"So what did he say? He just said he wanted to make you a star, and then walked away?"

Celeste pulled the covers back on the bed and slid between the sheets. Josh paced in front of the bed, staring at the card in his hands. Had been pacing and staring for the last 45 minutes, at least.

"That's all he said. And gave me the card and said to call him if I was interested, and walked away. I swear that must be how they rope people into shit."

"Maybe. Or maybe he really actually wants to talk to you about something. You're wearing a groove in the floor, sweetie."

"Well. I mean. I just. What do I do?"

"Well, first you get naked. And then you get in the bed, and then we talk. Come on. Move."

Josh tossed the card onto the bedside table and sighed. It was probably a trick, or something. He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his clothes and rolled into bed, gravitating toward the middle. Toward her.

"So. Are you going to call?"

"I don't know. I'll think about it."

"Well... don't wait too long. You never know what's behind a closed door until you open it."

"That's why I married you, you know?" He slid a hand down her side and around to her bottom, and squeezed. "You're a very smart person."

"Mmmhmm. You should listen to me more often. Call him. See what he says. Alright?"

He sighed, his eyes already sinking closed. "Alright. Monday. I'll call."

"Bye, daddy. Have fun drawing!"

Josh straightened from his squatting position and watched Jack run off into the play area of his classroom, and then stood there for a few minutes and watched him play. He was such a happy little boy, full of energy. Sometimes Josh wished he could siphon some for himself.

"Mr. Chasez. Good to see you."

He spun around at the familiar voice of Ms. Menke, already on guard for her inappropriate flirting and her standing much too close for comfort. There was no need. She smiled that general Parent-Teacher smile she gave all the parents, and stood a respectful distance from him. There was no winking or nudging, or general ‘making him uncomfortable' about her.

"Hey," he said, backing up, toward the door. "I-I was just dropping Jack off. I'm heading out."

"Well, great. I uhm... I caught your.... show or whatever. At the Warehouse last Friday night." She smiled, and blushed a little. "You're very talented. I told all my friends that your son is in my class. I'm pretty popular, now."

Josh didn't know what to say to that. Or how to feel about it. "Thanks. Good for you."

"Well, so. Are you singing this Friday, too?"

"Maybe." Maybe? Come on, like he would miss a Friday, and a chance to sing. "Yeah, probably."

"Well. I'll be there. I'm a big fan, now."

Great. "Well. That's... that's just great." Josh felt behind him for the knob, feeling trapped, for some reason. No reason, really. "I... I have to go? Now. To work. See you Friday. Or. I probably won't see you. But. I'll be there. Friday. Bye."

What was that all about? Maybe he was thrown off by her appropriate response to him, but he just didn't seem to know what to say to her. He didn't know what to say to anyone. Everyone acted like his songs and being on that stage singing made him a different person. They were looking at him differently, and treating him differently, and asking weird questions. Practically rolling out the red carpet. He couldn't even make a simple stop to the grocery store anymore without four or five people stopping him to tell him how much they enjoyed him singing. It was... well, it was just weird.

"So, Chasez. The ribbon cutting for the Performing Arts Center is next weekend. You'll be there, I imagine?"

Josh sipped on a chai latte, the only thing he really liked to get at Starbucks, and nodded at the grey haired man across from him. Greg Spencer was the Project Manager and had practically hand walked the bid to Josh for design. They'd known each other a long time-Greg was the first PM Josh had ever worked with, and his favorite.       

"I'll be there. Bringing my wife. She loves the symphony, all kinds of stuff like that. Well, I do too, but I can't remember the last time we got to go something like this."

"I know. It gets hard, with the kids and meetings and work and all that." Greg set his cup down between them and leaned onto the table. "So, are we gonna see your name up in lights on the Center, someday?"

Josh laughed, blushing and waiving him off. "Aw, man... not you too."

"Not me too, what? Are other people asking you the same question?"

"It's just... it's just some songs, man. It's cool and it's fun, and... it's just some songs. That's all. I'm not trying to be rich and famous or-" Shit. He forgot to call that Paul guy. Celeste would want to know what he said, when she got home.

"You know what? I gotta cut this short. I'll see you Saturday."

Josh rushed out of the Starbucks, past two ladies walking in, yelling his apologies on the way to the car. He sped home, screeched into the driveway, into the house and up the stairs.

"Card, card, where's the card?!" Celeste had cleaned up, in the bedroom again. Nothing was where he left it last.  "If I was a card, that had been left on the table... where would Josh's wife put me?"

His eyes scanned the room, thinking. Searching. Then he reached down and opened the drawer. "Ah ha! I would know that Josh's wife is not that good of a housekeeper. She just shoves things in drawers."

His heart pounded double time as he dialed the numbers on his cell phone, then wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear. While it rang, he checked the clock- 2:15. He didn't have a lot of time.

"This is Paul."

"Hey, uh. Paul." Josh wasn't sure what to say-he hadn't actually planned this phone call. He just grabbed the card and dialed the numbers. What was he supposed to tell his guy? Yeah, hey....I want to be a star?

