Page 2 of Lance

Haylee shoots him a confused glance. “If he’s coming to congratulate awesomeness, what areyoudoing here,Dyl?”

“Ha ha.” Dylan leans back a little farther so the front legs of his chair come off the ground, his grin turning smug. “You know the lead guitarist is all anyone really caresabout.”

Layla stretches slightly, her stiletto boot kicking out toward the leg of Dylan’s chair, and before I can blink he goes sprawling backward onto the plush carpet. Louis swears as the rest of us crack up. “What were you saying, Dylan?” Layla asks sweetly as he blinks up at us from the floor, looking like he’s not quite sure how he managed to getthere.

And he’s still lying there as the doors swing open to reveal Jeremy Johnson, the head of our record label and one of the most powerful men in the musicindustry.

“Mr. Johnson,” Louis says, hurrying toward the man to shake his hand. Dylan pulls himself up and resets his chair, his face now a darker shade of red than even Louis. “Thanks,Layla.”

“Anytime,babe.”

Jeremy Johnson turns his attention to us and Louis frantically motions for us to stand. “And this must be Intrigue,” he says, smiling broadly. “The hottest new addition to ourfamily.”

We all move forward to take turns shaking his hand and no one points out that we’re in no way a new addition at this label, that we’ve been here for years slogging away. That the label, in fact, was about to give up on us before we finally caught a break. Instead we all smile and chatter inanely about how excited we are, what an honor it is, all that crap the suits like tohear.

“Sit, sit,” Johnson says, gesturing us back to our chairs and going to sit behind the sleek metal and glass desk in the corner. “You all have drinks? Good. Let’s talk a little about what the label sees happening as we goforward.”

And then he’s off, detailing the plans they have for us, all the various ways the label will try to capitalize on our recent success. Video shoots, appearances, promo. Magazine features. Talk shows performances. Maybe even a slot on SNL, if we get lucky. All culminating in another tour—and we’ll be headlining this time. At legit venues—no more Roy’s Hog House for us. Exactly what we’ve all always wanted. My head is spinning a little and I catch James’s eye across the room. Even our often-surly bassist is grinning, his legendary bullshit detector turned off foronce.

Because Layla was right—it wasn’t luck that got us here. It was hard fucking work, for years and years. It was rejection and disappointment and failure and endless rehearsals and late night writing sessions and all of those terrible, demeaning gigs. But somehow we got through all of that. Somehow we kept going. And now we’re here. And we have every intention of enjoyingit.

“This sounds great,” Louis says, and even he’s smiling now. “A lot of work, of course, but just what we’re lookingfor.”

“Now,” Johnson says, leaning across the massive desk and folding his hands. “Finn talked to me about this idea you have to startrecording.”

For the first time I feel a ripple of unease go through the group. We’ve been fighting with Finn, our A&R guy, to get back into the studio to record our second album and he’s been resisting for months. In the beginning, his position was pretty obvious, even if he never came out and said it. Back then, the label wasn’t too eager to throw more money into producing when the first album’s sales had been so mediocre. But that was before they had us open for Ransom in Europe, before everything had exploded for us. Now we have the number one record in the country—that has to give us someleverage.

“We have plenty of songs ready to go,” James says quickly, his expression back to its default setting—serious and grumpy. Louis is glaring at him but James ignores it. “The first album is a couple years old, youknow.”

“We wouldn’t want it to get stale,” Haylee adds, leaning forward to shoot James a pointed glance I’ve seen pass between them a million times before—Staycool.

“Of course,” Johnson says. “But weareintroducing it to a whole new audience now. It won’t be stale forthem.”

“But our core fans—” Haylee smiles at him in a self-deprecating sort of way that I know is bullshit. Haylee Hunt doesn’t do self-deprecating. But she isverygood at getting her way. “Wedohave some. And I know we don’t want to dampen their enthusiasm by playing the same old stuff on anothertour.”

Johnson is frowning thoughtfully. “I don’t want to lock you away in a studio for six months right when things are takingoff.”

“It wouldn’t be six months,” James argues. “We’re ready to go now. We could get this thing recorded in a fewweeks.”

We all shoot him disbelieving looks—that’s pushing it—but he presses on. “We’re not going to start touring tomorrow,right?”

“No,” Johnson agrees. “We were hoping to kick it off in a few months.Spring.”

“So let’s record now!” James insists. “Then the album can drop while we’re out on the road. The tour can supportbothalbums.”

Louis is watching Johnson closely, no doubt trying to gauge if James’s persistence is pissing him off. But our manager doesn’t try to silence the bassist. Whatever else Louis might be, heison our side. And he knows we need to get back into the studio as much as wedo.

“We’re already lining up appearances,” Johnson reminds us. “Video shoots. Everything we just talked about. You want to try to do both? At the sametime?”

“We’re not afraid to work hard,” Haylee says. “We could fit our recording around the otherobligations.”

Johnson appraises us for a moment. Of course my phone would choose that exact moment to buzz again in my pocket. “Sorry,” I mutter, reaching down to silence it while Louis shoots me his best deathglare.

Jeremy Johnson doesn’t seem to notice. “All right,” he says, straightening in his chair. “Let’s get you all together with Finn. Play him what you have ready and we’ll decide if we think it’s enough to get you into thestudio.”

James looks like he wants to argue with that, but Louis speaks up before he can. “That sounds more than fair,” he says. “We trust Finn’sjudgment.”

“Good,” Johnson says, standing. “So doI.”