narrows. What is it with me and pissing off these people?
Not that pissing off Wendy comes close to pissing off Jax Jamieson.
(Whom apparently I’m going to refer to with both names until the end of time.)
“Haley Telfer?”
“Yes?” I whisper because, holy shit, Jax Jamieson refers to people with two names too.
“You have ten seconds to get out of my studio.”
The tech and I stand next to each other, peering through the glass studio door into the hall. My jacket’s back on, not that the guy’s coming anywhere near me because he thinks I’m a lunatic.
On the other side of the door, Jax exchanges angry words with a man in a suit.
“That’s Shannon Cross,” I say.
The tech nods, stiff. “Correct. The CEO showing up means one or both of us is fired.”
“Well… which is it?”
We watch as Jax stabs a finger toward me and stalks off.
“I’m guessing you,” my companion murmurs.
The door opens, and Shannon Cross looks at me. “My office. Five minutes.” He turns and leaves.
After gathering my papers, I take the tech’s directions to the elevator to the third floor. A watchful assistant greets me and asks me to take a seat in one of the wingback chairs.
Great. I’ve been here less than an hour, and I’m about to be fired.
Instead of spinning out, I study the picture on the wall and the caption beside it.
Wicked Records’s headquarters. Founded in 1995, relocated to this new building in 2003. Employs two thousand people.
“Miss Telfer.”
I turn to see Cross watching me from his doorway. He exudes strength, but in a different way than Jax. He’s older, for one. Tall and lean, with hair so dark it’s nearly black. The ends curl over his collar, but I can’t imagine it’s because he forgot to get a haircut.
His suit is crisply cut to follow the lines of his body. He was one of the men with all the gold statues in the picture yesterday. Yet on this floor, there are no pictures of him.
Weird.
He’s made millions—probably billions—in the music industry. Formed stars whose careers took off, flamed out. In the golden age of record executives, he’s one of the biggest.
I follow him into his black-and-white office, a continuation of the pristine carpet outside. It should look like something from an old movie, but it doesn’t. It’s modern.
A fluffy gray rug on the floor under a conversation set looks as if it used to walk.
I’m struck by the urge to run my fingers through it.
The photos gracing the walls here are black-and-white, but they’re not of musicians or awards receptions.
They’re fields and greenspace.
Err, gray space.
“Is that Ireland?” I blurt. “It looks beautiful.”
I turn to find his gaze on me. “It is. My father moved here when I was a child.”
I wait to see if he’ll offer me a seat, but he doesn’t. Nor does he take one as he rounds the black wood desk, resting his fingertips on the blotter.
“Miss Telfer, I understand you interfered with a studio recording session. And assaulted one of our biggest artists.”
My jaw drops. “I definitely did not assault him. He started it.”
I realize how childish it sounds. The memory of it has my skin shivering again, and I rub my hands over my arms. “Technically, he startled me. I was trying to defend myself. Every modern woman should have a knowledge of self-defense, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t nod, but he hasn’t kicked me out yet, so I keep going.
“I know I shouldn’t have walked in, but your tech had this ‘FML’ look I know from a mile away. I know the software. I use it in the campus music lab all the time. There’s a compatibility issue with the most recent update, and…” I trail off as he holds up a hand. “I wanted to fix it.”
Appraising eyes study me. “And did you?”
I realize Cross isn’t asking me about my outburst but what I’d done before that. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”
Cross’ lips twitch at the corner. “Jax Jamieson is heading out on the final leg of his U.S. tour, and we’re short on technical support. We could use someone with your problem-solving skills to back up our sound engineer.”
“You’re asking me if I want to go on a rock tour?” Disbelief reverberates through me.
“Of course not.” His smile thins. “I’m reassigning you to a rock tour.”
“He wants you to what?” Serena shrieks over the phone.
“Go on tour. Four weeks.” From the way I’m hyperventilating in the bathroom stall, I’m surprised the force of it doesn’t lift me