"Yes, this is Paul. Hence my greeting. Who is this?"

"This is uhm. This is Joshhhhh....ua. Joshua Chasez. You saw me Friday night at the Warehouse and gave me your card."

"Yeah, yeah," said Paul, recognition in his voice. "The uh... golden voice. Glad to hear from you. So, what can I do for you?"

Was he supposed to beg? Josh didn't see this conversation going well.

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me. You gave me your card and you're from a label. I guess I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to make of all of this."

"Well, it's basically this. You write your own music. You're good at it. You arrange your own music. You're good at it. You sing... well you sing really well. You're good at that, really good at that. Not only that but you have this ‘aw shucks' kind of way about you. You don't take it all that seriously. It's just something fun. You might even be a little scared to get up there, from time to time, but you do it anyway. You're perfect. You're the perfect recording artist."

"Okay..." It wasn't that Josh wasn't flattered. He was. A big radio Exec guy just complimented the shit out of him. He just couldn't help feeling like he was buying a used car.

"So... I mean. What does that mean? Sorry. I'm not a stupid person, I just..."

"You don't know how it works. I understand. Believe me, I do. It's my job to get that. It's my job to know how this works and help you through it, if you're interested. Are you?"

Well this was an interesting turn of events. A few months ago, some song he'd never heard but needed to write was clawing its way out of him. Today he was on the phone some guy from-he checked the card-Zomba Label Group. He needed to sit down.

"You have an email address, Joshua? Why don't I send you some things, some standard contracts. Talk it over with your wife-pretty girl, by the way-and take it your lawyer and your priest and whoever. Look it over. See if it meets up with what you want. If not, we're cool. But if so, get ready because... we can make you a lot of money and put your name in lights, if you want that."

Josh hung up the phone more confused and clueless than he was before he'd started dialing. He had no idea what any of this meant-they could make him a lot of money and put his name in lights? Greg's words came back to him, then. ‘Are we gonna see your name in lights on the Center, someday?'

Well, according to this Paul guy...yes. He just wasn't quite sure he wanted that.

"So, all he said was more of that ‘I can make you a star', stuff?"

"And emailed some stuff to me."

Celeste sautéed cubes of beef on the stove, adding ingredients every few minutes. When it was time to simmer, she put the lid on the wide skillet, turned the heat down and climbed up into the bar stool next to Josh, who was flipping through pages, trying to muddle through the "simple, standard" contract.

"Let me see this..." Reading aloud, she muttered through a few words and phrases, becoming more confused by the second. "Legally binding contract between listed representatives and Zomba Label Group heretofore named as the Label...includes recordings procured by listed representatives... by signing this contract, representative agrees to take full responsibility in furnishing...." She sighed, sliding the pages together and back over to him. 

"I read contracts for a living. I have no idea what that is about. You should send them to Tyler."  She swiveled in her seat and hopped down to check on her stir fry.

Josh's forehead creased deeper and deeper the more he read. "Well, he's not really an Entertainment Attorney. But he'd be able to decipher whatever this says, probably."

"Well what about your uncle? The one in New York?"

"Not much better, but probably better than Tyler." Celeste giggled. "Don't tell him I said that."

"Well. You need to get someone to read it and decipher it for you."

"Honey... I don't know. I mean. I don't know." He stacked the pages together and set them, face down on the counter, propped his elbows up on the Formica and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't know that I'm meant for all of that stardom stuff. Names in lights and things like that."

Celeste gave him a look, that look he was a little afraid of. "Joshua Scott, you are scared. I know that tone of voice, and I know that hesitation. Don't exchange modesty for fear. If you really don't want to do it, okay. But you owe it to yourself to check it out completely and make an informed decision."

She flipped off the burner and crossed the kitchen, plucked four plates from the cabinet and handed them to him. "Don't just write it off because you're scared of it."

Josh scowled and turned around to set the table. "Why did I marry you, again?"

"You'll find out, later."  His head whipped around, then and he just barely caught her teasing eyebrow arch before she moved into the living room to direct pre-dinner hand washing.

"Uhm... I have no idea." Tyler's face scrunched into a mess of confusion and frustration. He was buried in paper-his desk was covered in it, and stacks of files and coffee cups. "I took one course in Entertainment Law. Confusing as shit. Land of loopholes. You should send it up to New York."

"Celeste said that, but I said I should ask you. Because you're better."

Tyler glanced up at him, his eyes rolling. "Tell me another one, I'm totally gullible. Yeah, you need to get an attorney that understands this and adds what you need added. You especially need someone that understands..." He flipped through the pages and found what he was looking for. "Points and royalties and scale earnings. Because I have no clue, and the way I arrange it, people who work at McDonald's will make more than you will."

He handed the stack back to Josh and shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, man. The law isn't as standard as one might think."

"That's okay. I figured." Josh slid the stack back into his bag. "I gotta head, anyway. I need to pick up Jack."

