Rocked

by Taryn Elliott

  Millions? Deacon followed down the soundproofed corridor. Platinum and gold records graced the narrow hallway, but there were also posters from shows and cutouts from the trade papers. It was all collaged in a way that, again, had that throwback to the London scene flavor.

  Things he’d only seen in documentaries for the Stones, Sex Pistols and the Beatles. There was a deep appreciation for music, not just the current acts that were perfectly framed at Trident’s offices.

  Lila smoothly passed everyone to lead the way down the hallway to a door covered in Beatles memorabilia. “As you can see, our people have a deep and abiding love for the past as well as the present. This is the Beatles room.”

  “Shocking,” Nick deadpanned.

  Lila curled her fingers around the handle, invading Nick’s space. “You wouldn’t be shitting on the Beatles now, would you?”

  Nick flicked his gaze down to her mouth then to her eyes. The smirk returned full force as he hummed a few bars of, “Revolution”.

  A delighted smile spread across her scarlet lips, and Nick backed up a step. “I might just like you after all, Mr. Crandall.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Jazz muttered.

  Lila opened the door with a throaty laugh. They all poured into the room, Deacon heading up the rear. He’d remembered Lila’s and Nick’s sparks at the show, but he’d thought it was just because she’d interrupted Nick mid-groupie sex act.

  Evidently not.

  Deacon caught the scent of paper first. In a world of Pro Tools and iPhones, there was little reason to write anything down anymore, but Deacon always worked on paper. In fact, they all did. Notebooks were scattered all over the bus.

  And there was one sitting on the console now. Dog-eared and battered with random pages sticking out. Some printer paper, some newspaper, glossy magazine...was that a napkin? A sketch pad sat on a chair with a fat crayon-looking pencil. A pile of unused spiral bound and composition notebooks lined the top of the filing cabinet with a cigar box of pencils.

  “Don’t mind the mess. Jamie and Lindsey from Brooklyn Dawn are working in here this week.” Lila laid a hand on the notebook before picking it up and putting it into one of the drawers. “We value the rights of the artist in here. Because we own the studio, there’s plenty of time to work without being rushed.”

  Deacon smoothed his hand over the leather bumper at the edge of the console. Dials, switches, and a keyboard made up the majority of the panel. Two wide screens flanked the workspace, both blacked out at the moment.

  It left the window into the studio wide open. The space was cozy, where their first taste of a studio had been overwhelming. Comfortable chairs sat in the center of the room with guitar stands and guitar cases making a large U-shape around them. Microphones, both with guards and without, were set up on stands. There was a larger room to the back that had a drum kit already set up.

  Deacon noticed Jazz’s eyes light up. There had been very little music in the penthouse since they’d been off tour. Some guitars and the occasional keyboard had been pulled out, but they’d been in fight mode so much that music just hadn’t had room to breathe.

  “Is this where we’d work?” Deacon asked.

  “Depending on what you need, yes. We have a slightly larger room—The Stone’s room—that can hold more instruments and has a separate vocal booth. We understand that you’ve toyed with some orchestra work in the past, so we want to be able to give you more flexibility.”

  “If we take the contract, of course,” Nick said with mock sincerity.

  “If we offer you a contract,” Lila answered coolly. She looked down at her watch and her eyes went from ice to sunny sweet. “Now that you’ve seen the candy store, how about we go meet the man in charge?”

  They all filed out after Lila and Deacon stood alone for a moment soaking it in. He’d found it very hard to work at the studio for the first album. It had been too big and so many people had been in and out of the rooms. This felt...good. Inspiring.

  The door thunked open and a woman with jet black hair with flame red tips rushed inside. She came to an abrupt halt. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Deacon blinked at the woman. The tall woman. She came up to his chin. He automatically looked down, surprised to see her wearing black Chucks. In his experience, women needed a four inch heel to hit six feet. “Uh, hi. I’m, Deacon McCoy.”

  “And I’m looking for my notebook.” Her golden eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”

  “No.” What the fuck?

