Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(37)

“I know just where to send them,” I promise.





There isn’t time after our flight lands to make a stop at home before my meeting with the manager. And I don’t even mind, because the hollow little furnished studio I’m renting doesn’t hold much appeal for me.

Mr. Muscles drives me to an Art Deco building on Wilshire Boulevard, where the offices of Charla Harris Talent Management reside. It’s a pretty little building with a stern security checkpoint and thick carpets.

But Charla is not what I’m expecting. She’s not L.A. glamorous. She’s…

Okay she’s terrifying. She’s wearing a black power suit. Her salt-and-pepper hair is cut short in a way that makes her head surprisingly cube-like. She has pale skin, accentuated only with bright red lipstick.

And the first thing she says—even before hello and introducing herself—is: “Never show your contract to anyone who’s not representing you.” She waves a sheaf of papers in the air. “This right here is enough ammunition to make your life hell. Christ, your social security number is on here.”

I’m speechless, hesitating beside the chair facing her desk. Did she just threaten me?

“Girl, I’m not actually going to use it against you! But stop being so trusting. Let’s break that habit right now.”

“Oh,” I say, sounding quite stupid. “It’s a lifelong habit, I guess. And I have the scars to show for it.”

“I’ll bet.” She throws the papers onto the desk. “Sit already. You should know that this is the weirdest contract I’ve ever read. And I’ve been in the business twenty-five years. Way to pick ’em.”

“Should I just go, then?” I ask, trying to keep the exhaustion out of my voice as I collapse into the chair. Only jet lag and a night of great sex prevent me from crawling over this woman’s giant desk to choke her. “Is there a point, here? Or did you only need someone to patronize for a few minutes?”

For a second she just stares at me. And then her square face splits into her version of a smile, and she promptly cracks up. Her laugh is a lot like her personality—big and unpredictable. “We’re not done yet, girl! I can help you, but first you need to acknowledge that you need help.”

“Like it’s not obvious? After I brought you the worst contract in twenty-five years.”

“Indeed. This document is both arrogant and strange. It reads as if he spent, oh, fifteen minutes researching recording industry contracts before deciding he could do better than a lawyer and a hundred years of entertainment law.”

“That sounds very much like Brett Ferris,” I admit. “Mine also might be the first contact he ever wrote.”

“He was a producer first, right? With Daddy’s help?”

“Right. But I was the first artist on his brand-new label.” It had seemed like a victory at the time. And maybe it was. I lacked confidence. I still do. “And then he sold out to MetroPlex two years ago, because he needed more capital.”

Charla’s smile becomes more motherly and less terrifying. “Brett Ferris told you not to bother hiring a manager, right?”

“Yes,” I say glumly. “I was twenty-three, and nobody else wanted to sign me, and I was afraid that if I got a manager, Brett would be scared off.”

“And now all you wish for is to scare him off,” Charla Harris guesses.

I nod.

“Oh, honey,” she says. “You’re in pretty deep here. And he’s sitting on your second album?”

“Yeah.”

“Whether it’s Brett’s decision or someone higher up at MetroPlex, that’s a vindictive, shitty maneuver,” she says.

“Tell me about it.”

“I notice you didn’t send me the royalty statement I asked for.”

“That’s because I knew better than to share information with a stranger who might use it to hurt me.”

She gives me a big, evil grin. “Good girl. But I have a theory, and if we work together, your royalty statement might prove it.” She pats my contract. “You have an escalator in here.”

“A… what?”

“Your contract stipulates that he has to pay you a big bonus once you sell a million records. He probably never expected that to happen. If I had to guess, you’re nearing the threshold. So he doesn’t want to bounce you into the top one hundred right now with new music.”

“Why?”

“Your first album will get a big boost when your second comes out. That always happens.”

“Oh,” I say slowly. When industry professionals talk business, I always feel incredibly stupid. “I should know all of this already.”

“Nah,” she says with a wave of her hand. “You should have a manager to keep track of it for you—to be your bulldog.”

“I just want to write the songs and have my label release them on time,” I whine.

“Yeah? Well I want a month in Fiji and pony riding lessons. If you sign with me, I will try to bully these assholes into releasing your record. But it will not be easy. I can’t promise success. In the meantime, you’re going to have to hold your head up high and get to work on album number three.”

“Because…?”