 "Lemme walk you out." Tyler swung his legs from the desktop where they had been propped. "So, you don't really seem like the record deal type. You sure you want to do something like that?"

"No. No I'm not. But I'm told that if I don't research it and make an informed decision, there will be a severe lack of sex in my life. Can't have that."

Tyler stopped at the door, leaning against it. "Well, good luck. I hope you find a better lawyer than me. I know it'll be hard."

"Yeah. You bet. Thanks."

The phone was ringing in the drafting studio when he got home with the kids. He shooed them into the house and ran for the phone, just barely catching it before it rolled over to voicemail.

"ChasezDesigns," he spit out, breathing heavy.

"Chasez, Richard Drumland here... did I interrupt something?" Drumland! The Science Center! He'd forgotten all about that bid.

"Yes sir. Or, no sir, I was just walking in the door, with my kids. What can I do for you?"

"Well...This is... awkward but we chose a different designer for this project who has gone completely left from their original plans. We got into a scuffle and had to hold off on plans to move forward. That firm has been fired and since you were second in line... again, this is awkward but I'd like to offer you the project."

Josh couldn't breathe, could just barely grasp the phone. He fell into his chair, parked in front of his drafting table and his computer, and tried to formulate some words that would indicate that yes, indeed, he would be interested in having the Chasez Designs name on his Science Center!

"Chasez? You there? This damn phone..."

"Uh... Richard! Mr. Drumland. I'm here. I'm just... I'm floored. Are you sure?"

"Positive. The only thing that stopped your design from being first was all the steel. I trust that you meant it when you said we could make some modifications?"

"Oh, absolutely. I already have some ideas on where we could cut materials and not risk beauty, and there's this new composite that is just as good but half the cost as steel... and maybe we could-"

"Alright, alright." Drumland laughed on the other end. "I like your spirit. Great fire, good hunger. Keep that. Don't ever let it die. Some of these guys...." He sighed, his voice drifting off, then picking back up.  "I'm going to put you in touch with my Project Manager-I believe you know him? He recommended you. Greg Spencer? Let's have a kick off meeting say, next Tuesday."

Good old Greg Spencer. Looking out for him. He owed that guy a beer, at least.

Two days later, Josh and Celeste sat in an opulent office. It was filled with mahogany, from the enormous desk to the credenza to the book case full of leather-bound books. The windows were shaded with thick paisley curtains with tassel tiebacks. Josh felt a little out of place in his cheap slacks and button up shirt and wool jacket. Celeste at least looked put together. Since this attorney's office was in the building next to hers, she'd met him for this meeting, mostly for moral support.

The Attorney they met with was an older gentleman, balding and dowdy, his glasses perched on the end of his as he perused the now worn pages of the ‘standard contract'. He wore an expensive suit and a bowtie that Josh rather liked, the more he looked at it.

"Well, it is pretty standard. Very boilerplate. Not bad, but not good either." The pages fluttered from his fingers and he arched back in his seat, kicking an ankle up to rest on his knee. "Question is, what do you want?"

Celeste looked at Josh. Josh looked at Celeste. They both looked at him. He sighed and stood, pacing behind his desk, in front of the window that gave him a fantastic view of downtown Orlando.

"New artists don't know what they want. That's why they need good managers and attorneys, because you'll get to New York or LA or wherever, and you'll get eaten alive. I see it happen all the time, everyday. You won't be able to afford what you need-but you do not want to make a move without an attorney. Your contract will be your bread and butter-they'll follow it to the letter and give you everything in it."

He turned, and focused his beady eyes on Josh. "And nothing that isn't. Don't count on anything that isn't covered in that contract."

The more Josh heard about this contract business and this record deal business and the whole business of show business, the less he wanted anything to do with it. He was content to play his four or five songs at the Warehouse every Friday night. To the same crowd of people. To never travel and never experience different cities and never feel what it's like to sing a song a different way for a different crowd, and-okay, yeah. He was staring to see the appeal.

By the time they walked out of the office, Josh had some parameters set-what he wanted. He still wasn't really sure what he wanted so he let Arthur Goldman, the Attorney, outline some things, what artists usually wanted. And set some boundaries so he wouldn't get screwed over. They'd redraft the contract and resubmit to Paul and see what happened.

What happened was that Paul liked the revisions, said he was ‘more savvy than he expected' and was interested in moving forward. Immediately.

"I figure Groban has the ‘Josh and Joshua' market taken care of. You don't want to be sucked into that. We'll call you JC. We'll get you a hip new hair cut and some clothes and whiten your teeth. You interested in fixing that gap? What about Celeste? Would she want a makeover?"

Josh was dizzy at the thought of all the changes this Redman wanted to make to him. To sell him. He recoiled at the prospect. He wanted no part in being glammed up for magazine covers with a fake tan and fake teeth and a hairstyle that was too young for him. He'd feel ridiculous.

 "When can we see you? Can you be in New York on Tuesday?"