Getting Things Done

Well, the guy had balls: she couldn’t begin to count how many starry-eyed little punks she’d interviewed in her tiny office, dying for a chance to be discovered.  And generally, he wasn’t wrong: there were dozens of “agents” scrounging the city streets looking to con someone into representation, and Vegas wasn’t any different.  But her?  She waved her hand, flicking up her fingers to count off points.  “First, you’re getting paid crap, I’m guessing, and working harder than you should be, so who the fuck cares what your ‘official title’ is?  You might as well be a bellboy.  And two, yeah: I’ve noticed.  It’s pathetic, because I’ve seen your talent–” she let her dark eyes flicker along the solid frame she could see through his cowboy gear “-and it’s wasted in a song-and-dance hotel.  You’re an amazing dancer, and not a half-bad singer.  And people would probably pay to eat off of your stomach, let’s not kid ourselves, Sundance.  But instead of putting that talent to good use, you’re letting yourself get thrown around on two bulls.  I mean, I can tell you’re not stupid– you must have heard that the Dalton’s going down.”  She raised her eyebrows pointedly.  “Everyone knows that with McKinley on the rise, that hotel is a sinking ship.  I imagine pink slips are being written as we speak.  So basically you’ll either be down to riding your one-trick poney ass out here alone, or this on top of twice the work with the same pay.  Either way you’re getting screwed.”  The Latina glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails for effect.

“What I’m offering is a fair shot to be seen.  With what I’m guessing your background was to get into that place, I can use my connections to get you up on stage and being appreciated for your true talents.”  She shrugged.  “I mean, really– where are you from?  You look like a Texas boy,” she guessed.

Brody’s eyes narrowed as she talked down to him, but he bit his lip.  He was loyal to The Dalton-- he got a lot more perks there than most jobs offered their employees-- but that didn’t mean the woman was wrong.  A lot was expected of him that the job description never mentioned, and every time he managed to get his head above water his superiors just seemed to throw more crap on top of him.  He was getting paid a fraction of what his boss was, and he wasn’t even sure what the man did anymore.  Brody handled the client contacts, the merchandisers, the inventory-- not to mention the “random breaking out into song” that was required of hotel workers.  Not that he minded that last part exactly-- the Manager of Events was hitting his fifties and his taste in music was awful and he seemed to have grown a second left foot between when he was hired and now.  

But the point was, as much as he glared at the “agent’s” summation, he couldn’t really refute it.  Brody was grateful, however, that he’d have more luck as her fingers kept flicking.  “Well, one-- if you know Dalton, you know they don’t just hire any idiot off the street.  I worked hard to get this good, sure, but I have more talent than my figure and my footwork, and a job in an office will pay out a lot longer than the one where I stand around in a hallway for an audition.  Trust me-- been there, done that.  Second, I’ve been riding longer than I’ve been dancing, lady-- how do you know that I’m not working the hotel until my break comes on the broncs?  I didn’t do half-bad out there today.”  His  mind thought to the wad of cash in his pockets that was investing into his future residency.  “Being in your twenties you’re basically destined to be screwed throughout,” he added with a shrug.  “Luckily I’m giving as good as I’m getting.”  He smirked smugly-- not as a come on, because this chick bugged him, but flirting sometimes got people to get off their high horse.

daltonpr-lopez

Santana glanced down at her new, expensive heels and made a face.  They were dusty and gross, and she couldn’t believe she’d come out here.  Hottie or not, no guy was worth this nonsense.  Not that watching a bunch of sweaty guys in chaps getting thrown off thrashing animals wasn’t kind of amusing, and he’d paid for a good dinner, and she was guaranteed to get laid tonight– all good things.  But this whole dirty, manure-stench thing?  Not her style at all.  If she thought she’d ever see the guy again, she would make a point on explaining to him that this was a horrible first date.

It wasn’t a complete loss, however, when Santana noticed a name pop up on the screen announcing one of the riders.  Santana hadn’t been working in Vegas long, but she was quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with because she had a good memory and an eye for details.  When the category ended, the up-and-coming publicist excused herself from her date and strode up and out toward the back.

A very handsome gentleman or two, after some crude come-ons and leering, pointed her in the right direction, and San finally found the brunette man laying spread eagle in the back, flopped on a pile of hay and looking exhausted.  “Long day?"  she asked with a smirk, more amused when he looked up in surprise.

She didn’t bother repeating herself, instead arching an eyebrow to give him a more appraising look, reaffirming her prior guess.  "Brody Weston, right?” she asked.  “You’re one of those singing staffers from the Dalton?  A Warbler?"  she worked hard to keep from snickering at the title.  For the moment, anyways.  "Santana Lopez.  I’m a publicist for a private talent agency and wanted to see if you wanted to talk about getting some decent representation for yourself?  I mean, assuming you don’t want to be a bell boy all your life,” she added with a scoff.

Brody didn't recognize the tanned woman, but she definitely looked out of place out here at the arena.  His eyebrow quirked quizzically as she identified him through his other occupation.  "Good guess."  He wasn't one of the main performers at the Dalton, so the fact that she'd noticed him at all was kind of unbelievable in and of itself.  Not that he didn't have his own set of followers for his dance moves-- he was never lacking for volunteers for partners, he was proud to say-- but he couldn't imagine any of those people making their way out to Henderson, much less recognizing him in dusty leather, grime, and sweat.