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Wynonna blushes at the mention of Hendrix’s name, and instantly I’m curious. Does she have a crush, or has he been flirting?
“We’ll bring everything upstairs,” Priscilla tells me. I nod, reading the cue loud and clear, and head upstairs, letting everyone know breakfast will be served in the lounge. I hate feeling like I’m being dismissed, but I get it. As much as I’d love to spend every second with Justine, I have to share her with her bandmates.
After some time,we’re gather at a truck stop to have a meeting with Elle via video chat. Per her last email, she needed to eat, wanted grease, and she was the boss, so we had to stop even though she isn’t with us.
The diner is one of those classic American establishments with checkered floors and vinyl booths that have seen better decades. The smell of coffee and bacon grease hangs in the air, and there’s a jukebox in the corner playing Patsy Cline. It’s surreal to be discussing media strategy for rock’s “newest power couple” in a place that looks like it hasn’t changed since 1975.
Justine hurries in with the rest of Plum just as our waitress—a woman named Dolores according to her name tag—brings us coffee and a stack of menus. Justine slides into the booth next to me, and I catch her hand under the table. Her fingers intertwine with mine, and some of the tension in my chest eases.
She looks tired but excited, the top of her hair pulled up in a messy bun and yesterday’s makeup slightly smudged. She’s beautiful and seeing her makes everything else fade into background noise.
“You okay?” I whisper.
She nods, squeezing my hand. “You?”
“Better now.”
Elle clears her throat, and we all turn our attention to the computer. She’s in full manager mode wearing a blazer and a serious expression, but something tells me she has sweats on where the camera can’t see.
“Okay,” Elle starts, not bothering with pleasantries. “The good news is that everyone loves you two together. The storyis overwhelmingly positive—heartbreak to healing, finding love through music, all that romantic bullshit people eat up.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter.
Elle ignores me completely. “The bad news is that everyone wants a piece of you now. Interview requests, appearance requests, photo shoots, reality show offers that I’ve already declined without asking.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. “Justine, Plum’s Instagram followers tripled overnight. Your streaming numbers are up 400%. Sinful Distraction’s numbers are similarly up across all platforms.”
“Is that really bad news?” Wynonna asks from the end of the table. She’s been quiet since we sat down, and I can see she’s processing all of this.
“It is if we don’t handle it right,” Elle continues. “This could make both bands huge, or it could turn into a circus that overshadows the music. We need to be strategic.”
“I’ve emailed you the media strategy packet we’re going to use titled: James/Floyd Public Relationship.” Elle’s thoroughness never ceases to amaze me.
“I’ve put together a comprehensive plan,” she says. “Controlled access. One major interview together—I’m thinkingRolling Stone—and a few smaller features focusing on the music collaboration. A joint photoshoot for a major magazine. Maybe a late-night show appearance together. But no reality show offers, no matter how much money they throw at you. No invasive documentaries. And absolutely no wedding speculation interviews.”
I scan the document. It’s thorough, professional, very Elle. There are timelines, talking points, even suggestions for what we should wear to different types of interviews.
“What do you think?” I ask Justine quietly.
She’s studying her phone, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in that way that means she’s thinking hard. “It’s smart,”she says finally. “But I want to make sure Plum doesn’t get lost in this. We worked too hard to get here to become ‘Quinn James’ girlfriend’s band.’”
“That won’t happen,” Elle says firmly. “Trust me, I don’t represent anyone who plays second fiddle. The whole point of this strategy is to elevate both acts. You’re not Yoko Ono, Justine. You’re Stevie Nicks.”
“Peyton’s dog? That’s nice, Elle.”
My sister flips me off. “You know what I mean.”
I do, but it’s nice to tease her.
Dana leans forward. “What about the tour? Does this change things day-to-day?”
“It doesn’t,” Elle says. “You’re professionals. You perform, you do your jobs, and what happens between Quinn and Justine is between Quinn and Justine. The only difference is that now you don’t have to pretend there’s nothing there. However, you’re going to have more security. You’re going to be exposed to paparazzi, overzealous fans, people wanting to get close to the story.”
As if on cue, I notice two men in dark suits sitting at the counter, nursing coffee and keeping subtle watch over our table. I hadn’t noticed them before, but now it’s obvious they’re security.
“This is so weird,” Priscilla says, speaking up for the first time. “Yesterday we were just opening for Sinful Distraction. Today we’re rock’s newest power couple’s band?”
“Today you’re a band that’s about to have your pick of record deals,” Elle corrects. “Three major labels have already reached out this morning. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”
The conversation continues for another thirty minutes, covering everything from social media guidelines to how to handle fans who might get too personal. Elle has thought of everything, which shouldn’t surprise me but somehow still does.