Take Me for Granted

Chapter 33: Grant

When Ari left, I took a quick shower, threw on some jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, and left for the lodge with my leather jacket and guitar. Our set started in a few hours, but I figured it would be a good idea to get there early and see what was going on. Maybe I could meet a few people. I had no interest in all the talk about labels looking at us, but it still tickled at the back of my mind.

What would it be like if a label liked us and wanted to sign us on? Would we record an album in L.A., tour with another band, make a living on the road? Would I see Ari?

I stopped that whole train of thought. It didn’t fucking matter because we weren’t fucking signed. We had no prospects. We were just here for the fucking music, just like McAvoy had said. I loved my guitar, my brothers, the band, everything. I wanted it to fucking stay that way.

The lodge was teeming with people for the music festival, so I cut around to the side entrance for employees, bands, and staff only. Since there were so many acts, our equipment was still waiting in the back of our van. We would set it up once we got closer to showtime.

With my guitar slung across my back, I walked through a door backstage. I didn’t recognize anyone, and that didn’t bother me one bit. I’d always been a bit of a floater, meeting people along the way.

As I’d expected, there were twice as many girls back here as bands. A few were eyeing me suggestively. A few were really fucking hot, like off-the-charts hot. One had tits that were huge and perky and still fucking real. Another girl bent over to whisper to talk someone else, and I could see half her ass in her short skirt. Fuck me. The girls didn’t look like that in Princeton.

And I had a hot piece of ass all to myself, and she had been in my bed all day. Self-control had never been my strong suit. I could look but not touch or kiss or fuck. Just look. That was possible. With some difficulty, I averted my gaze entirely and kept walking.

I was about halfway through the backstage area when a guy stopped in front of me. He didn’t look familiar, but I was bad with faces anyway. He was dressed casually in dark jeans and a polo, yet I could tell he had some authority to him.

“Grant McDermott, right?” the guy asked, pointing his finger at me.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Hollis Tift.”

We shook hands.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Grant.”

“That so?” His tone made me cautious. Who is this guy?

“Mostly good things.”

“Sounds accurate.”

The guy cracked a smile, and he looked younger than I’d thought he was. “Did you really tell Frank Boseley to go fuck himself?”

Frank Boseley—well, that was a name I never thought I’d hear again and also one I wasn’t going to soon forget. He was the asshole label scout from BankHead Records who had treated me like a chump.

“More or less. I think I actually said that he was a fucking piece of shit, and I wasn’t some fucking dick he could jack off with.”

Hollis laughed and nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s better than when he told the story.”

“You know the guy?”

“We have mutual friends.”

Ah, he was a label scout or at the very least someone in the industry. I should have been ecstatic to talk to this guy. Miller would go nuts if I didn’t follow through with this in some way.

“Surprised you’re even talking to me after I shot down your friend.”

“Friend is such a loose term. Frank is more of an acquaintance. And I couldn’t be happier with how things turned out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I was the one who brought you here. Didn’t Miller tell you?”

I shrugged. “He didn’t go into specifics.”

“Well, I didn’t really go into all that many specifics with him. I was waiting to see your show here. I was at the Halloween performance. You sold me when you pulled that girl onstage. Clever. It didn’t even look like you were faking it.”

I hadn’t been, because I’d pulled Ari onstage. This guy had been there. I was reeling.

“So, are you a scout?” I asked flat-out.

“A scout of sorts. I represent a number of artists for Pacific Entertainment.”

Fucking Pacific Entertainment. They were top-notch. Right up there with some of the best labels from Sony and Universal.

“Nice gig.”

“It has its benefits. Do you have a minute? Perhaps I could introduce you to one of my clients?” Hollis offered.

I glanced around backstage as if someone might snap me out of what was happening and tell me it was all a joke, but no one appeared. Miller, McAvoy, and Vin hadn’t shown up yet. I was here to meet people from the label all on my own.

“Sure. Why not?”

Hollis spoke to the people he recognized as we passed them. Some, he even stopped to introduce me. I wasn’t going to remember them for shit, but it was a nice gesture. Some of the bands I knew. I couldn’t remember faces, but music, that was a different story.

We rounded a corner, and Hollis stopped in front of a black door.

He knocked twice and then entered. “Hey, guys!”

“Hollis!” two guys cheered.

Another one yelled out, “Hey, man!”

The room smelled like booze and pot. A myriad of girls were sitting on different guys’ laps. People were lounging on the furniture and taking shots at the bar. It seemed like the exact place I would have wanted to be just a few months ago. Maybe I still did.

Hollis walked around as if he were everyone’s best friend. A handshake here, a fist bump there, and a few snide remarks until he’d made a full circuit.

“Guys, this is Grant McDermott. He’s the lead singer of ContraBand.”

“Stellar,” one guy said. He looked completely obliterated.

“Dude, nice Gibson,” another guy said.

I really wanted to say that these guys looked familiar. There was a nagging feeling at the back of my mind, but I just couldn’t place them. And maybe I should care more, but I didn’t.

“Grant, this is Donovan, Ridley, Joey, Nic, and Trevor.”

Oh fuck!

“The Drift.”