  She looked around, her hair flying around her shoulders as she pushed through papers on the console.

  “Sort of green and looks like you put it through the washing machine?” he asked.

  “Rainstorm, thank you very much.”

  Deacon nodded to the filing cabinet. “Lila put it in that drawer, I think.”

  The woman dragged open the file drawer and her shoulders sagged. “Thank God.” She tucked it under her arm. “Well thanks, Stretch. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have wanted to kill you.” Her eyes flicked over him. “You’d take a whole lot of time to bury.”

  Deacon laughed. “Glad to be of service.”

  She went for the door then smiled over her shoulder. “I’m, Jamie. Guess I’ll be seeing you around.” This time, she took her time. Her gaze slid over his face, down his chest and directly to his crotch, then back to his eyes. “Very nice to meet you. Now that I know you’re not a thief.” She sailed out the door. “I’ll cut off your dick if you mess with my stuff.”

  Deacon barked out a laugh and followed her through the door.

  “C’mon, Deak,” Jazz called from the door at the end of the all. “We’re meeting, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

  “I’m coming.”

  He followed her out to the waiting room and then down another hallway to a huge glass walled room with a 180 degree view of Los Angeles below. Simon and Nick were standing in front of the window. Gray was sitting at the table, one finger tapping on the ebony surface.

  Jazz went to sit next to him.

  Lila stood at the head of the boardroom table, tapping at her iPad.

  Drawn to the view, Deacon stood next to Nick. “What do you think?”

  Nick shrugged. “We’ve been impressed by the bells and whistles before.”

  Deacon nodded. “That’s true.”

  “But that studio?” Nick cracked his knuckles. “So quiet.”

  Unsure where the conversation was going, Deacon turned to him, resting his shoulder on the window. “Is that a good thing?”

  Nick pressed his forehead to the glass looking down. “I always felt like I was drowning in the other studio. Like it was going to swallow me up. Swallow my words up.”

  “And here?”

  “I wanted in that room so bad,” Nick whispered. He pushed away from the window as the door opened, and they turned to face the man that walked in.

  The man wore a suit like Deacon wore a t-shirt. It seemed to be a part of him. Crisp, unrelieved black with a patterned silver tie over a snow white dress shirt. He was about Simon’s height and build, but there was a power there that Simon didn’t have. Elegance and knowledge lived in his face instead of Simon’s cocky bravado.

  He went straight to Lila, his hand hovering, yet not touching the small of her back. He said something low in her ear before he came toward them at the window. His smile was open and genial, where Deacon had been expecting cool.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. A meeting ran long. I do hope that Lila kept you entertained.” His voice was pure British posh.

  Nick stiffened next to Deacon.

  Deacon stepped forward and held out his hand. “Thank you for taking our meeting, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Donovan, please.” His handshake was firm, his palm dry.

  Deacon nodded. “My bandmates, Nick Crandall, Simon Kagan,” he turned to the table. “Jazz Edwards and Grayson Duffy.”

  “Pleasure,” Donovan said with smiles all around. “Let me say something before we begin. I�
��m not here to play games, like some labels do. I don’t need this business.”

  Deacon’s eyebrows rose.

  Donovan held up a hand. “You misunderstand. I don’t need this branch of my company. I do this for myself. I hand pick people that I’m interested in and work with them to build a career. Of course, I want to make money as well, but the music and the product that comes out of Ripper Records is more important than a tally sheet and hidden clauses in a contract.”

  “That sounds all well and good, but we came to you.” Nick stepped up beside Deacon.

  “And I wouldn’t have taken the meeting if I wasn’t interested. Lila had vetted you weeks ago, we just thought we’d lost the opportunity already. I didn’t know you were still shopping for a contract. My intel is usually better.”

  Deacon folded his arms across his chest. The lick of excitement teased at the back of his neck. Christ, how long had it been since he’d felt that? He tried to stuff it down. Too many wrong turns and pretty words had come at them in the last few months. How could he trust himself again? He was the one that had brought Trident into their world.

