I can’t find a natural opening to mention Alessandra now, then I’m officially hopeless.
Shit. I feel like the stakes are higher now than ever. After that scorching hot, best-kiss-of-my-life kiss with Reed in front of Bernie’s Place, I’m especially determined not to blow my chance to have sex with him tonight. But I can’t help worrying Reed is going to feel betrayed when I finally pull out that flash drive. Will he think Alessandra’s demo was my singular motivation this whole time? Will he view it as proof that I am, indeed, Bobby Fischer? Or has that amazing kiss worked the same kind of magical swooning spell on him that it worked on me, such that he’ll be nothing but sweet and receptive when I finally pull out Alessandra’s music? In short, I’m wondering if Alessandra’s demo will provoke the same kind of benevolence Reed showed to Bryce... or the kind of wrath he showed to that cute little blonde at the bar.
“Well?” Reed says. “Did you find the sister’s account?”
“Uh, yeah.” I survey the endless selfies on Bryce’s sister’s page. “She’s really pretty. She looks like Aloha Carmichael.”
I show Reed my screen, and he nods his agreement.
“Okay, so, that’s strike one against her.”
“Against her?” My stomach drops. “I meant she looks like Aloha as a compliment.”
The elevator doors open on the fourth floor of the structure, and we step out into the near-empty garage.
“I’m parked over here,” Reed says, pulling me to the right.
My heart is thundering. “Reed, Aloha is gorgeous and one of the biggest stars on the planet, as you well know. How could looking like her be anything but a good thing?”
“Think, Music Scout. Why would I want to sign Aloha Two-Point-Oh, when the original is already one of my biggest earning stars? I owe it to Aloha to put all my Aloha-shaped eggs into Aloha’s basket, not the poor man’s version of her. There’s only so much Aloha-style marketing and songs to go around. I would never want to dilute Aloha’s market share.”
I’m dumbstruck. I open and close my mouth, not sure how to respond. Now I really don’t know what to tell him about Alessandra. Whenever I tell anyone about her, I always say she sounds like the lovechild of Adele and Laila Fitzgerald. But Reed is saying that would be a bad thing?
“But, still, Music Scout,” Reed continues, “we’ll press on. She’s not ‘out’ after only one strike. There could be other factors weighing in her favor. Next up, tell me about her numbers. How many followers?”
I look down. “Almost ten thousand. That’s good, right?”
“Is it? You tell me, Music Scout.”
“Yeah, ten thousand seems like a whole lot to me.”
Reed shakes his head. “Nope. It’s not impressive. In fact, it’s anemic and highly un-impressive.”
Well, fuck. My stomach is churning now. Alessandra barely has a thousand followers. If this girl’s following is anemic and unimpressive, what’s Alessandra’s? Pathetic? Laughable?
Reed says, “But that’s not the end of the road for this girl, either, Music Scout. If those ten thousand followers are actual people—not bots or ghosts set up to make her look good—if it turns out they’re genuine, enthusiastic, and highly interactive fans—then that’s something to consider.”
“How do we know if they’re real or not?”
“You’d have to audit her account. Look at the interactions on each photo and video. Click on the profiles of the interactive ones and see if they come off like real people with real lives, or fake accounts. Once you start looking closely, you can usually tell fairly easily.”
I make a move to swipe at my screen, like I’m going to get started on what he’s just instructed, but Reed stops me with a gentle touch.
“Not now, Music Scout. I’m just educating you, for later. That job could take a while, so we’ll put it on the back burner for now. There’s no point wasting our time on auditing her followers if she’s got no talent. Or if she’s got talent, but she’s not a good fit for us. For now, we’ll put a pin in that, say she looks meh on numbers, certainly not great, but there could be extenuating circumstances that will give her more of a platform in the future than the average bear.”
Reed stops walking, and I follow suit, right in front of a breathtaking, gleaming black sports car. It’s the kind you’d see on an actual racetrack, or in a spy movie. And, suddenly, I realize... this is Reed’s ride. As in, the car he drove