"Yeah, I promise," he told Jules, feeling bad that, well, in a sense, she was caught between Bryce and Maria, or 'call me Mai', and seemed to be feeling that pressure in a way he didn't. In a room full of people, it seemed like Julie was the one who was alone, in a sense, "I'll make sure to let you know what happens either way."

In any case, with Bryce hustling them out the door with a 'break it up' attitude, it seemed a relief to have him gone, though a guilty one since he took Jules with him. That seemed to be the way of it, happy to have Bryce gone and then feeling bad because it seemed like they were a package deal these days.

"So, that was the you-know-who," and it was no question from Mai.

"Yeah, that's Bryce Rushton, chairman of the Pucker Club of California."

Mai made a face, "Yeah, he seems, uh, very, uh, intense." She didn't seem to think well of that particular brand of intensity, "So what's this thing that's going on?"

Mark gave a grimace, "Well, it's a big meeting that's happening in about two hours at a record company, and I thought I'd have time to chill out and, I dunno, uh..."

"Well, obviously," Mai told him pointedly, as she wrapped he arms around his neck, and moved in close, "It's totally important that you make that meeting. I mean, I can get a cab ride back and we can hook up later, you think?"

"Yeah, definitely, like right after we have an idea of what the heck is going on, maybe we'll be able to work something out." People seemed to expect some sort of a party, even the likes of Bryce, which in and of itself was scary. Mai was on the phone fast enough, dialing out a cab company or whatever form of transportation she preferred, leaving Mark to sort of try to spruce himself up a little more and wait for her ride to get there. He knew, as soon as he checked the phone, that Dalton needed a ride and so did Stace, so he'd be chauffering those two in, which added some travel time, but they would still be roughly on schedule. 

--

The meeting wasn't actually at Edge's headquarters. They got there, got put into cars and then were whisked off to a nearby eatery with a high hedge and gate to keep the public out, and served omelets on a level of perfection they didn't know existed, as a band, along with grilled mushrooms, herbs and gruyere on the inside. Buttery, properly salted eggs and everything else done just so. It was just breakfast, but it was paid for by a company expense account. So too was the espresso -- compared to the hungover looks of his bandmates, Mark was comparatively fresh. Stace, predictably, mentioned something about a good lay making up for a bad night's sleep, and Mark shrugged but couldn't deny that he felt relaxed and at peace with the world.

Harry Cohen was even there, on their side, rumpled, balding, and taking notes as the talk went over a variety of topics -- yes, Edge wanted to sign them, possibly, but the inquiries were often down to Paul Neven and Mark talking more about where the songwriting was coming from, how much material there was and to give him a sense of where they were going. Sure, he'd heard some of the work on stage, but what he was getting at was simple, and essential -- was there an album's worth of material behind the stage presence and musicianship?

"Cavanaugh here," no one called Cave that, but apparently Paul Neven did, " says that you are the one primarily responsible for the songwriting. How true is that?"

He was a birdlike man, surprisingly small, gray-haired and wearing a pair of blue slacks with an open-collared shirt, unpretentious looking but probably tailored to the tune of more money than Mark paid in rent over four months. Five, if the man wore a tie. The watch was probably worth more than his yearly income. But it was strange, because those brown eyes watched intensely but not with the sort of condemnation that Bryce had -- he'd never quite met someone this rich and powerful, and it was a bit of a relief to get the impression of a man that was not some egotastic tower of douche, but a fairly considerate person that apparently loved music even if he wasn't a musician himself.

"Well, I do a lot of brainstorming and take a lot of notes, but I also bring the concepts to the other guys and we refine it from there. I wouldn't want to take credit for the process, the creative work is more complex than that."

"But you have a notebook and you keep things written down. I'm wondering, and I realize that this is an unusual request...but might I see it?"

Mark gave him a strange look as he fished the notebook out -- it wasn't anything bound in any kind of fancy leather, it was just cardboard and paper, but it had a number on it -- 6 -- that implied it was the 6th one he'd been through. He handed it over reluctantly, but breathed freely when he did. It was an act of faith, something the other guys, besides Cave, didn't quite notice, and he tried to affect the demeanor of calm as he sipped his cappuccino as a way to keep from fiddling with his hands as Neven leafed through.

"Well," the executive finally said after he was done, "That's certainly a free-associative jumble, but it looks like you indeed have a lot of material. You know, I'm retired, right?"

"Yes, I'm aware," Mark told him.

"But occasionally, I do some work. And once in a while, I handle a meeting like this instead of Len, I mean Mr. Schwartz, here, who is usually the A&R guy that handles such things, because that's how I started, and I still like to watch a new talent blossom. I think, to be honest, that Reckless Life should be on Edge, assuming, of course, we can work out a reasonable sort of deal, and figure out the advance. However, I did take the liberty of having such an offer drawn up. It is our standard offer, I'm not sure if you are familiar with the terms, but it includes an advance that should cover the cost of equipment and accomodations while in the recording process." He slid the paper across the table, toward Harry Cohen, "And your counsel can examine it and you guys can mull it over at your leisure."

