Tone Deaf

Chapter Three

Author's Note:

Ugh, I'm sorry the updates for this one are so slow; it's much harder to write than BWBB! But I'm trying, and I hope to have a new chapter out at least every week. Hope you enjoy! Leave your comments and let me know what you think!

xoxo,
Q.

Kyle:

“Kyle Carter.” He says, his arms opened wide like he’s making some grand announcement. The grin on his face is enormous and he’s wearing what looks like a very expensive tailored suit with a bright turquoise satin shirt underneath. “Welcome to Razor.”

He holds out his hand and I shake it, not yet sure what to think.

“Nice to meet you. Mr. Powell, I assume?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Hey, no Mr. Powell in here, Kyle Carter. Why don’t you call me J-Pow? That’s what Devon does.” He shrugs, with the same sleazy grin on his face.

My eyes narrow. “How about James?”

His smile grows even wider. “James is good.”

“And you don’t have to refer to me by my full name either.” I say, casually slipping a hand in my pocket.

“Alright then, Kyle.” He says and gestures to his right. “Shall we?”

We enter what appears to be his office. Powell takes his seat behind his desk in a fancy leather chair. I sit across from him and his desk in an equally fancy leather armchair.

“So you wanna tell me why I was told to come without my manager?” I ask, my eyebrows raised.

Powell chuckles. “You just get right to the point, don’t you?”

“I like to get things done.” I say, simply.

“I can respect that.” He says, leaning back in his chair comfortably. It’s obvious he’s very aware of himself, and very confident.

I stay silent, waiting for his answer.

“Here’s why I told you not to bring the lovely miss Fleming.” He starts, that little smile never leaving his face. “I want you to drop her.”

My eyebrows shoot up; I don’t even have time to cover up the surprise I’m feeling.

“You want me to what?” I exclaim. Sure, Rachel might be an obnoxious bitch sometimes, but she’s been my manager since the start—I’ve never even worked with anyone else. I know how to handle her, and how to make her get me what I want.

James Powell waves his hand dismissively, sensing my hesitation. “I know you artists have some sentimental attachment to whatever helped you get started; God knows how long it took that poor woman to convince you to switch labels, but you have to look at this from a business perspective, Kyle. When you’re at the top of your game, what are you to do?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything, instead he answers his own question.

“Get bigger.” He says, snapping his fingers on every syllable. “You don’t stop. That’s the mistake I’ve seen so many stars make. They think they can’t get any bigger than they already are and they stop and then all the hype and all the fans start to dissolve. You don’t want that. You want huge. You want massive. You want it all.”

He kind of talks like a car salesman, to be honest. I can tell he’s trying to convince me, but to be honest, it’s sort of working. Except for him telling me what I want—which I can’t stand—he does make some good points.