Chasing the Day by Dana Aros

Author:Dana Aros
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ABDO
Published: 2016-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

To save Riley yourself, turn to section 13.

To talk to Riley’s family, turn to section 14.

9

TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY YOU’LL SEE THE STUDIO AND IT’S THE FIRST day you’ve lied to Riley about anything. You, Mr. fucking Rock Star, are finally going solo. Emmett said they already got a call about the bad news. You tell them you’re going to one of your dad’s stupid business seminars in the city when you get picked up by a taxi after school. You made sure to wear long sleeves, because you’re starting to get track marks down your arm—not that Pete or Stan or Beatrice care anyway. They’re the ones supplying you with junk.

“Your limo is getting cleaned, right?” You’re crammed between Stan and the window. Beatrice pushes herself as far away from Stan as she can on the other side.

“Do your parents know about this?” Beatrice asks. The car lurches around the corner onto the highway. Being surrounded by all those buildings makes your heart beat fast.

“They’re excited to see me helping myself.” You grin but they just glance at each other before Stan pulls something out of his briefcase.

“Here’s the contract,” Stan says, handing you a small stack of papers on a clipboard. “You give us twelve songs, we give you a ten-percent royalty.” You hold the pen over the paper but when you start writing, you’re suddenly nauseous again. Last time it took twelve hours to reach this point—now it’s only been eight since your last hit.

“You only get one shot at chasing your dreams,” Beatrice says, her voice low and smooth. “This is yours.”

You get another pulse of the jitters through your fingers, but you can’t need a fix. It all relies on you now. Carefully, you sign your name and hand it back to Stan. You keep waiting to pull over somewhere on Market Street, but you pass the Arch and keep going, even past the Edward Jones Dome.

“Where are we going?”

“The studio,” Beatrice says, looking out the window at an industrial area. On North First Street, the skyscrapers of downtown slowly fall back behind the taxi. Instead, empty parking lots, places that look like abandoned construction sites, dead grass under a torn down fence line the highway. The car slows down by a wooden box of a trailer on cinderblocks by the Mississippi, telephone wires running overhead. Red Amber Records is printed on a piece of paper taped to the inside of a window on the door, facing out.

“You’re not fucking serious.”

“We are fucking serious,” Beatrice answers, pushing her wavy black hair over one shoulder. “We use most of our money for equipment and marketing for your songs. We’d rather use the extra thousands for your brand than rent somewhere downtown just because it looks nice.”

“Must be some fucking stellar equipment.”

“Better believe it,” Beatrice says, stepping out of the car in the same suit and heels she wore at the club.

You follow Beatrice and Stan inside. Nicer than expected. It’s cut in half by a huge glass window and a steel door connecting the two.

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