Page 47 of Playing the Backbeat

My head runs a mile a minute, while I leisurely make my way to my office backstage. I maintain calm and steady breaths, trying to force my brain to shut the fuck up with the what-ifs for one fucking second.

What if the deal’s already been made, contract already signed, and he brought this guy here so I could meet my new boss?

Do I quit right on the spot? Tell him off for having me make this place what it’s become since I took over as general manager with next to no thanks, only to be cast aside instead of being considered to take over with total autonomy?

I sit, dropping my head into my hands, resting my elbows on my desk. I try everything, but I can’t sit still. I can’t startworking. I sit there for maybe ten minutes trying to calm the fuck down when I hear a strong knock on my door.

With one more failed attempt to chill the fuck out, I call out, “Come in.” My brain might be sabotaging me right now, but you’d never know it. At least I think I do well enough concealing my rising panic from my voice, keeping my posture relaxed as Ed enters my office and a suit follows him.

The guy looks around the office with measured movements, a quiet confidence, but a commanding energy. He’s already making plans in his mind; I can see it.

My stomach bottoms out and my palms start to sweat. My goals…my dreams…are slipping through my fingers, and all I can do is sit here and watch Ed fidget uncomfortably, glancing at his watch before he shakes my hand, then sits across from me, gesturing to his guest to join him.

“Dylan, always great to see you. This is Wayne.”

“Nice to have you in, Ed.” I nod at Wayne. “Welcome.”

He nods in return, reaching forward to shake my hand. The watch on his wrist tells me almost everything I need to know about who I’m dealing with, along with the stuck-up posture he assumes in the chair next to Ed’s. “Wanted to come see everything in person.”

I raise an eyebrow at Ed. “Should have come in tonight for the show, then. It’ll be a good one.”

Wayne shakes his head. “Nah. I’d rather see it now. The bones of it all without the crowds. And the noise.” He shakes his head in disgust.

“Do you have any questions about what you’ve seen so far?” Ed asks, his attention fixed solely on Wayne.

My veins light with fire, setting every inch of my skin on edge. This asshole. Thisfuckingdick. I’ve put myeverythinginto this place, and he’s not even going to acknowledge me now that he’s parading some interested buyer right under my nose.

Like he expects me to help him make this sale.

Fuck that.

“I’d like to see records of any repairs or upgrades you’ve made in the last five years. We’d obviously be redoing most of the aesthetic.” He waves his hand around as if it’s assumed…as if it’s a given.

I hate him.

And now I hate Ed too.

I’ve never had much of a problem with him. He hasn’t let me run with whatever I want, sure, but as long as I give him the schedule in advance and update him afterward, he doesn’t hover. He doesn’t micromanage. I’ve learned what kind of events he’s willing to take on, and I’ve held my tongue after losing dozens of battles trying to change that, biding my time, waiting for my turn to transform the Bridge into somethingmore.

Bile burns the base of my throat at the thought of this suit coming in here and gutting this place to fit whatever the fuck hisaestheticmight be. My stomach rolls uncomfortably. I’m going to be sick right here. Better stand up now and lean over so I can be sure to ruin this fucker’s expensive shoes.

“Anything I need to know about?” I ignore Wayne completely, focusing on Ed, who’s avoiding eye contact with me. He knows I’m going to be pissed. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s too scared to own it.

“Nothing official, Dylan,” he says, obviously trying to keep the temperature of the conversation down. “Wayne reached out through a mutual friend. He wants to know more about the Bridge and its history.”

“And its future apparently,” I say with a saccharine smile. As if I’m going to let him off easy. I want him to say it to my face. If he’s bold enough to bring Wayne here, into this concert hall, and my fucking office, he better have the goddamn balls to say it to my face.

“Potentially,” Wayne interjects, seemingly unaware of any sort of impression Ed has given me foryearsthat someday he’d be selling this business tome. “My investors will want to know that it’s solid before we commit. And before we begin on any renovations. Restaurants can be money pits. They want to be sure.”

Fuck. I really am going to be sick.

Flipping the Bridge into a restaurant?

My poker face must have abandoned me, because Wayne’s wandering gaze is no longer taking in the office around him—no doubt redesigning it into some pretentious modern shithole—and instead he takes me in.

Ed stands, gesturing to the door for Wayne to precede him out of my office. “Let me show you the storeroom and the bar. I’ll collect the financials and records and have them emailed to you this week.”

Wayne stands, buttoning his suit coat, nodding at Ed then doing the same toward me. Without another word, Wayne strides from the office. Ed takes two large, hurried steps before faltering.