Page 6 of Fame and Obsession
It’s those eyes.
I swear, those crystal blue eyes penetrate straight through me. I could probably write a song about them on my cocktail napkin if Vivian didn’t have her girlie-ass drink sitting on it.
My hands clench.
God, Vivian and her damn endless rounds of drinks. That has to be the fifth one since we’ve walked upstairs.
Since news of the signing broke, my ex-girlfriend has been under the assumption my dick is a slot machine lever shooting hundred dollar bills out of my ass.
Apparently, Viv never got the memo I’m done with her. Wearing a couple of Band-Aids and a gauze dress doesn’t entice me to change my mind.
Turning up my beer bottle, I down it like the fuel it’s become in the last year—at least tonight I won’t get shit for it.
Tonight, it’s allowed. After all, we’re celebrating.
We’ve played shit gigs forever, and our big break has finally come. As of last night, the band is officially signed with Surge Records.
Nothing has worked out the way it was supposed to, but I promised myself nobody, especially some piece of groupie ass, would ruin this chance for us.
I owe it to Lam to make Lords of Lyre a household name.
We all agreed that the name of our first labeled album, Immortal, would keep his contribution alive. Even Tanna, who wasn’t even around when that shit went down, agreed to the title.
It’s been exhausting, trying to live up to the standards of someone as perfect as him. Honoring Lam’s memory while navigating notoriety and paparazzi has been a slippery slope.
Photogs are a piece of work. One wrong move and I’d be a media joke. Keeping myself in check isn’t optional. Our manager would have my ass on a platter.
I tense thinking of Helena’s earlier info bomb.
Things have already been strained around the studio, and when she dropped the news of her latest publicity stunt, the rest of the band went twenty levels of apeshit. Not that I can blame them. If our manager singled out one of them, I’d have my balls in a vise too.
“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” Tanna asks, her thickly dark-lined browned eyes blinking at me from across the table.
Our only female band member wears makeup that makes her look like some weird, emo raccoon. But I suppose at nineteen, I wore stupid shit too. She’ll eventually grow out of it and look back wondering what the hell she was thinking. Too bad her awkward stage will be immortalized in music videos for generations to come.
“About what?”
Playing dumb is my specialty these days.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like a child. I’m talking about what happened yesterday in Helena’s office.”
I shrug. “There’s nothing I can do about it.” Why do girls have an incessant need to talk shit to death?
“You know how Helena is, Julian.” She twirls the straw in her soda. Her oversized army jacket all but swallows her small hand. “Once she gets something in her mind, nothing will change it.”
“I can be pretty persuasive.”
Unimpressed, she sits back with her arms crossed and stares at me. “She’s commissioning you for a book deal, and that’s that.”
“Yeah, but an autobiography? Why not a book about the whole band?” I motion a hand toward Zane, who’s still debating with Ty over stupid mythological wrestling matches. “That dumbass has more stories to tell than all of us put together.”
“True.” She laughs.
“I just don’t think at twenty-five years old, there’s enough about me to warrant an autobiography.”
“Think of it as a sign,” she says thoughtfully. “We got a record deal and now this. It’s a natural progression. You’re on your way to being a legend, Julian. Sometimes we don’t drive destiny. It drives us.”
Right. I lift my beer and snort. “Have you been reading fortune cookies again?”