Page 1 of Lance

Lance

It’s not every day that all of your dreams cometrue.

In fact, I find that I’m still pinching myself even as I stand in the swanky high rise office of the president of our record label, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the mind-blowing view of Los Angeles stretching out before me. The sun is shining, there’s not a cloud in the sky, the ocean is winking off in the distance, and my band has the number one record in the entirecountry.

Is this real? Seriously, how in the hell did I gethere?

“Not a bad view,” James, our bassist, says, coming to join me at thewindow.

“Eh,” I say, shrugging. “It’s all right.” But I can’t wipe the grin from my face and Jameslaughs.

“Just all right,sure.”

We stand there for a long moment, looking down at the world spread out at our feet, and it’s impossible not to think about how far we’ve come to get to this place. “We’re a couple of lucky bastards,” James says, as if reading mymind.

“Speak for yourself,” Layla says, stepping between us at the window. “Iearnedthis.”

“And the rest of us just rode in on yourcoattails?”

Our drummer grins at me, the hoop in her nose glinting in the sunlight. “You saidit.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out and check the screen before rolling my eyes and putting it back where itwas.

“One of your many admirers?” Layla asks, and it’s my turn to grin at hersmugly.

“Mr. Foster?” I turn to see a guy in a suit, about my age, standing in front of me, a tray of drinks in his hand. He passes me a glass of scotch on the rocks before turning to Layla and James to hand off their drinks. “I’m so sorry for the delay. He should be here anyminute.”

“No worries,” Layla says, batting her eyelashes at our boss’s assistant. I roll my eyes at her over his head but she ignores me. “We’re just admiring the view.” She lets her gaze drift down his body as she speaks and I nearly choke on my scotch. Apparently Layla thinks our newfound success is an excuse to be an even bigger flirt than she was before—which is saying something. The assistant just smiles at her politely before turning to deliver drinks to the rest of theroom.

James’s gaze follows him, a line appearing between his eyes, and I have no doubt he’s watching to see what kind of beverage Haylee, our lead singer, will be drinkingtoday.

“She’s fine, James,” Layla murmurs. “She’s doinggreat.”

Before James can respond, our manager Louis gestures us over to the rest of the group. “Come and sit down,” he says, adjusting his tie for the tenth time since we got on the elevator and glancing at his watch, his face the picture of barely-containedstress.

“You would think he might chill out slightly now that things are going sowell.”

“Good one, James,” I mutter, taking a seat across from Haylee. She smiles at me and I think Layla might be right—other than looking a bit tired, she does seem to be doing great. And considering where she was just a few months ago, that’s sayingsomething.

“This is an important meeting,” Louis begins, and the entire band sighs loudly as if on cue. His face reddens in frustration and annoyance and I see Haylee’s smile deepen. If there’s one thing everyone in this band has in common, it’s a deep commitment to piss off our manager as much and as often aspossible.

“We’re meeting with the head of the entire label,” Louis tries again, and Dylan, our lead guitarist, sits up straight in hisseat.

“Weare?” he exclaims, making a big deal of looking around at our opulent surroundings. “I thought we were meeting with the manager at Roy’s HogHouse.”

“Hey,” Layla says. “That was a good gig. Don’t dissRoy.”

“Yes,” I agree with a straight face. “Who wouldn’t want to do a set next to a pigroast?”

“I don’t care,” Layla says. “They paid us in barbecue and it wasamazing.”

“You remember I’m talking about a whole pig?” I ask her. “On a stick. Right next to me. It hadeyes,Layla.”

A familiar vein is throbbing in Louis’s temple. “I’m assuming none of you want to go back to playing gigs like that,” he says tightly. “So it would probably be a good idea to take this meetingseriously.”

“Come on, Lou,” James says, putting his feet up on the glass coffee table in front of him just to piss off our manager even more. “You said it yourself: this is just a meet-and-greet.”

“Yeah.” Dylan puts his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair. “He wants to congratulate us on being soawesome.”