They continued to stare each other down, the silence in the suite growing heavier by the second. The rest of the band watched with bated breath. Even Trina had paused in the middle of laying out her manicure kit to watch the standoff unfold.
"Okay," Shaver finally said. "Maybe I was trying to take a little more than I was due. I'll come down to twenty-five percent."
The band exhaled almost in unison, relief spreading like a breeze. All except Jake.
He shook his head. "No. Twenty percent. That's the going rate. I won't accept anything else."
Shaver's mask slipped. His mouth tightened, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Look, Jake," he said slowly, "I dropped my percentage because I respect someone who has the balls to stand up for themselves. But don't push me. My patience is wearing thin."
"How would you feel, Mr. Shaver, if I offered you fifteen percent when the industry standard is twenty?" Jake asked. "Would you accept that?"
"You're damn right I wouldn't - if it were you offering it. You're a nobody. I'm a somebody," Shaver snapped. "But if I were an unknown agent trying to sign someone like... Van Halen? Yeah, I'd take what I could get and be glad they even asked."
"Well, I guess that's where we differ," Jake said calmly. "I'm not nitpicking over a few points. I just don't like being treated unfairly. That's what this is. There's a principle involved, and I won't compromise it. Treat us fairly, or count me out."
Another tense silence. This one stretched longer than before. Again, Shaver broke first.
"Twenty-one percent," he said. "That's my final offer. Take it or leave it."
Jake paused, weighing the number. He knew why Shaver had landed there. That one percent was symbolic. A face-saving gesture, so he wouldn't feel like a kid had haggled him down to nothing. Jake could feel it. Shaver would fight to the grave over that last percentage point.
"Well?" Shaver asked.
Jake gave a slow nod. "Sounds like a deal."
Another collective exhale filled the room. The pressure dissolved in an instant, like steam off hot asphalt. Shaver stood and began shaking hands, one by one.
"Trina," he called. "Grab one of those pre-printed contracts from my briefcase, will you?"
"Sure," she said, standing up. She glanced at Jake as she walked past - not a hostile look, just... assessing. She disappeared into the bedroom.
While she was gone, Shaver made small talk with Coop and Bill. Darren quietly drained the last of his Chivas and Coke. Jake glanced at Matt. Matt was already glaring at him. That look promised a conversation later. Jake gave a small nod, acknowledging it.
The contracts were straightforward - two pages, plain language. The section listing Shaver's thirty percent had been crossed out and replaced in handwriting: twenty-one percent. Each of them initialed the change. Jake and Matt both read every line before signing.
"The complicated stuff comes when the label gets involved," Shaver said. "This is just to formalize our relationship."
"And first step is getting a real demo done?" Jake asked.
"Exactly. There's a studio in Sacramento. Usually does radio jingles and TV themes. Their techs aren't top tier, but they'll do the job. We'll cut six songs. Matt, pick your best three. Jake, same. Make sure at least one's a ballad - suits the execs. They love something that can translate into a single."
"How much is that gonna run?" Jake asked. Studio time wasn't cheap. They'd priced it out before: about fifty bucks an hour. Recording and mixing took nearly nine hours per song. For six songs, they were looking at almost $2700. Way more than The Saints had in their general fund.
"I've got connections there," Shaver said. "I can get you sixty hours of studio time. Free. Just don't go over. If you do, you're paying."
Jake blinked. Sixty hours free? Even he was impressed.
They left shortly after. A room service guy had made copies of the signed contract - seven in total. Shaver tipped him ten bucks. When they got downstairs, the limo was still waiting. And this time, the driver had done a complete attitude flip - doors opened, polite greetings, even a "sir" or two thrown in.
Back at Matt's place, the second they walked in, Coop, Darren, and Bill dove into party mode. Houses of the Holy blared from the stereo. Darren lit a fat joint. Coop handed out mixed drinks.
Matt and Jake didn't join in right away.
"Don't get too wasted," Matt warned. "We've still got a gig tonight."
"Got it," Darren said. "We'll behave."
Matt grabbed two beers from the fridge and handed one to Jake. "Come on," he said. "Let's talk."
They walked out back, following the cement path toward the main house, stopping at the pool. Too cold to swim, but the patio furniture was still set out. They sat at one of the tables, cracked their beers, and smoked in silence for a minute.
"Jake," Matt said at last, "you ever hear that saying: the ends justify the means?"
Jake nodded. "Yeah. Not sure I agree with it."
"Exactly," Matt said. "What you pulled in there worked. You got him down to twenty-one. I'm not arguing that. But the way you did it - that was foul. You dig?"
"I get where you're coming from, Matt," Jake said. "But in this case? I do agree with it. I did what needed doing. You should've done it first."
Matt's jaw tightened. He took a slow drag on his smoke before answering.
"I made a call in there," he said. "I expected support. Instead, you undercut me in front of everyone - including our new agent. That's not okay. This band needs a leader, and that leader is me. Don't cock-block one of my decisions like that again. Especially not in front of a roomful of people. You know how embarrassing that shit was? You know how bad it made me look?"
Jake didn't blink. "I'm not gonna promise that," he said.