  It had looked like such a good opportunity.

  What happened if he chose wrong again?

  Donovan linked his fingers in front of him. “Look, I understand. You’ve been handed a line from everyone that’s talked to you I’m sure.”

  Simon moved to the table and sat down, crossing his feet at the ankles. “We’ve been offered penthouses and money.”

  “As long as you sign your life away, I imagine?” Donovan looked down at Simon, one eyebrow raised. “Under the guise of a forty page contract?”

  Jazz turned to face him. “Sixty-seven.”

  Donovan sighed. “Trident does love to bury people with legal jargon.”

  Nick tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “And what makes you such an expert on Trident contracts?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had a few run-ins with Jackson Miller’s throwaways.”

  “Johnny Cage?” Nick asked.

  “I can’t speak on behalf of the men of Rebel Rage, except to say that they’re now on my label. But there are plenty of other bands and artists that have been discarded by Trident, as well as a host of other labels.”

  “And why would you be so magnanimous?” Simon asked dryly.

  “As I said, I don’t do this for the money.”

  “Everyone does it for the money,” Simon shot back.

  “Really? Is that why you sweat it out on the club circuit for years? For the love of money?” Donovan challenged.

  “You’re not a musician,” Simon returned.

  Deacon saw a flicker of understanding before the smooth smile took its place. “No, but I understand it and the nature of the business. I also know too many artists that have been lost in the shuffle. Oblivion isn’t a one album band.” Donovan walked back to Lila. He picked up five stapled packets and handed it to each of them.

  Deacon flipped through the eight sheets of paper. It was a simple contract, with simple terms. The most important ones were the even split between band members for royalties and decision making.

  “I still have to deal with lawyers, so there’s a bunch of legal terminology in there. I have a decent setup here, but I don’t have unlimited funds. I also don’t have the overhead that Trident does.”

  “Because you own the studio space,” Deacon interjected.

  “Exactly.”

  Deacon flipped through the contract and zeroed in on the advance. It was healthy enough that they could find a decent place to stay and be comfortable. Not penthouse comfortable, but very well off by California standards.

  “You’re a smaller label. Does that mean you still have the distribution power that a larger label has?”

  Deacon looked over at Nick. Evidently, Deacon hadn’t been the only one doing a bit of research. A few of the final knots that had been living in his gut unraveled.

  “Thanks to the other arms of my company, I have well-established contacts, both for marketing and albums. But with the internet, not too many people are actually buying in that format. I have other avenues for satellite radio and the new streaming platforms that are taking over.” Donovan steepled his fingers under his chin. “Most of the money you make isn’t going to be in the album. It’s the vehicle to get your name out there and on the road. Merchandise, special content through a fan club, touring, and endorsements are going to be your major moneymakers.”

  “And that’s where I come in.” Lila came to stand beside Donovan. “We’ll work with you to build a brand—”

  “A boy band brand?” Nick asked with a smirk.

  “You may be young, but there’s nothing boy band about you as a whole. We’ll utilize the younger fan set, of course. Jazz rakes in both the teen and the twenties set with her exuberance and attitude. Simon definitely brings in the female viewership.” Lila’s eyes scanned over Nick. “You’ve cornered the sarcasm market and made it work for you.”

  She turned to Deacon. “You’re a bit more difficult.”

  Deacon shrugged. “I’m a behind the scenes guy. I don’t need to be out in front.”

  “I agree.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know if it’s that you don’t have an ego or what.” She tapped her lower lip with her nail. “I just don’t know.”

  Deacon smiled. “It’s okay, most people aren’t sure what to make of me.”

  Lila sat down next to Gray. “And what do you want, Grayson? You haven’t said a word.”

  “I just want to play. Minus the bullshit. I don’t give two shits about this crap. I want to write, I want to play, and I want to tour.”

  Lila smiled. “Fair enough.” She stood again and took her spot beside her boss.

