Sketch

1 - Sam

Hey! This first chapter is dedicated to tete_xoxo for being my first ever fan! :)

Picture of Sam on the side!

"And how is that my fault?" I ask, my eyebrows raising incredulously.

Steven Walters of Walters records continues to survey me across his desk with a pitying expression. For the record, it's really starting to nark me. "You're the lead singer, Sam. You play lead guitar." He leans forward in his chair, resting his hands and his expensive looking cufflinks on the shiny mahogany desk between us, emphasising that we're worlds apart. "In many ways, you lead this band."

I want to shake my head and storm out, but I know I can't. This guy isn't pissing around. He's the real deal. If I make a bad impression here, Sketch is done for.

I try to adopt a professional tone, but move my eyes to the red painted walls to my left, not being able to stick looking at his smug smile. "So what am I supposed to do about it?"

Steven Walters reaches up to pick an imaginary piece of lint off of his grey suit before shrugging at me blankly. The movement draws my gaze back to him. "It's your band, Sam. If you want to keep Stitch going."

"Sketch," I interrupt, an even bigger pool of dislike settling in my stomach.

His brown eyes darken and I swallow on reflex. "That's what I said." He sounds impatient. In charge. Bored.

I nod in an attempt to redeem myself, looking behind him and out of the window. I can see most of London from up here but I can't enjoy the view for long.

"Sam. This is serious stuff." He leans forward again, his salt and pepper eyebrows pushing into his eyes. "If you don't come up with something soon, then I'll have to rethink your contract."

My gut plummets to my feet and I mouth wordlessly. This is not what I need to hear right now.

Satisfied that he's got his point across, he dismisses me from the room without another word.

The anger's bubbling dangerously close to the surface by the time I'm at the end of the hallway where Ollie and Vince are waiting expectantly. Ollie's reading a magazine and Vince is texting, but they both look up when I drop down into one of the plush waiting room seats with a sigh.

"He's such a dick," I mutter, threading my hands behind my head and screwing up my eyes.

"That bad?" Ollie asks.

I nod and grunt in frustration. "This sucks."

Vince sets his phone in his lap and leans over to clap me on the shoulder. For once there's no hint of a smirk on his face. "What'd he say?"

I lean forwards, my elbows on my knees, and sigh harder than I've ever sighed before. "If we don't get a top ten single soon then we're screwed."

Ollie swears under his breath. "That's what he said?"

"To that effect, yeah."

Vince rubs the stubble on his jaw. "What did he actually say?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "If we don't come up with something soon, he'll have to rethink our contract."

Vince swears out loud, much to the annoyance of the lady answering the phones behind the silver desk opposite us.

"This is a load of bull," I say, standing up. I feel on edge. I mean, this is our career. My life. "How the hell are we supposed to get a top ten single? There's no way we're changing our sound just so a load of airheaded teens will buy our stuff."

Ollie nods hard, his brown hair falling into his eyes. "That's a no brainer."

"A new song?" Vince offers, though he's gone back to texting, so I'm not sure how into that idea he actually is. Besides, I'm the song writer. Vince just plays the drums and the girls.

"Don't worry, bro," Ollie says, getting up to stand next to me. "We'll think of something."

I press my lips into a thin line, clenching my fists behind my back, the anger still there. "It's not like we have a choice."