“Okay, enough babbling about me. What’s up in your life?”
I fill her in about Hunte and my brilliant strategy to bring
them to heel.
“Oh my gosh, Sara, Hunte is to die for! You are so lucky.”
I know what she’s talking about, and feign ignorance. “It’s
work, not play.” I pause. “So can I count on you to watch over my plants if I
have to stay away longer than a week?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll drop off the instructions, plus a copy of my itinerary
in case you need to reach me, in your mailbox on my way to the airport.”
“Sounds good.” She giggles. “Geez, we both wouldn’t kick Braxton
Hunte out of bed for eating crackers. Of course, that was before I got married.
So now, it’s all on you.”
Even if I used to agree with her, my promotion rests on them
now. I open the hall closet and grab a roll of toilet paper, filling up the
holder in the guest bathroom. “Joanna, I’m going to be their tour accountant,
not their groupie. No one from A&L has ever joined them on tour. I’m
convinced that if I spend a week or two with them, I’ll sort out their crazy
spendthrift ways. The partners will have no choice but to invite me into their
ranks.”
When I finish, she’s silent for a long pause. “Hunte’s been
around for years now…”
Having restored perfect order to my house, I collapse onto
my sectional sofa. I kick my legs up on the soft fabric and lean back against
the headrest. “Eight years.”
“Have they ever been in the black?”
I place my left foot on my right knee. “Yes. Their first
couple of years were good. If they didn’t spend like drunken sailors—or
rockstars—they would’ve been profitable every year.”
“Isn’t that what rockstars do? I mean, don’t they just spend
as much as they make?”
“I don’t know, Joanna. I’ve never met one.”
A giggle floats through my handset. “Well, seems to me that
you’re going to be meeting a few. Tomorrow.”
Rats. I thought I had successfully diverted her thoughts. I
switch up my legs so that my right foot now rests on my left knee. “Whatever.
They’re just a job.”
Full-blown laughter assails my ears. “Oh, honey, don’t try
to pull that crap with me. Braxton Hunte is all that and a bag of chips. And
he’s a free agent now, since he got divorced. With a son who’s his spitting
image, which we both know only ups his appeal. I’m impressed—you’ve figured out
a way to be with him. Brava.”
Both my legs crash down onto my sectional and a scowl
crosses my face. “First, this client—emphasis on client, Joanna—is
going to make me partner. Second, Hunte is a rock band, not a ‘he.’ Third, I
enjoy their music, but I certainly do not have a crush on
them.”
More laughter ensues. “Sure. You keep telling yourself that.
When you’re face to face with Braxton Hunte, remember my words. All your tingly
bits are going to be singing his song.”
0 comments:
Post a Comment
Hateful and Unrelated Comments Will Be Deleted. Anonymous comments are invalid to enter into giveaways.