“Crap,” said Gib.
“Look after your son while I take care of the other child,” I ordered, rising to my feet and making for the nearest hallway.
“He’s twenty-five. He can look after himself.”
“Oh, as if.”
At which point, I broke out into a run. God only knows what Adrian would have already talked the kid into. Lifelong musical servitude and a commission that would make a grown man cry. Sure enough, Adrian had dressed for the kill in a gray suit with one of his dumbass ugly, heavy gold chains around his neck. They really didn’t work for him.
Adam was scratching his head, staring at the thick wad of paperwork laid on the table. “I just really want to play my music, you know?”
“Of course you do,” said Adrian, passing the boy a pen.
“Stop!” I yelled, pulling out one of the fancy chairs beside Adam. “Don’t you sign a damn thing, you idiot.”
“Martha.” Adrian’s friendly smile turned feral. “How nice to see you. Is there a problem?”
“Adam, eyes on me.” The time spent dealing with a toddler had not gone to waste at all. “The guys have their own lawyers go over anything Adrian presents them with and never accept his first offer when contract time rolls around. Do you understand me?”
The manager’s laugh sounded both forced and fake. “But that’s a different situation. Adam here is just starting out and quite honestly, he’s fortunate I’m even—”
I held up my hand. “Shut it. You’ve had your chance to speak. It’s my turn now.”
“Well, what do you think I should do?” asked Adam with a heavy sigh.
“This might be the first offer you’ve received, but it’s not going to be the only one.”
“Maybe.”
I looked to heaven. Honestly. “Try definitely. You’re talented. Why do you think he flew up from L.A. to impress you with his bling?”
Adrian’s hand flew to his chunky chain in mock outrage. Or maybe it was real. Whatever. His teeth and suntan sure as hell weren’t. Scarily white veneers and orange skin he most definitely had not been born with. Ugh.
“Anyone who would encourage you to sign something without legal advice is not someone you want to work with.”
“I was trying to save the boy money,” said Adrian.
“Yet an unscrupulous business person in this position might try to get him on a hook with a ridiculous offer he’d regret in the first five minutes. Don’t you think?”
Adam’s mouth edged down. “Shit. Now I don’t know what to do.”
“Ben will lend you his lawyer. Don’t worry.” I patted the poor boy on the arm. “I get that it seems exciting and a good opportunity. But you never rush in without knowing exactly what you’re signing up for. Never. Are we understood?”
He tipped his chin in acknowledgement.
“Are you seriously going to take the advice of a woman wearing a T-shirt covered in cartoon dogs with spaghetti in her hair?” spluttered Adrian.
I groaned and bent my head. “I thought I got it all out. Adam, can you please?”
“Sure.” He started picking among the strands of hair. Ah, the glamour.
“And they’re Super Puppies, not dogs. Get it right.”
“Can’t you just be my manager?” asked Adam, still busy with my hair. Guitarists’ fingers really came in useful sometimes. “You’re scary like him, but in a way I can handle. I mean, I can talk to you without getting completely fucking confused and wound up about everything. Plus, those festivals you recommended the other day would all be perfect. If you could get me booked.”
“You know, I bet I could.”
He grinned. “That would be awesome. Ah, think I got all the noodles. There’s a bit of sauce in there you’ll need to wash out.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Look, I haven’t really given serious thought to managing you. But let me mull it over, all right?”
On the other side of the table, Adrian’s face had turned an unfortunate shade of purple. “You want Martha to manage you? Are you out of your mind? She’s a secretary, for heaven’s sake.”
“Executive personal assistant, thank you,” I snapped. “And an extremely experienced one. So if you think during the years I worked with the band I wasn’t all over everything the guys did making sure they weren’t getting ripped off or messed around with, you are kidding yourself.”
“What exactly are you insinuating?”
“Oh, don’t get litigious,” I said. “You’re a great manager, Adrian. I’m not denying it. But you’re not necessarily the best fit for every performer. No manager possibly could be.”
The man’s eyebrows merged into one flat pissed-off line.
“Whatever Adam does, he needs to take the time to ensure he’s well informed as to his responsibilities and the consequences of any contract he signs.” I crossed my arms. “Wouldn’t you agree, Adrian?”
“W-well, of course no one wants to take advantage of him.”
“Of course not.”
“Right. Okay,” said Adam, exhaling hard. “I’ll read through it all and get some legal advice then get back to you. Thank you.”
Adrian just grunted. Talk about being an unhappy camper.
I, however, smiled with delight and Adam seemed much more relaxed. Doing good deeds didn’t suck nearly as much as I’d thought it would. Besides, maybe I would make a good manager. Serious thought about the idea was definitely required.
The problems associated with possibly dating (or whatever we were doing) a bodyguard became very clear four days later. Four days during which I hadn’t seen Sam. Not even once.
Rumors about the new album were running rife. And paparazzi had taken to following the band members and their partners, trying to get the gossip. To make things even worse, Jimmy’s old flame, a big-time Hollywood actress, had just announced her engagement. So they wanted a statement from the singer about that too.
One overzealous paparazzo in particular had been a thorough pain in the ass. The guy was way too gung-ho about his job, if repeatedly grabbing the back of David’s shirt and stepping in front of cars to try and get a picture were any indication. Spread thin trying to keep an eye on the still lurking photographer/stalker, more security came on board. Things turned intense.
Something I could have dealt with just fine, if Sam hadn’t up and completely disappeared on me. Apart from a text. One damn text.
“Wat den?” asked one of Jimmy and Lena’s twins. Not sure which one. I could never keep their names straight.
Me, the children, and one idiot drummer were sitting among a wide assortment of toys in the corner of the band’s practice room again. Meanwhile, Ben and Jimmy were busy inside the studio. David sat on one of the couches with a guitar resting in his lap and paper and pen at his side. He was lost in his own little world, which tended to happen when he wrote songs.
Since each other’s houses were considered some of the only safe places to visit, we’d all been hanging out together often. Fine with me. It kept them all happy and occupied to play together. The children and the band members.
Gib removed his thumb from his mouth. “Pwada.”
“That’s right,” I said, giving the child a high five for excellence. “Then, the Super Puppy team put on their new season Prada sunglasses and ran off into the sunset to frolic and play or whatever. Knowing that through their awesome styling tips and quite adequate life-saving rescue mission, the hamsters would all happily live to see another day. The end.”
The questioning twin just blinked at me. Guess she wasn’t used to my style of story-telling yet.
“Have to admit,” said Lena, studying her state-of-the-art camera, flicking through shots no doubt, “I was really worried there for a while when the hamster couldn’t decide what cut of jeans to get.”
“Flares was a daring option, but I really do believe they’re making a comeback,” I agreed. “Harry the hamster’s going to have all the street cred.”