermott.
But I couldn’t concentrate on my homework, and for the first time in forever, I felt a bit silly for doing homework on a Saturday night. My shoulders ached from hunching over my desk all day. I rolled them back a few times and closed my book. I might as well try to get some sleep.
As I was about to change into something more comfortable, a knock on the door stopped me short. Who the hell is at my door? I hoped it wasn’t my drug dealer neighbors. The last time they had stopped by, they had asked if they could stash their weed in our house until the cops passed through, and then they’d had the nerve to be angry when I’d refused.
I looked through the peephole in my door to see who it was, and my eyes widened in shock. Grant McDermott was standing on my front porch. I flattened myself against the door and took a few heaving breaths. I didn’t care that I had been thinking about him all night—or all day, for that matter. I couldn’t answer the door.
“Aribel!” Grant called, banging on the door again. “I know you’re in there. Cheyenne said you would be home.”
Cheyenne! That traitor!