He handed the final swab to the woman. Shit, he couldn’t even remember her name.
“Thank you, Mr. Zander. If you could sign these papers.”
She handed him a pen and he scrawled his signature.
“Perfect. Okay, we’ll have these results to you within about five business days.”
They said their good-byes and Dred showed her out.
Dred closed the door and tugged on his anchor. A kid. Him, a father. It couldn’t happen.
He headed down to the studio and started to annotate a melody that had been playing through his mind. It was so unlike anything he’d ever written or sung before, but it was blocking his creativity. The rhythm was slow. Slower than Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.” More soulful. Shit, was he writing a freaking gospel song? Either way, it needed to come out, because until it did, the other tunes behind it couldn’t get by.
The rest of the guys bounded into the studio, followed by Sam. Nikan dropped a brown paper bag on the small table next to him. No doubt his favorite Nanaimo bars were inside. He pulled one out of the bag and took a bite. Graham crumbs and chocolate and custard-flavor buttercream. So simple, yet so good.
“Okay. Quick business update.” Sam set his coffee on the top of the piano, and Dred removed it immediately. “Great sales in the first quarter. The box set of the first three albums with bonus materials did really well over the holidays, boosting January’s numbers.
“Sales of the rest of the back catalogue received a boost because of it,” Sam continued without missing a beat.
Well, that was good news at least. Dred was fed up with the “it’s not enough” spiel that Sam was constantly spouting. After all, the box set had been his own idea. They could work twenty-four hours a day and it still wouldn’t be enough for their manager.
Dred looked around. Lennon was changing the head on one of his drums. Elliot actually had headphones on and was listening to something on his laptop. Nikan was perched on a stool, tapping on the edge of the seat, and Jordan was on his knees fiddling with one of the amps. Sam was losing them. For the first time, it struck Dred, that they might be outgrowing their manager.
“Sam, did you hear back from Miami about who took the photo of me and Pix at the Miami gig?” Dred asked.
“I didn’t. I’ll follow up. Okay. Saturday afternoon, there’s a new metal radio station starting up in the Distillery District. Dred, I said you and Lennon would swing by on Sunday afternoon.”
“No can do,” Dred said. “Pix is in for the day. Told her I had it free.”
“This is the kind of crap I meant on the plane about commitment. You should jump at the publicity.” Sam stood and banged his hand on the top of the piano.
“What publicity? A brand-new station. They don’t even have a broad listener base. And what’s with all the last-minute activities? It’s less than forty-eight hours away. I’m sure they’ve been opening for months, and we’re likely the biggest band they could score who lives in the city. Why is this about us, and our flexibility?” Dred stood too. “Why isn’t this about you and your shitty planning?”
“Dred. You know better than anyone that any publicity is good publicity. If you want this as badly as you say, you’ll make time to go.”
Nikan stood.
Why the fuck was everyone getting on their feet?
“I’ll go instead of him,” Nikan said. “It’s not a big deal. Just let them know.”
“Fine. But you guys need to realize this egalitarian shit you keep pulling isn’t what the fans want. They want Dred. I know you all think you are equal, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but it isn’t what keeps the fans happy.”
“Maybe you’re right, but all I know is that we are platinum-selling.” Dred put his guitar away. “You don’t see Slipknot doing a small start-up radio station. I get CanCon rules for protecting Canadian content and all that shit, but why aren’t we doing international? Why aren’t we on the big radio shows in the UK? We cracked Canada five years ago.”
Sam looked at his watch. “As much as I’d love to sit and chat with you about all the ways you think I’m fucking up, we need to shelve this. I gotta go. I’ll send Lennon and Nikan details for Sunday, and I’ll follow up with security at the arena about the photo.”
Dred watched Sam retreat up the stairs. Needing a new manager would be one more item to add to the list of things to be worried about.
His phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up to check his messages.
Thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit? That’s it. I’m not coming.
Dred laughed. Had she checked the temperature because she was packing?
He texted back. I know all kinds of ways to keep you warm.
There was a pause. A long one. The kind he didn’t like because it meant Pix was thinking about his comment too hard. He grabbed his anchor.
I just bet you do ;-)
A surge of relief flooded through him, but this time he delayed responding. Was his flirting unfair? He’d never felt so conflicted. The pile of shit on his plate kept growing. How much time would he actually have for her?
And would she still want him if she knew it all?