  “I understand that you have some decisions to make. And if you want to return for a formal meeting with agents or a lawyer, we’ll set it up.”

  “What’s our time limit?” Nick asked.

  “There isn’t one.” Donovan dipped a hand into his pants pocket and retrieved a phone. He briefly glanced at whatever had popped up on the screen before tucking it away. “Unfortunately, I have another dozen meetings to deal with today. You’re in good hands with Lila, but I will be hands on if you decide to sign with us.” He inclined his head. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  As silently as he’d arrived, Donovan Lewis left the room.

  Deacon hadn’t expected to like the man. But there’d been a sincerity to him that Jackson Miller didn’t have. Jackson had been a player from the moment he’d come into the Blue Rhino to see them all those months ago.

  Lila flipped the accordion lid on her iPad. She removed business cards from the small pocket in her jacket. “My numbers and email. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I hope you’ll give Ripper Records a shot.”

  Jazz and Gray stood. Jazz linked her fingers with Gray, drawing him over to talk to Lila. Nick and Simon were speaking quietly to each other. The meeting had gone far better than he’d hoped. For the first time, he felt good about their future.

  As they filed out a few minutes later, the chatter had gained momentum. Laughter and snide comments were batted around between Jazz and Simon. Even Nick was smiling again. Gray was silent as usual, but even he was more watchful than blank, as he’d been for the last few weeks.

  They stopped at a diner on the way home and poured over the contract. Simon and Nick argued about what they should do with the advance. Jazz and Gray huddled on one side of the booth talking quietly.

  Deacon picked at his pancakes, pushing around links of sausage on his plate. Now that the meeting was over, exhaustion was setting in. Drunk sleep was definitely not real sleep.

  Simon kicked him under the table. “Why are you all quiet?”

  Jazz flicked his arm. “Leave him alone, Super Slut.”

  Simon waved a piece of bacon. “Now that it looks like you got your way with the record deal, your dick’s back in a knot over Chef Girl, huh?” He chomped through the crispy bacon. “Forget her, m
an. There’s tons of chicks out there.”

  Deacon’s fork clattered into the middle of the syrupy mess. He sighed and pushed the plate away. “I’m just beat. I’ve been in full on research mode for days.” He pinched the bridge of his nose where a headache was brewing.

  “Right,” Nick said and laced his fingers over his belt. “Time to get her out of your system, and put your Demon hat back on. We’ll be in the studio non-stop.”

  Deacon wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, dragging it in front of him. He didn’t want to talk about Harper. Even thinking her name made him want to go for a run until his brain emptied. “So does that mean we’re telling Jackson to take a swan dive?”

  Nick pushed his hair out of his face. “I can’t fault you for looking elsewhere for a better deal. I honestly didn’t think we had a choice. Now I’m starting to wonder if Trident put out the word that we were sewn up into a contract so we didn’t get any other offers.”

  Deacon tapped the edge of the cup. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Nick pulled the ever present cigarette from behind his ear. He rolled it between his fingers, staring down at it intently. “I don’t know if it’s the smart thing or not, but that studio felt right. That’s all I know.”

  “It made me want to play.” Gray’s low voice drew everyone’s attention to him. He shrugged. “I haven’t wanted to play for a while now.”

  Simon flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Jackson’s going to shit kittens when we tell him.”

  Deacon leaned back. “You and Nick enjoy that talk. Since you got the oh so great first meeting with them anyway.”

  Nick winced. “Deserved that, huh?”

  “You still deserve my drumsticks up your ass sideways, Nicky. But talking to Jackson will be a step in the right direction.”

  Simon rolled his contract and tucked it into his jacket. “It was a shitty move, but me and Nick took the meeting thinking we were doing a good thing.”

  “This is only going to work if we’re partners—equal partners,” Jazz said quietly. She looked at everyone at the table. “I want this to work. I wish you hadn’t taken that meeting, but all we can do now is try and get past it. This would be a good start.”