The Tour (19 page)

Why does the piano always sound like doom?
I think. But then I open my eyes, and I’m not on stage; I’m in bed. I’m in the Peninsula Suite. The sound is coming from inside our suite.

I reach for Kole, but he’s not here—the bed is wide and empty. I sit up and throw my covers to the side and listen again to the sad piano piece that’s playing in our suite. I step down onto the plush carpeting, grab the white robe lying on the chair, and open the door. Our suite has another bedroom where Deloris and Riley are, and we’ve connected to another deluxe suite where Devon and Manny are sharing a room. It’s over 3000 square feet, with a full kitchen, study, dining room, and a living room. I remember there was a piano in there, too.

As I walk down the wooden floor covered in a plush rug, I see the dimly lit living room through the dark double doors. I’m struck by the image before me. The long wall of windows partially covered by linen drapery through which, the city lights are blinking their busy, old tune, and then Kolton, lit only by one single floor lamp nearest him, in the corner behind the linen tufted chairs. His bare back is hunched over the black piano as he plays, fingers splayed and pounding gently upon the white keys. I stand firmly planted, scared to take a breath. He’s working through something, and I think interrupting him could ruin his efforts.

I can’t look away. I can’t stop wanting to hear it. It’s like a sad love story. He hums a little, then stops, but never stops playing the song. I lean against the doorjamb, and settle in to let the story play out in tune. But then, my bare feet lose their grip on the smooth marble, and it squeaks a little under my heel. I try to move back into the shadow of the foyer, but he sees me first.

“Come in, Mia,” he says, still playing his tragic tune. I walk in, stepping onto the beige rug, and sit down on the yellow couch, facing him. I feel my eyes getting heavy. The couch is comfy, and as sad as his playing is, it’s soothing, too. I lay my head on my arm, and notice he misses a note. He stops, and tries to play it again, but misses it again, and then again. His jaw is set. The glow from the lamp shines on his chest, his arms. The muscles in his arms are straining against the song.

He pounds once with all his fingers, and then drops his head. “Kole?” I ask, and watch as his hands come up onto the top of the piano, and his back starts to move as his breathing increases. I go to him and sit down on the edge of the bench. “What is it, Kole?” I coax.

“I want you to need me, too, Mia,” he admits, resting his forearms on the edge of the piano’s top. “But I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says, taking my chin and tilting it up. “You should look into the other contracts that are coming in for you.”

“Oh, I mean, I’ve been thinking about that, and—”

“That way you aren’t feeling dependent on me. I mean, you and me would be more like partners—but I feel you holding back with me,” he says. I take a second to think. I was going to ask him what was bothering him when he pulled me into the tub with him last night. Is it really who I’ll sign with? Because it felt like he thought I would leave him. Like he’d done something wrong, but what?

“I’m not holding back. I just want us to be two complete people, or we’ll never be able to withstand all the times we have to be separated. I’ve thought a lot about your deal, and I—”

“I’ve scheduled a meeting for you tomorrow,” he interrupts. I feel my eyebrows furrow and my heart constrict in my chest. “I want you to choose the contract that’s right for you. I want you to go into your career feeling like you’re the one in charge of it.”

“Who’s the appointment with?”

“Ceol,” he says. As I recall, Ceol: The Art known as Music, is owned by several well-respected producers. In fact, Rania Steele, the first celebrity to co-coach me on
The Stage
, is signed with them. I nod, tucking my bottom lip under my teeth.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

“You need to do this,” he says, forcing a smile. He takes my hand and leads me back through the double doors and then down the hallway into our room. As he takes my robe off and tucks me into bed, he goes around to the other side instead of climbing over me. I’m on edge. He’s not angry; he’s being soft and gentle—not the normal pushy Kolton. He’s got boxer briefs on, and I suddenly feel really naked.

I wonder if this is a trick—what he’s doing tomorrow. If how I choose a contract could mean the end of us, or if he’ll really respect my decision. And is this just a way for him to divert my attention from his mysterious confession?

How am I supposed to sleep now?

The Deal

T
his hotel spoils us. They made Kolton and me eggs benedict—without the meat and fruit on the side for me—a side of baked veggies for him. They bring tea and coffee in beautiful silver carafes. Riley’s addicted to the waffles and whipped cream. Deloris likes the quinoa and oatmeal power breakfast. Devon and Manny get the sunny side up eggs, potatoes, and bacon. Guess who steals the guys’ bacon.

There goes Riley’s little hand to the silver platter with the bacon. She’s never going to be a vegetarian, like me. I check the time on my phone. I haven’t used it in so long; I deleted most of my apps—all the ones for social media.

There’s a text from Kaya. I’ll read it later.

“What time are we meeting with the people from Ceol?”

“Ten o’clock,” Kolton says. That gives us about two hours.

“I’d better hurry up,” I say, jokingly, but not really. I want to look professional and I need to wash my hair.

“I have lawyers meeting you there,” he adds, nonchalantly, taking a sip of his black coffee.

“I’m not signing anything right now,” I tell him, in my own defense.

“Exactly, but they’ll be able to explain the terms of the contract to you. I’m not going in with you.”

“Why not? Are you punishing me?” He rolls his eyes, and then rubs his face with both hands.

“Mia, this is
your
decision, not mine. If it were my choice, you’d sign with Bad Heart. End of story.” I hate the look of disappointment in his eyes.

