by Cari Quinn
She gripped his shirt, wanting to taste a piece of that intensity. Lips clashed and teeth clicked as he invaded her space. “I want to see that,” she said against his mouth.
“Stay with me, and you will.”
She pressed her forehead to his, her lungs like bellows trying to get the air back inside of her through the instant excitement. The blare of a horn behind them split them apart and she turned left onto Sunset.
The dash clock read that they had less than ten minutes to his appointment.
Focus, Harper Lee. You can jump him later.
They were both quiet as she maneuvered her way to the parking garage beneath the glass wall of a building. She found a space a few levels up and parked. The entire unit was active with people leaving and coming back from lunch. And still they didn’t speak. Deacon popped his knuckles and checked his inside pocket for the contract twice.
After the third time that he scrubbed his palms down his thighs, she finally covered his hand. She didn’t bother with platitudes and false words. He wouldn’t believe her anyway, but she did lace her fingers over his. “Ready?”
He nodded, gripping her hand tight before slipping free and opening his door. The click of her boots echoed in the garage. For all intents and purposes, this should be an easy meeting, but Deacon’s tension was rubbing off on her.
They were expecting the contract to be shitty. The music business was definitely skewed away from the artist’s favor, but the question was just how shitty? They got to the elevator, and Deacon pushed the button three times. He checked his phone and pressed it again.
The ride up was confining. The car barely fit the both of them. Instead of leaning into her, he held himself stiffly. As the floors lit and faded with each floor, she watched him change. He stood up taller, straightened his shoulders, cracked his neck and shook out his fingers.
By the time the doors opened, he was Deacon again. The Deacon that put fans at ease, that solved problems, that smiled at assistants like they were his best friend. The mask was in full effect.
Deacon smiled at the receptionist. She was striking, with a severe cap of white blonde hair that came to points under each blade of her cheekbones. Her eyes were an icy blue rimmed in black lashes that were improbably long. Within moments, she assessed him, and he was pretty sure she was going to dismiss him.
“I have a one o’clock with Booker Ellis.”
She pursed her blood red lips and glanced down at her slim keyboard. She tapped a few keys, studied her screen then her too full lips spread into a cordial smile. “Mr. McCoy and…”
Harper came to stand next to him. “Harper Pruitt.”
“A moment.” The receptionist stood, her high-waisted skirt hugged her from ribs to knee with a thin, red belt at the waist. How the hell did she move in that? But move, she did.
A man followed her back down the hall. He was tall with silver hair that had a personality of its own, as well as a matching goatee. He was down to his shirtsleeves, and they were rolled up, along with a loosened tie.
“Hello, thanks for waiting. I’m Booker Ellis.”
Deacon passed a hand over his hip to make sure his palms weren’t drenched and held out a hand. “Deacon McCoy. Thank you for making time for me.”
“I’m always happy to squeeze in a referral.”
Deacon glanced back at Harper. “Would you come in with me? It would be helpful to have another set of ears.”
“Are you sure?” She twisted the end of her braid.
“Is that okay, Mr. Ellis?”
“Sure. The more the merrier.”
They followed the lawyer down the hallway, plush carpeting silencing their footsteps. His office was definitely the den of a lawyer, but it also had a wall of pictures both candid and professional. It seemed as if his personal photos were mixed into the famous to make one huge collage of smiles.
A large table sat in front of a window with a few file folders and legal pads. A massive cherry desk with matching bookcases dominated the space, but again, there was a bit of the whimsical in with the legal. Huge law tomes lined the shelves, but little figurines and framed kids drawings actually held more of a place of honor in front.
“Have a seat.”
Deacon moved over to the table and sat. Harper to his right and Ellis to his left. “Is it okay if I record this? I don’t want to miss something.”
“Sure. Especially since you mentioned in your call that they won’t allow you to negotiate your contract. Which has those little hairs on my arm tingly.”
Deacon had to agree. The longer he thought about the contract, the more anxious he’d been getting. He slid his phone into the middle of the table and turned on the record function.
Ellis pulled the folder in front of him and folded his hands on top. “Let’s get down to the basics. This is a decent contract. It’s not a good contract, and it sure as shit ain’t a great contract, but it’s pretty typical for the climate that is the music business lately.”
Deacon’s shoulders loosened. “So they’re not putting the screw job to us?”
“Oh, no. They’re surely doing that.”
Harper’s hand rested on his thigh. Deacon cleared his throat. “And that’s a decent contract?”
“Look, you’re right to be wary. Anyone coming into this business should be.” Ellis opened the folder and picked out a few pages. He swung one out in front of Deacon. “This is the meat of it. They’re signing you for one album, and there are restrictions on the time it takes you to finish the album, so you can’t pull an Axel Rose and take ten years to complete it.”
Deacon forced a smile. “Good to know.”
“Beyond that, the album also must perform to a certain standard before you’re eligible for another contract. There’s no real number figure, so I’m leery of that. But it will depend on when the album is released. But that’s also pretty fluid in a good sense, because the album can do poorly, but the tour can be a huge success.”
