Page 114 of Stolen Hearts
Three beats pass and Paul’s smile widens.
He’s gotten into my head and he knows it.
“Great. Let’s set up a meeting in the week, discuss terms. Be great to keep you on board.” Paul’s hand whacks my back, almost knocking the wind out of me.
I remain stalwartly silent, grabbing the drink the barman hands me and downing it in one. I wait for Paul to be called away by another guest. The heat rises up the back of my neck from the burning sting left from Paul on my back.
“Excuse me, I just need to head to the restroom,” I say to Pietro and Julie.
I need to warn Alexander.
The crowd bursts into cheers and applause as the DJ introduces Alexander, passing him the microphone when he reaches the stage. My hands are still slightly wet from the restroom as I wipe them on the back of my jeans.
I linger to the side of the stage, just out of sight next to Rob, while Alexander begins to speak.
“I’m not one for speeches, so I’ll keep this brief. Thank you to each and every one of you in this room, not only for coming tonight, but for all your support and hard work over the past year.” Alexander waves back at a couple of women sitting on top of a booth. “I’ve grown a lot this past year, though by the size of me, you’d never tell.”
The crowd laughs at his joke as the smile that could thaw even the coldest of hearts appears across his face.
“It’s not all been easy either, but I guess that’s why they callthem growing pains. Yet through it all, you’ve all been here. Helping me, supporting me, and showing up for me.”
The crowd cheers as the guy next to Rob and me wolf whistles a little too loudly in my ear, leaving it ringing. How rude and unbecoming.
“I don’t always get to personally come and say thank you, and I might not get to do so tonight, but please know that each and every one of you holds a special place in my heart. So, thank you, and enjoy yourselves.”
Alexander passes back the microphone as the crowd cheers.
“Let’s get this party started!” the DJ shouts as he cranks up Lady Gaga’sAbracadabra. Alexander’s face lights up when he finally sees me.
“There’s a problem,” I whisper in his ear when he hugs me.
“What do you mean?” He speaks through his teeth as he pulls back.
“Paul knows.”
25.Alexander
Monday - December 17
It’s a mistake that managers often make, thinking all of us artists are stupid, when often we are in fact filed with pent-up rage at being controlled. And Paul seems to think he can still control me in these post-management negotiations. He pushes back on every term. Higher sunset clause percentages. Access to future royalties on my records, merchandise, and tours. The list has been endless.
When Christopher broke the news to me at the party, it all became bleakly real. Like I’d been shoved out of a plane from thirty thousand feet, free falling with no parachute. I was completely caught off guard. I’d racked my brains trying to figure out how Paul knew, how the right to tell him he was fired had been taken from me. Telling him was a dream I’d had nearly as frequently as kicking him down the stairs and watching him tumble to his death.
The sad reality wasn’t that he was tracking me, or that he’d heard from one of the new managers I was looking to get rid of him, but that Freddy had sent him one of the tracks we’d been working on. Paul put two and two together, knowing everything was normally scheduled through him.
I’d been pissed at Freddy for a couple of days, but then I channeled the anger into my music and got two great songs out of it, so I took the win.
John advised me that it’s best to stay away from Paul while the negotiations take place and let all communication flow through him, which thankfully hasn’t been an issue. Partly because my schedule is clear until the Grammy rehearsals late January, and also because I can’t hide how infuriating I’d come to find Paul during this whole process.
“They’re asking for seven years rather than five, and upping the percentage decrease each year,” John says, grabbing the marked-up termination agreement from the glass table, flicking to the pages with revisions and passing it to me.
The ticking of the clock on his wall matches my heartbeat, sounding like a bomb ready to explode at any second.
“This is extortion. That ungrateful son of a bitch.”
I chuck the agreement down, not even willing to look at it. The swirling rage inside me wants to launch the chair beside me through the glass window and onto the sidewalk below.
John grabs his legal pad, unfazed by my anger.