Mark glanced over to Cave, who gave a slight nod in response, and then he looked back to Paul Neven, "We'll try to have an answer for you quickly, Mr. Neven." 

The man handed over his card, "This is the line to Len's office. He'll be handling the process from here on out primarily, though I would be dropping in from time to time. I really do hope you sign. I think we can do something very special."

--

When the meeting was over, Ren was a bit lost, "So what did you guys talk about that he just plopped down an offer like that right after it was done? He was reading that notebook and then bam. Deal." Ren managed to recover some of his color from the hangover with a big breakfast and plenty of coffee. None of them were dressed up for the meeting, but Ren apparently decided that it was too hot out for leather, and was down to a pair of cargo shorts and a tank top that showed off a pair of sleeve tattoos.

Cave glanced over at Mark and then to Ren, "That's because those are Mark's material, the stuff he turns into song idea. The old guy was screening it through to see if we had what it takes, I guess. Is that about right, you think?" Out of the lot, Cave seemed the most at ease with it; arrogantly assured that this sort of deal was his due and it had finally arrived. It allowed him to navigate the meeting with a clearer head than the rest, who were less calm about it.

Mark shrugged a bit, even as he brushed his hair back, "I think that's exactly what he did."

"I wonder what he saw in there?" Cave wondered.

"Beats me. But I'm pretty sure we're taking this deal, right?"

"Well, show of hands, maybe, " demurred Stace, "Just to make sure it's unanimous, like we agreed when we started." Unlike the others, Stace looked like he was completely unruffled, despite a huge amount of drugs done the night before that had him fingerpainting a wall in Beverly Hills like it was a cave somewhere in prehistoric France. 

"Yes," Cave said.

"Absolutely," Ren said, "This is as good a deal as we can hope for."

"Hell yeah, money!" said Dalton.

"Yeah," Stace said.

"Unanimous, Edge is the best choice for a variety of reasons, especially when it's Paul Neven calling the shots."

The deliberation happened in the parking lot of the label, so the band walked right back in to deliver the news to Len Schwartz in person, and Harry Cohen started to work on hammering the contract out, on behalf of the band, with the understanding that they'd pay a modest fee to him, instead of him trying to take a piece out of his own stepson. 

[indent][sub]Julie, we signed on with Edge. Sent this text because I didn't want to interrupt your big lunch with Bryce.[/sub][/indent]

It followed with.

[indent][sub]The party is going to start at the Bolo at 6pm. Let Rebecca know, Ren has a thing for slightly older girls with their shit together, or so he claims.[/sub][/indent]

It wasn't fair to say that the venue was chosen because it was the sort of place that'd piss Bryce off, but Cave did bring that up when Mark broke the news that he might be there -- it was a Tiki bar with lots of rum and cheesy umbrellas in the drinks. It wasn't meant to be the only place they'd hole up, because they were going to bar crawl all over the waterfront at Manhattan Beach, because they would probably wind up swimming if drunk enough.  He didn't need to tell Jules that, she knew the place well enough to know the drill. The Bolo was definitely a dive bar, but it was a beloved, unpretentious sort of place that had tradition and the band just happened to love the place with a passion. It was also woman-friendly, because it served up all sorts of 'chick drinks.' 

By 6pm, they'd basically messaged a lot of people and pooled their money for a blowout -- meager savings were allocated to the whole thing, because the advance, once the checks cleared, would put ten grand cash in each of their pockets, and that meant that they could just pull out all the stops. On the other hand, they kept the circle tight, mostly down to the closest friends they had, or at least, people they wanted to hang with. Sure, Bryce might end up there, but they were bringing enough people, Harry included, to constitute a crowd.

Bolo's was just the right sort of place for a shabby mixed crowd to set up shop, and the bartender, Big Hakulani, was already hooking them up with the drinks -- he was in for a big night on tips, it seemed, and just happened to be a fan of Reckless Life. A former sumo wrestler, the guy had bulk to spare, but a big, gap-toothed smile. He could barely squeeze behind the bar, but he was far and away the man as far as the band were concerned -- it was also understood that they'd come back to Bolo's around the time his shift ended, at midnight, so he could join the celebration.

Mai was there too, snuggled into the crook of Mark's arm and already a bit flushed from the first drink, which was some sort of expensive special Nicaraguan reserve rum that Big Hakulani served up for the band in shotglasses on the house, for the first arrivals, including, as it were, Jules, Rebecca and, though it seemed a waste of great rum, Bryce. He was there, but the day was so damn good that even Cave overlooked Bryce as Harry called out, "Reckless life, just signed by one of the most famous fuckin' record labels in the world. About time!"

Glasses clinked and the rum was taken down, a slow, spicy, vanilla burn that warmed to the core. Things were only on the up and up, it seemed...