Deacon nodded. “Okay, that isn’t too bad.”
“Exactly. The advance is rather good, but from the gossip I’ve heard out there, they want to get you a big name producer, so that fits. But with the big advance, they’re actually just going to take a good chunk of it for the production cost.”
“How much?”
“At best, sixty-five percent, at worst? I’d say eighty.”
Deacon whistled. So the really nice advance listed in the contract would be shaved off significantly.
“The nice thing is, there’s stipulations for upgrade in equipment. They don’t usually include that.”
Deacon sat back in his chair. “We do need better equipment.”
“Also, this is something lovingly called a three-sixty deal.”
“What’s that?”
“It means they want a cut of your touring. And for a band, that’s where you actually make your money. Album sales are crap.” Ellis pulled out more papers.
Deacon’s brain fuzzed as the lawyer went on about video costs, making money on digital playbacks on the radio and internet radio formats, even monetization of ads on their YouTube channel. All the little things that would be split in the record label’s favor.
Considering they were laying out the hundreds of thousands of dollars, he wasn’t surprised. He just wished he wasn’t the only one sitting there listening to this. And even more, he was worried that Jazz was listening to the same information and probably freaking out as much as he was.
His foot started bouncing as Ellis laid out more figures and loopholes.
“Okay, your eyes are glazing over. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Deacon blinked and tapped on the page with his pen. He’d been scrawling notes and figures of his own, but none of it made sense right now. “Would you sign the contract?”
“If I was really hungry, I would.”
Deacon gripped the pen harder. “We are.”
“But, if you’re smart, you won’t. And I’ll tell you why. No matter what you decide, t
here’s one thing that I don’t like about this contract at all.”
His stomach knotted and Harper’s hand found his again, stopping his bouncing leg. He squeezed back and cleared his throat. “Besides the fact that they want everything?”
“Hell, that’s the way of business. And after your first album, you’re right, you’ll be able to negotiate better. But I don’t like this.” Ellis drew out two pages. “They want your single. If you sign with them, they retain the rights to “The Becoming” and will pay you a royalty, but if you leave after this contract ends, they retain the rights. Again, they’ll pay you royalties, but they retain the licensing and copyrights.”
Deacon stood, his chair skittering over the carpet as he pushed back. “They can’t do that. That’s our song. We wrote that before they signed us.”
“Yes, but they put it on the soundtrack and your EP.”
“Does that mean we lose the rights to the song now? Regardless?”
“I’d have to look at your other contract to be sure.”
Ellis’s calm voice made every hair on his body stand on end. Deacon drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He was pretty sure he heard a but in the older man’s voice. Following instinct, he stopped pacing and sat back down. “But?”
The lawyer smiled slightly. “You’re smart, and that will go a long way in this business. If they’re putting it so deep into this contract, it makes me think it wasn’t in the first one. That’s only a guess, though.”
The original contract had been a licensing one to use the song. At least for the soundtrack. Deacon cleared his throat. “The soundtrack gives us a royalty to use the song, but they don’t own it.”
“That’s good.” Ellis sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Most soundtracks pay for the songs and cut the artists out of everything.”
Deacon cracked his thumb knuckle. “It was our only song. I wouldn’t let the band sign over the rights.”
“It’s a good thing Oblivion has you in their corner.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that will be the first thing they say when I take this information back to them today.” Deacon tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
“That’s the highlights of the contract, unless you have more questions?”
He had a million questions, but none of them could match the one glaring problem with the contract. A lack of control was to be expected, but the idea that they could take their work regardless of them staying with the label was something he couldn’t push under the header of—we’ll get a better contract later.
“Oh, Mr. McCoy—”
“Deacon, please.”
Ellis drew two more papers out of the folder. “There was one last thing. I don’t know if it’s an oversight, or if there’s a different band dynamic than I’m aware of.” The lawyer paused, tapping on the paper.
Deacon looked down at the huge block of text. It was dense with legalese and percentages, but one thing finally came into focus. He read it once, then twice, and finally a third time. He had to be reading it wrong.
The room fuzzed at the edges and his vision blurred.
“Usually with a band, things are split evenly, but two members seem to have a slightly larger take.”
Disbelief chased a searing pain that radiated from his chest to his fingers like lightning. Surely there had to be little black marks on the page. His fingertips were white from the pressure and his arm shook.
Right there, in black and white. Twenty-five percent for both Nicholas Crandall and Simon Kagan, leaving the remaining fifty to be distributed between himself, Jazz, and Gray evenly.
“Deacon?” Harper stood beside him, her fingers clamped around his biceps. “Deacon.” She shook him. When he didn’t answer, she leaned over him and looked down at the page. “Fuck me running.”
Deacon gave a humorless laugh. “Evidently, some of us are getting fucked by more than just the label.”
To his credit, Booker Ellis’s face remained expressionless. “I have an out of the office meeting. You can stay in here as long as you like.”
Deacon stood with the older man and held out his hand, pleased to see that it didn’t shake. “I appreciate your time, sir.”
“If you have any questions, please call me.”
