Fighting for the Fairytale

Cole

My GPS was broken. 

It had to be. This didn't make any sense.

I slowed the truck to a stop once my phone's monotone translator informed me that I had arrived, and my destination was on the right. I cranked the truck into park and turned around, staring at the warehouse right outside my back window. 

There's no way that this shitty looking industrial size shed was headquarters for the Mathers Records. 

The Manny Jay Mathers, one of the hottest music producers and directors of this era, would never choose a place like this... would he?

I reached for my phone and checked the address again, but it was the same as the one in the email that I had triple checked before leaving the townhome this morning. 

Google maps had never let me down before. I checked the time. I was early by at least 15 minutes. Probably closer to 20 at this point. But what if this wasn't the place?

Only one way to find out. 

I blew out a breath as I removed my key. My truck shook beneath me as I got out, grabbed my backpack containing my expensive Mac computer, and slung it over my shoulder. It was cool out and cloudy, but light enough that I could make out the entry door near the right side. 

Upon closer inspection, the warehouse looked even worse for wear with the siding falling off and trash littering the uneven paved road before it.

I glanced behind me as I came up to the door. This place might as well be a ghost town. There were no other cars around. No other people. I was alone in the middle of a warehouse district, for Christ's sake. There was no one around, and yet I felt like I was being watched. 

Am I being punked? 

Looking both ways again (and still seeing nothing), I stepped up to the door. Shaking off the nerves, I grasped the handle and turned. The door easily gave way and warm air washed over me along with some very bright lights.

My eyes slowly adjusted, focusing on a line of chairs in different styles and colors along the outer wall. A few feet away sat a small wooden desk, vacant, with a computer and a wide wood-paneled room divider with the words MATHER RECORDS written on what looked like a large piece of card stock paper.

What the hell was going on? 

I'm being hazed. I have to be.

I looked around, contemplated taking a seat and waiting for someone to come to the desk—surely whoever was meant to sit there wouldn't leave the desk unoccupied for long—but decided against it. 

I couldn't sit. 

Nervous energy still raced through me, and I paced back and forth across the concrete. My foot falls echoed, courtesy of the high-ceiling, but other than that it was eerily quiet. 

No music playing in this music studio. 

I clapped my hands as I paced.

Five minutes passed, and nothing happened. I tamped down my annoyance and checked my watch. I was supposed to be here at 9am. It was 8:51. There had to be someone else in this drafty, yet warm warehouse.

Tentatively, I crept around the divider, taking in the black leather couches, bright neon bean bags, and glass tables. A small kitchenette complete with navy blue cabinets, floating wooden shelves and a large black fridge graced a section of the right wall. 

Just beyond the couches was a long conference table with another jumble of chairs and stools surrounding it, and, in the background behind the conference table was a small enclosed room.