Now he cuts me checks himself. The pay is shit, and he knows it. He also knows he could quit paying me altogether and I’d still show up every time. It’s about the connections and experience, not the almost nonexistent cash flow.

For money, I waitress and freelance as a videographer for an event planner on weekends. It affords the rent on my tiny apartment in Tribeca. Nothing glamorous, but if I need to drop everything for a last second flight or reshoots, at least I’m not giving up much. Unlike Heath, leaving behind a wife and two kids—with a third on the way.

That woman has put up with a lot of his shit over the years. Red eyes across the country, missed birthdays and anniversaries, models throwing themselves at him, hoping for their big break. She finally hit her limit this time. Not that I blame her. She’s nearly six months pregnant, and her husband announced he was signing on to tour the country with a rock band for the next four. He’s lucky she only threatened to throw him out.

So, even though the record execs begged my boss to direct a documentary to release alongside Of Men and Wolves’ next album, it’s me on a yellow velvet couch with clammy palms. Feeling like I haven’t spent the past few years meeting managers and herding musicians around a set.

Sitting becomes too much, so I walk around, searching the frames on the walls for a picture or signatures of artists or performers I recognize. I half-smile, seeing a few, and as I’m reaching for one to get a better look, a pair of voices stop outside the room. A few seconds later, the door flies open. The guy stops short when he sees me. His eyes travel down and pause on my legs.

“Well, fuck, I wasn’t expecting those when I walked in.” He starts striding toward me in his black silk dress shirt, unbuttoned one more than necessary at the top. “Please tell me you dress like this every day, because we need those legs on tour.”

I let out an unimpressed, “Excuse me?”

The guard’s standing outside with his back against the wall, and he turns enough so that the side of his face appears in the doorway. “Fucking professional, Christian. She’ll slap you with a harassment lawsuit before even meeting the band.”

Christian. The band’s manager. I’ve seen pictures of him, though in person he has a younger face, his dirty blond hair longer. He has half of it pulled back, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Despite still scanning me over, he stops a respectable distance away. “My humblest apologies,” he says, a smug grin appearing as his eyes finally make it to my face and stay there. “I thought I was meeting a dude with a goatee until about five minutes ago.”