“Kolton,” I say, in warning.

“When are you going to learn to trust me?” he asks, raising his voice. The chatter at the table stops as all eyes fall on us.

“We’re back to this again,” I say, matching his tone.

“Because you don’t. Not yet. But I’m not giving up,” he says, as he takes his napkin off his lap and throws it on the table.

Watching him walk away, I feel so ashamed. He wants nothing more than to share this process with me, to write and record music together. To share everything. He’s so giving, and I’m grateful for that.

But, at the same time, if I rely on only him for all of my needs, including my career, where will he end and I begin?

*     *     *

The Ceol building was just a few blocks from our hotel. I’m wearing platform boots with three-inch heels and I wish I’d worn flats. Apparently, New Yorkers walk all over the city and they know better. It’s not like Carrie Bradshaw in her Versace heels. All the women I passed on the street were wearing flats.

As I enter the lobby, Devon walks forward and says something to a man and woman who are sitting on the couches. “Mia Phoenix, this is Lenora Vasquez and Bob Fairfax. They’re the lawyers who are meeting with you today.”

Both are probably in their fifties and wearing really nice suits. They stand and shake my hand. Lenora has had some work done—not a wrinkle in sight, and I love her hair. It swished perfectly as she stood. Bob is a little overweight, but a sharp dresser. “Do you always do entertainment law?” I ask.

“Yes, Miss Phoenix,” Lenora says. “Between the two of us you’ve got about sixty years of experience.”

“How long have you worked for Kolton?” I ask.

“Actually, we’ve never worked directly with Kolton Royce. We have, however, worked with his uncle, Tedd Royce, on many deals over the past twenty-five years,” Bob informs me.

“Oh, I thought he’d have a staff lawyer.”

“He does. We’ve represented the artists he’s signed, helped them negotiate better deals with him when their contracts were about to expire. That kind of thing.”

“Have you ever represented an artist who’s signed with Ceol?” I ask. I need to know if they’re impartial.

“Yes, we have,” Lenora says. “We’ve helped nearly a dozen artists negotiate very advantageous contracts here as well.” I relax a little. They’re here to help me, not steer me toward Bad Heart Records.

A receptionist comes around to the lobby and smiles. “Right this way,” she says, motioning toward the elevator. We all step in, and when the doors open again, we’re escorted into a conference room. Already in the room is a grey-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties, and another man who’s probably in his thirties.

“I’m Richard Altman,” the older man says, “and this is John French. He’s from our legal department.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking one and then the other hand.

There are a few niceties between Lenora and Bob and the two of them, and the receptionist offers to bring us something to drink. I choose a Pepsi, needing a little sugar in my bloodstream.

John passes out paperwork to everyone, and Richard starts. “We’re pleased to have you here today, Ms. Phoenix. But we’re altogether confused about why you’re looking into other record companies besides Bad Heart Records. Are you serious about considering our offer?”

“Yes, I’m serious about it. I’m concerned about being in a relationship with Kolton and working with him at the same time.” I don’t feel the need to explain further.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he says. “So, let’s get down to business. As you’ll see, we’ve started with the basics, that’s what you’ll see on the first page of our proposal.”

As I look it over, it’s broken down by categories. It starts with Royalties.

…30% of the royalties will be split with Mia Phoenix after the advance is earned from record sales, ticket sales, and merchandise…
.

…The duration of the contract will run one year, with six options…

…Lock-out clause…to our satisfaction…owns the rights to the artists’ name, likeness, and songs for the duration of the contract.

…Advance: $250,000…

“Thirty percent seems pretty low,” I say, pointing out the only thing I really understood. And the dollar amount, of course, which is more than I made on
The Stage
. Coming in as runner up earned me about $100,000. Pennies to Kolton, but three or four year’s income working the three jobs I had after Mom and Dad died.

I turn to Lenora and ask, “Is this a good deal?”

“This is a good deal for a relatively unknown artist. However, you do have a track record. You almost won
The Stage
. And you’ve been in the news a lot lately—which helps with promotions.”

“Tell me what you think, please,” I urge. “Kolton said the other record companies would own my name and then I couldn’t produce another album until the contract ended. But this says it’s only for one year. Is this like a trial contract?”

“The trial goes in their favor, Mia,” Bob says. “After the first year, the contract ends, but the lock-out clause keeps you from releasing anything under your own name. Plus, they own the rights to all your songs.”

“But, we don’t anticipate there’s going to be any need for us to cancel the contract. We’d like to use all of our options,” Richard interjects.

“Yes, but then those other albums would be at the thirty percent royalty.”

“Yes,” Richard says, “which is a very high rate. Most new artists are lucky to get twenty.”

“What about touring?” I ask. “Would I be able to tour with Kolton?”

“Of course. That could be negotiated, schedule permitting,” Richard says.

“What else could be negotiated?” I ask, Richard. “I mean, this sounds like just a step above what an unknown artist would be offered.”

“Maybe you’ve misunderstood, Mia. This is our final, take it or leave it, offer. I know you’ve brought your lawyers, but we’re not interested in negotiating at this time.”

I abruptly stand, I can’t help it. My legs tell me it’s time to go. “Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about,” I say as politely as I can manage. “Thank you for meeting with me.” I lean across the table and shake hands with Richard and the other guy—I forgot his name. I pick up the paperwork and walk toward Devon, who’s standing at the door.