Deacon could hear the sympathy and regret in Ellis’s voice. When the door closed behind him, Deacon let himself bend forward and press his forehead to the table.
“C’mon, big guy, talk to me.”
“And say what?” He couldn’t even look at her. He couldn’t breathe, let alone talk. He needed to run. He needed to punch something. He needed to scream.
“Tell me what I can do.”
He heard the pain in her voice, the worry and the hesitancy, but he couldn’t—he just couldn’t. “I need to get out of here.” He swiped his phone off the table and saw that it was still recording.
He lifted the phone to his mouth. “Fuck you,” he said on a harsh whisper. “Fuck you.” Then he clicked off the phone.
Thirty-One
September 21, 2:38 PM - Darkness Seeps Through the Cracks
Deacon pushed through the glass doors of the penthouse lobby. The metal casing shuddered with the force of his touch. His entire focus on the elevator and getting upstairs to talk to everyone.
His phone burned in his pocket. The buzz of messages and social media updates ratcheted up his anger.
“Deacon. Crap,” Harper muttered from behind him. “Jesus, will you wait up. You’ve got an entire foot of leg on me.”
He turned to see her, pink cheeked with exertion to keep up with him. Wispy blonde hairs escaped her braid and stuck to the corner of her mouth. She pushed them away with a huff.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just re-freaking-lax. You’re going to go upstairs and rip heads off.”
“You’re damn right, I am.” His chest tightened as the doors opened. He slid his card into the slot to go to his floor, then jammed it into his back pocket.
“They might not know about the contr—” she shut up at his look. “Okay, so they probably know.”
“Probably?” Deacon paced the length of the car. It was too tight, too closed in. He needed someplace open. He should have had Harper take him to the beach. The sea air would have helped, but he wanted answers.
Now.
Finally the elevator dinged and he strode off. Harper crossed the room and headed up the stairs. Part of him wanted to tell her to stay, but this wasn’t about them right now. It was about the band.
Simon and Nick were leaning on the counter in the kitchen, a trio of empty beer bottles in the center. Guitars littered the living room with Simon’s notebook open on the coffee table. The hum of an amp still on was the backdrop for the dirty story Simon was telling Nick.
“Where are Jazz and Gray?”
“Well, hello to you, too,” Nick said lazily. His elbows were propped on the counter, a beer dangling from his fingers.
“Where. Are. They.”
Nick stood, his shoulders straightening. “I just got a text from Jazz. She said they were on their way.”
“Good.” Deacon paced to the back porch and out to the balcony ledge. He dug his fingers into the pitted cement topper on the half wall. The pain pushed the red haze of rage back a little.
Seeing them just sitting around like nothing was wrong made him want to tear more than heads off. He wanted to rip off an arm and beat Nick’s smug face bloody. Or maybe wipe Simon’s smirk off with a plank full of nails.
He took out his phone and dragged the little triangle back to the last ten minutes of conversation between himself and Ellis. He let it play, making sure that it was at the part that gave specifics about why they shouldn’t sign the contract before shoving his phone back into his pocket.
“What the hell is his problem?”
Deacon’s shoulders tightened at Simon’s question. Neither of them had moved. Still drinking their beers like the world owed them something. They fucking had to kn
ow. There was no way a specific note like that would be put in the contract without talking to Simon and Nick. Did they think they were just going to get away with it? That it wouldn’t matter to the rest of them? Or worse, that it wouldn’t be caught?
The ding of the elevator and Jazz’s low voice drew Deacon back inside. As he entered the kitchen, he saw Gray’s closed off face and Jazz’s shattered eyes and knew she’d found something similar at her meeting.
“Would someone tell me what the fuck is with the drama?” Nick snapped his beer down on the granite counter.
Deacon fisted his hands as anger pulsed through his blood making his head feel like a kick drum. He dug out his phone and turned up the volume before pushing play. He tossed the phone on the island, and Booker Ellis’s voice boomed out.
Startled, Simon immediately took a step back and crossed his arms. Nick stared at the phone. As Ellis explained the contract, Nick’s shoulders tightened and his chin lifted. Nick stared right into Deacon’s eyes as the lawyer gave the reasons why the deal was to be avoided.
Simon’s hand fell to his sides as he heard the particulars. Deacon broke the stare down with Nick and studied Simon. Did Simon know all the clauses? Or was he just as surprised?
Jazz wrapped her arm through Gray’s, who stood still, with his hands in his pockets, gray eyes blank and staring straight ahead. Was he even fucking listening?
When the percentages came out, there was a silence around the table. Deacon could hear Ellis telling him to take his time and then the low, growl of his, “Fuck you,” after a minute of silence.
Jazz gasped out a sob. “I was hoping I was wrong.”
Deacon stepped forward. “You wanna tell us something, Nick? Simon?”
Nick’s chin went up a notch. There was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes, but the glitter of anger and pride was there, too. “We’re protecting the band that Simon and I created.”
The words were a blow. Deacon felt his shoulders and spine pop and crack as he rocked back on his heels. He’d known. The entire car ride, he’d rolled the information around in his mind, hoping there was some way that he was wrong.
