Fever

by Carnal, MJ

  My father is the best there is, and his label is the biggest in the world. Nobody can take that away from him, but he lacked something that he had when he first started out: the spark. The one thing that separates him from the rest of the guys trying to sign artists to their labels: the drive. New artists come to us because a lot of people they look up to are signed here, but Harmon is always looking for different sounds, unheard talent. My dad doesn’t scout anymore because he’s built an empire with the Harmon name and branched it out from music to clothing and alcohol.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice steady, even though I can feel the anger burning from within. “We’re doing really well. I really believe in my brand.”

  I’ve been working with my best friend Allie on a line of microphones. Obviously my parents think it’s a joke, but ever since one of the biggest entertainers, Shea Roberts, started using them, our line has taken off.

  “I know that, sweetheart, and Fab is an amazing brand,” he says in an exhale. “But I need you in Harmon.”

  I turn my face back to him, feeling those words like a jab in the gut, not that I expect him to care about the way they make me feel. My eyes take him in again, he looks dashing, as usual, with his light brown hair brushed perfectly and his tailored blue suit fitted perfectly over his body, but he looks so exhausted. Chris Harmon has been overworking himself for the past forty years and it’s finally catching up to him. His deep green eyes plead with me and I know he’s about to go in for the kill. I also know I’ll fall for it, so I put my hands up so that he’ll let me speak.

  “You know, all my life I’ve done everything I’ve thought you guys wanted me to do.” I pause when he raises an eyebrow and gives me a look. “I’ve done these things hoping you guys would notice me, be proud of me. And it’s never mattered because everything I’ve ever done gets overlooked. I know that I’ll never be as good as Hendrix, but anytime I find something that I think I can finally excel at, one of you takes it away from me. When will you be happy with what I’ve done? What do I have to do?” I ask, waving my hands around for dramatic effect.

  He walks over, moving his seat in front of me. When he stops before me, he cups my chin so that I’ll look into his serious eyes. “Bee, I am proud of you! We’re all proud of you! Look at how far you’ve come in just a few years. You turned your life around. You quit all your bad habits and got back on your feet. Do you know how hard it is for some people to do that in this city? It’s because of how much I value you that I need your help. I need you to help me find new artists …”

  He lets the question hang between us. His eyes tell me that he’s not really asking me to do this—he’s telling me that I will. I roll my neck and look outside again. The sunny sky that’s slowly clouding, the cars stuck in traffic on the highway, the nightclubs that I used to frequent, the streets that made me crazy once and restored me to believe in myself again.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “I need you to move to New York. You can work out of there. Hey, maybe on your free time you can work with your Aunt Mireya. She can help you out with that line of yours,” he offers with a smile.

  “How thoughtful of you,” I quip.

  He raises an eyebrow but lets out a laugh. “Always the smart alec,” he says. “You can leave tomorrow. I’ll have the plane ready for you. You can stay at our place in the city, and your brother will walk you through anything he needs you to do in the office. What time can you be ready?” he asks, getting up from his chair and shrugging on his suit jacket.

  He’s effectively dismissing me, knowing he just got me to agree to something that I never concretely said yes to. Knowing that he’s asking me to give up everything I’ve been working on. For a second I wonder what would happen if I turn him down, and then I have a flashback to things that have happened when I’ve turned him down in the past. I know it’s not worth it.

  “Good seeing you, Dad,” I mutter, turning to walk out of his office.

  I hear his footsteps follow me and stiffen when he grabs my bicep and turns me around to face him. “Hey, you’re the best there is at this, Baby Girl. Be happy, you’re going to change people’s lives.”

  I guess in a sense he’s right, I do change people’s lives when I offer them a chance to sign with Harmon Records. I also effectively screw over a lot of them, but I try not to dwell on that thought.

  “I’ll be ready at ten,” I say, in response to his previous question. “I’ll call Hendrix to let him know I’m coming.”

  He smiles his empty yet charismatic smile. “He already knows you are.”

  That doesn’t surprise me and as I turn to walk away, one last thing occurs to me. I turn around and ask him before I lose my nerve. “Can we maybe not tell anybody in the company who I am?” I know this is something my brother still struggles with, the idea that people have that he hasn’t earned his place. They all think he was just placed there because he’s my father’s son. They’re not entirely wrong, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that my brother has been working since he was sixteen.

  His eyebrows furrow. “You don’t want people to know that you’re my daughter?” he asks, and for a moment I think he may be hurt by this. Maybe he is, maybe I don’t care.

