tedious process of signing my name to hundreds of copies of a picture of me smiling straight into the camera with a cowboy hat on my head and my long, blonde hair hanging in waves around my shoulders. I don’t even pay attention to the name I scribble. As I flip picture, after picture, after picture, all I do is stare into the eyes of the woman in the photo and wonder why it looks nothing like the one I see in the mirror every day.
She’s late. Of course she’s fucking late. God forbid she realizes the world doesn’t revolve around her.
Reclining comfortably in my chair, my booted foot resting on one knee, and my fingers tapping a steady rhythm on top of the conference room table, I’m sure I look like the epitome of calm and cool. Inside, I’m about to punch the God dammed wall. Leave it to the princess to not give a shit about a meeting regarding her own personal safety.
I watch as her mother, Eve, glances at an expensive diamond and gold watch on her slim wrist and huffs in irritation.
Right there with you, sister.
Gwen had made all the arrangements with Eve Carlysle about the job, so I have yet to talk to her, aside from our initial introduction when I first got to Hummingbird Records a half hour ago. She seems nice enough, concerned about her daughter’s safety and all that crap, tells me I have full access to Layla, and she'll make sure this whole thing is my call. Whatever I need, whatever I ask—it's mine. She says her daughter most likely won’t be happy about the whole thing, but I expect that. And I don’t give a shit.
As soon as I got over my initial shock that the twenty-percent increase I demanded to perform this job was accepted, I began doing research on the twenty-three-year-old singer. Google was like the Great and Powerful Oz in all things relating to Layla Carlysle.
Pulling out the few printed pieces of paper I’d stuck in the inside pocket of my black leather jacket, I open them up and scan the words probably for the twentieth time while the small handful of people in the room talk amongst themselves quietly.
To say Gwen was irritated with me that I clearly had no idea who this person was is an understatement.
“Layla Page Carlyle, born to loving parents Eve and Jack, led a pampered upper class life,” I read aloud from the screen of my computer while Gwen perched on the edge of my desk. “Father started up one of the largest recording labels ever to hit the music scene in Nashville. Mother worked as a secretary for him. Layla attended—”
“How do you not know all of this information already?” Gwen questioned as she swung one of her legs back and forth, her foot banging against my desk over and over.
I reached over and placed my hand on her knee, squeezing my fingers just enough to get her attention. She scowled at me and I removed me hand, not really giving a shit if I pissed her off. At least she stopped making all of that racket against my desk.
“Why in the hell SHOULD I know this information about her?”
I continued to scroll through the article once I knew she wasn’t going to go back to annoying me with her foot pounding. Now she was just going to annoy me with her talking.
“Oh, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because she’s only one of the biggest recording artists in the country? She’s been around for years; she’s grown up in the public eye. EVERYONE knows all about Layla Carlysle,” Gwen informed me.
“Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I’ve never heard of her. And from what I found on YouTube, I’m pretty sure there’s a reason for it. That shit is straight up Britney Spears, God awful―make-your-ears-bleed—shitty dance club music,” I told her with a slight shiver as I recalled the few minutes I had spent listening to a couple of her songs last night. Time I could never get back. I should add another ten percent onto the bill just for that shit.
“Oh come on, it’s fun! It’s great to dance to. It’s feel-good music. Emma loves her. She always makes me play her newest CD when I drive her to school in the mornings,” Gwen said with a smile.
“That is NOT feel-good music. Feel good music is Back in Black by AC/DC or Blaze of Glory by Bon Jovi.”