A little bit of his anger and resentment made it through the wall of cocaine and alcohol. “What choice do I have?” he asked bitterly. “The only other option is to fucking drown. To let the IRS take this fucking house away from me when I can’t pay them what they want anymore.”
She put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed soothingly. “I know how hard this has been for you, Mattie,” she said. “Hopefully things will work out.”
“Yeah,” he said, putting his hand on her bare thigh. “You want to fuck while we’re waiting to hear the news?”
“Sure,” she said. “You want a blowjob first?”
“Fuckin’ A,” he said, unbuttoning his pants.
He made it through the preliminary blowjob and was thrusting away inside of her in the missionary position on the couch when the phone started to ring. He quickly broke contact and walked over to the charging station, his shirt and socks still on, his wet schlong sticking out before him like a divining rod. He checked the caller ID screen and saw the number was KVA’s main line. He took a deep breath and then picked up the handset.
“This is Matt,” he said into it, bracing himself.
“Hey, Matt, Pauline,” the familiar voice said in his ear. “We had our vote.”
“And?” he asked.
“It was unanimous in favor of signing you to KVA’s label for a one CD deal,” she said.
Elation filled his soul at these words, but he was certainly not going to display any of it to Pauline. “Oh ... cool,” he said casually. “What’s the next step?”
“We want to meet with you on Friday at eleven o’clock,” she said. “We’ll have a contract for you to sign. You can bring a lawyer if you want.”
“I don’t have a lawyer except for that tax guy you hooked me up with,” he said.
“I see,” she said. “If you need more time to retain an entertainment attorney, I suppose we can accommodate that. Just let us know when...”
“Are you going to try to fuck me with this deal?” Matt interrupted.
“No, Matt,” she said. “We are not going to try to fuck you. That’s not what we’re about. The contract will be written in plain, easy-to-understand English and will contain the terms we have already agreed to.”
“Then I won’t need no fuckin’ entertainment lawyer, will I?”
“No,” Pauline said, “but it is certainly your right to have one.”
“Fuck that,” Matt said. “I’ll be there Friday at eleven and we’ll sign. I’m really hoping that I can start getting to work on Monday.”
As it turned out, Matt was not able to get to work until the following Thursday. Part of the issue was that he had to gather his band back together. Since coming off tour, Corban, Austin, and Steve had all been doing their own things, mostly partying a lot and living off their royalty and touring income and not doing much else (including worrying about when that royalty and touring income would reach critical levels). None of the three had picked up an instrument since returning from South America, though Corban did pick up the clap and a nasty case of crabs from a groupie he had met in San Diego one night.
The biggest issue, however, was where to rehearse. The warehouse they had used before was leased by National Records and they were certainly not going to let Matt use it for a project that did not involve their label. Nor was KVA’s main studio an option. Celia had been composing for the past few months and had reached the point where she wanted to start putting things together for her next CD. She staked claim on the studio and planned to start making use of it by the first week in August, which was the soonest she could get Eric, Coop, Charlie, Liz, Little Stevie, and Laura to join her for sessions.
Pauline solved this problem by putting out some feelers. She was able to secure an abandoned warehouse building in Stonehurst in the east San Fernando Valley, only ten minutes from Whiteman Airport. The warehouse sat in a largely disused industrial complex not far from the local landfill. It only took a few thousand dollars and a few dozen man hours to fix the place up, secure it properly, and make it usable as a rehearsal studio. KVA decided to foot the bill for twenty-four-hour security to guard the facility and keep the local tweakers from stealing all the band’s instruments and equipment at night.
That left housing for Matt. It was nearly a two-hour drive from San Juan Capistrano to Stonehurst in morning traffic, an hour-fifteen from Kim’s mostly unused house in El Segundo, both too long to be practical. Since he no longer owned a condo in LA and since he had far too much pride to bunk with one of his band members during the week, they had to find some place to put him up. That place turned out to be the house that Jake and Laura owned in Granada Hills, only ten minutes away from the rehearsal warehouse.
Jake was extremely reluctant to let the infamous guitar player stay there, but in the end, decided to give it a go as Matt did not have the means to rent any place he would actually be caught dead in in LA and KVA was not willing to pay rent for him.
“You will not trash our fucking house!” Jake warned him sternly when he first suggested the idea to Matt. “I am dead serious about this. You will sleep in the guest room and clean up everything as you go along. Laura and I stay in that house on occasion—that’s why we have it—and if there is so much as a bedsheet ruffled or an orange peel on the floor or a single dirty glass in the sink when we go there, your ass is out on the street.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Matt agreed. “I’ll treat the place just like it’s my own.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jake said.
“Don’t sweat it,” Matt assured him. “I’ll keep it spotless and take care of it for you.”
“And no parties,” Jake added. “It’s there for you to sleep in during the week. No guests of any kind except for Kim.”
“Jeez, dude,” Matt said. “When did you get that big-ass stick shoved up your ass?”
“When I invited a guy who is known to punch holes in hotel suite walls to live in my house,” he said.
“I only did that when I was drinking and doing coke,” Matt said.
“You still do those things,” Jake reminded him.
“Yes, but I’m a lot more mature these days. I haven’t punched a hole in a wall in more than a year now.”
“You’re not making me feel better about this, Matt,” Jake said.
“Don’t worry,” Matt said. “I’ll treat your house like it’s a fuckin’ shrine. You have my word on it.”
“Uh huh,” Jake said.
“But do be sure to call first before you and your old lady come by,” Matt suggested. “That way, I can make sure the sheets ain’t ruffled and there ain’t no glasses in the sink and shit.”
“Fair enough,” Jake agreed. “What about your car?”
“What about it?”
“Do you have a driver’s license these days? You’re not planning to take limos back and forth all the time, are you?”
“I have a driver’s license,” Matt assured him. “And I still have my Maserati.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “Please don’t engage in any police pursuits while this project is underway. And if you do, don’t lead them to my house. Can you do that?”
“Consider it done,” Matt agreed.
Last came the equipping of the warehouse so progress could begin. Most of the amps, speakers, and other sound equipment that Matt had used for previous workups had belonged to National Records and was part of their warehouse. In addition, Matt had sold off most of the non-instrument equipment that he had personally owned. KVA’s equipment was, like the studio itself, going to soon be used for Celia and her workups. That meant that new equipment needed to be purchased and installed. This was the most expensive part of the process to date as high-quality sound gear was not cheap. KVA laid out more than thirty thousand dollars for a new sound board, a speaker system, new amps, and all the cabling and wiring to make the equipment work. Jake, Matt, and the Nerdlys spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon putting everything together and wiring it up.