My nostrils flare at his condescending tone, as if the man only a decade older than me knows enough to talk down to me like I’m a fucking child.
“Careful, Michael. You’re on thin ice.”
“I’m pointing out the obvious. It’s not my fault you’ve lost one too many braincells from the shit you’ve snorted. There’s plenty of pussy out there to choose from that’s better trained to handle this, you could have done better than her.”
Pure rage blasts through my body, every vein bubbling as my fists clench so tight that I hear the phone crack. “You’re done.”
His sigh makes it obvious he doesn’t think I’m serious. “We haven’t even talked about what you’re going to wear at—”
“Let me clarify, Michael. You’re fired. I no longer plan on paying you, working with you, or hearing you give me an opinion I didn’t ask for. You can belittle me for the things I’ve done in the past, but you’ve disrespected Rylee for the last time. I warned you before.”
Silence greets me, and I decide it’s better to leave it that way. Hanging up, I toss the phone on the bed and squeeze the sides of my neck while I pace.
Michael works with the entire band because Violet Wonders employed one of the best management companies to deal with us from the beginning. He was the one specifically assigned to me when I started releasing solo music after the breakup because they felt his connections could get me farther.
But I’ve long since built a following that could get me even further without him because of their loyalty if I decide to work on solo music again.
Walking over to the discarded cell phone, I type out a text.
Garrick: Your manager still accepting new clients since you took a break with your woman?
I’m heading for the door of the room when I get a reply.
Kyler B: I’m starting to think you only like talking to me when you need something
Garrick: Is that a yes?
Kyler B: Yes. Need his contact?
Garrick: Please
Garrick: And if it makes you feel any better, I enjoy talking to you any day if it gets a rise out of you. Today’s just not that day
Kyler B: I’ve seen the articles. If Rylee needs a friend, you have Lenny’s contact information you could give her
I don’t tell him I appreciate it even though I should. The only constant contact Rylee has consists of video calling Moffie and her friend’s husband, and phoning her parents. Chase comes over and watches movies with us once in a while, and Mum still joins us for our traditional movie nights, even letting Rylee pick a few and making her smile over the small sentiment. We go out to eat, occasionally see one of the guys at one of their places, or take drives to get out of the house, but Rylee has no friends of her own here that she can talk to if she wants to.
Garrick: I’ll pass that along
Kyler B: Here’s Gordon’s number
Garrick: You wouldn’t happen to know a stylist who has time to dress two people for the GGs do you?
Kyler B: I’m sure Mia does
Garrick: I’ll call her
Garrick: Owe you one
Kyler B: I’ll remember that
Oh, I’m sure you will.
The red carpet rollout started thirty minutes ago, and I’m glad that I didn’t get an invite to prance around in front of the cameras and strike a pose in the Tom Ford suit I’m fitted in. As nice as the gray threads are, they’re nothing in comparison to the black Armani number Rylee is wearing. The woman who took it off the rack at her studio said the two-tone ebony floor length gown would complement her eyes beautifully, and I thank the maker for the plunging neckline that Rylee was uncertain about.
Since this is our first public outing together, we still capture plenty of attention from people who want us to stop and talk to them as we follow people inside to find our seats.
“Keep an eye out for Zayne,” I tell her over the loud conversations around us.
She’s got a firm grip on my arm as we walk side by side, her other hand picking up the skirt of her dress to walk easier. The stylist tried putting her in heels that looked like they could double as a weapon, but she could barely walk in them. The ones she ended up with are chunky little things that she still wobbles in if she isn’t gripping me as she walks.
Once we find our table, I pull out her chair and help her sit down so her dress is tucked in and out of the aisle. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look?”
Her hair is braided in a clean updo, something I reluctantly accepted when I realized there’d be nothing for me to brush away. The woman doing her hair had tried hiding a smile when I attempted to convince her to leave something down so I had something to play with when I got bored.
Rylee had come back with, “How can you get bored at the Golden Globes?”
She’d see soon enough though.
Once I’m seated, tugging the suit jacket so it’s free of wrinkles, my wife turns to me and replies, “You tell me that every day.”
“Because it’s true.”
Her eyes roll, but that smile I love seeing graces her painted lips. “Even when I was wearing a pair of stained sweatpants and wrapped in a Snuggie all day? That’s hardly beautiful.”
The fact she doesn’t see what I do says a lot, but I don’t bother convincing her otherwise because she won’t believe me. “Do you see Zayne?”
Her eyes move around the room where other A-listers are roaming and talking amongst themselves. When her eyes turn about as wide as the favors on the table, I trace them back
