Quentin was fed up, too. The track had sounded great until they were interrupted. “What the hell,” he protested. Then, realizing he’d cussed in front of the elderly couple watching from the control room, he said, “Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane.”
The Timberlanes were Quentin’s next-door neighbors. Occasionally, when Quentin let them know he’d be home from tour for a few weeks, recording with the Cheatin’ Hearts in his basement, the Timberlanes sent their butler to complain about the noise. It was impossible they’d actually been disturbed. The sound booth was so well insulated that the music could hardly be heard in the kitchen upstairs. So Quentin always invited the Timberlanes over to sit in the control room.
Seems he guessed right that they just wanted in on the action. Instead of looking offended at his language, Mrs. Timberlane smiled serenely and Mr. Timberlane winked at Quentin: Thanks for letting me take my chick on this hot date.
“It was Rachel,” Martin said. As Quentin turned, Martin was straightening his glasses, which immediately fell crooked again, as always. He returned the phone to his music stand. “Our esteemed record company hired one of those crisis management types to keep the band from breaking up. She’s at the PR office right now.”
“To keep the band from breaking up,” Quentin repeated, hoping he sounded incredulous. He lifted off his bass guitar, set it in its stand, and circled his stiff neck to pop it. For the past month, he’d worried constantly about the band breaking up. But that would happen only if the other band members knew what he knew—and that was exactly why he didn’t want some specialized public relations consultant poking around.
Erin told Quentin, “This is your fault.”
Quentin reached to the wall and turned off the sound into the control room before he challenged her. “Why is it my fault? The record company checks on us once in a while.”
“This is not a regular record company check-in,” Martin said ominously. “She honestly thinks the band is breaking up because you two are doing it”—he gestured between Erin and Owen—“and you’re jealous.” He pointed at Quentin. “You took it too far this time, Q.”
“I did not,” Quentin protested. After two years, he knew exactly how far to take the band’s antics, gaining them the new fans he loved and frightening the record company he hated, without the record company sounding the alarm and sending an agent to spy on them.
At least, he’d thought he did. Now that the band actually had something to hide from Manhattan Music, maybe they should have behaved themselves for once. But he’d figured that would seem even more suspicious than their usual debauchery. So he’d set up all sorts of mischief for them in the past week.
He’d gambled and lost.
And he’d lost more than this wager. He was losing his edge. His near-death experience in Thailand must have affected him more than he’d thought.
“You fired our manager,” Owen yelled at him from behind the drums. “You made us delay production on the album. You engineered this thing between Erin and me. It’s too much at one time. Now we’ve got the Evil Empire up our ass.” He stood.
Quentin made a fist, ready for anything.
But Owen passed Quentin without taking a swing at him. He stomped out of the sound booth, slammed the glass door behind him with a sickening crack, and jogged up the stairs toward the kitchen.
“That broke something,” Quentin said.
“If that didn’t,” Erin squealed, “this will.” Too late, Quentin saw her moving toward him with her hand out. He was used to the sting of her slap, but this time it jammed his glasses painfully into the side of his nose.
Martin came around the drums to catch Erin from behind and pull her crashing into the cymbals.
The Cheatin’ Hearts suddenly looked more like professional wrestlers than country music superstars. Which was appropriate, since they’d practiced these moves a thousand times.
Quentin pressed his fingers to his skin to stop the bleeding, wishing the fake fight was a little more fake. Later Erin would claim she’d put on the show for the album technicians in the control room. It was always someone like a technician, supposedly on their side, who was the unnamed source in the tabloid story about the band’s behavior. Feeding stories to the tabloids was almost as important to their careers as putting out new music, in Quentin’s opinion.
But he suspected that this time, Erin had just wanted to hit him. It had been a hard month.
“You could let me take my glasses off first,” he growled at her. Of course, he shouldn’t complain. Whenever he fake-fought Owen, he really let Owen have it. Good to get some aggression out. Lord knew they had plenty.
Pulling away from Martin, Erin mouthed behind her hand at Quentin, “I’m sorry,” and stuck out her bottom lip.
Quentin laughed and mouthed, “S’okay.”
“Let me go fetch Owen and make up for our lovers’ quarrel or whatever that was supposed to be.” Erin passed Quentin and pulled the door. It didn’t budge. She turned to Quentin and said, “The dumbass actually broke it.”
With a sigh, Quentin stepped forward to try the door for Erin. It was stuck. He gave it a good jerk and heard glass breaking. One of the technicians got up and was able to open it from the outside. Several shards of glass and a loose screw fell onto the floor.
Erin jogged up the stairs after Owen. Despite the stories they’d leaked to the media, Owen and Erin’s brand-new romantic relationship was fake. Even Quentin and Erin’s long-term affair was fake. In reality, Erin and Quentin had broken up for good two years ago, before the group had signed with the record company. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of her running up the stairs in very short shorts.
After she disappeared, Quentin remembered the Timberlanes and hoped they weren’t horrified at the band’s fake violence and real damage to his house. He punched the intercom button. “Mr. and Mrs. Timberlane, would you like some more iced tea?”
They shook their heads. Mrs. Timberlane was smiling and patting Mr. Timberlane’s knee like she was thoroughly enjoying this date. Mr. Timberlane kissed her forehead.
Erin led Owen downstairs by the hand. Owen closed the door to the sound booth behind them and unsuccessfully tried the handle, like he didn’t believe he’d broken it (typical). The Cheatin’ Hearts resumed recording, but the session was ruined because their concentration was lost. They all anticipated Martin’s phone playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” signaling more bad news. Finally the call came, and Quentin reached over to turn off the sound to the control room again.