  “Nope. I want to do this for me, to prove myself worthy of working there.”

  His mouth pops open and I know he wasn’t expecting that one. The first chance he got, my brother Hendrix took the job of CCO and ran with it, never looking back or wondering whether or not he was a good candidate for it.

  “But you’re a Harmon, of course you’re worthy of working here. It’s your company, Brooklyn,” he says, frowning.

  I shake my head. “No, Dad, it’s your company. The artists that I sign from here on out are my artists.”

  He searches my face as if trying to figure me out. “Are you saying you want a commission? Because that’s already assumed, Brooklyn, you’ll get a commission.”

  “I never did before,” I say quietly with a slight shrug.

  He lets out a laugh. “Whose commission would you have wanted, BK? Let me guess … Shea?”

  I grind my teeth together in hopes that I won’t lash out.

  “From what I remember, you got a lot more than signing brags with Shea,” he says. He knows he’s hitting a nerve there, and it’s a low blow, even for him.

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” I say, my voice a broken whisper as I take a step back.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, well, it is what it is, right? Be at the airport tomorrow by nine.” He shoots the last part over his shoulder as he turns and walks away. I hear him tell Sherry he’s headed to his next meeting.

  The difference in the way he treats me and all of his employees is incredible, you would think he fathered them and not me. I don’t call him out on it though. I just let it be like. My best friend Ryan used to get mad at me for that, but somehow I always find a way to excuse his behavior and berate my mother’s instead. She is much worse, after all. My father comes from nothing; he’s the oldest of three children of a cocaine addict and a deceased father. Growing up in Brooklyn wasn’t a walk in the park for him and he doesn’t take anything he has for granted. I think he’s done a pretty good job in instilling those morals on to us. My mother, on the other hand, thinks everything is owed to her. The air she breathes should pay her because she allows it to go into her golden lungs, that’s how she sees it. I’ve always wondered what attracted my father to her to begin with because I just don’t see it.

  I take a moment to gather my breath and make sure my tears aren’t going to spill over before I begin to walk quickly. He stops to pick up some papers from Sherry and I make my way to the elevators. I know he has to walk by me on his way to the conference room, so I take a deep breath and click the down button when I see him approaching.

  “Hey, Dad,” I call out and wait for him to acknowledge me. “For the record, nobody knows I signed Shea. I gave you all the credit.”

  Thankfully the elevator door
closes before I get a chance to glimpse his face one last time. It’s not like he would ever apologize to me. He’ll never tell me I’m right, and he’ll never thank me. And I think I’m okay with that now.

  ***

  I read somewhere that by the age of twenty-five, women are more sure of themselves, more comfortable in their own skin. Sometimes I want to find the person that wrote that and stab her in the eye with a rusty fork. I’ve been twenty-five for six months and that sureness of myself hasn’t hit me yet. I hope that when it does, it washes over me like a wave, hard and fast, taking all of my insecurities with it to a place unknown. I’m not an idiot, I know why I feel this way about myself and I know I need to suck it up and get over it because nobody cares, not that they should. The only people that should care are the reason I feel this way to begin with.

  I sigh and rest my head on the headrest of my car. Seven years ago I couldn’t wait to get out of LA and now I’m hesitant to leave. I run a mental checklist through my mind of the pros and cons of moving to New York, not that I’ll change my mind at this point. Pros: my brother Hendrix is over there most of the time and I love him to pieces. My uncle Robert lives there with his husband. My cousin Nina is over there. Her mom, Mireya, lives there and can brainstorm with me on new designs on my “free time”, as my father calls it. Getting away from all the memories of things I shared with Ryan and finally getting a fresh start.

  Cons: My niece, Melody lives here with her mom (my brother and Sarah have been separated for almost a year now and she works out of LA). I’m going to miss my little monster to death if I make New York permanent. My best friend and business partner, Allie, also lives here with her husband and she wouldn’t leave for anything in the world.

  My parents travel between New York, LA, and Miami constantly, but I don’t even consider them when I run through my pros and cons list because they don’t count. Other than Allie, the few friends I have here are either married or socialites. They won’t really miss me, even though they pretended to be sad when I called to tell them I was leaving. Truth is, for the past four years I’ve kept a really low profile, opting to go to parties and small gatherings instead of clubs. I’ve been focusing my time on expanding my knowledge of fashion, which is how Fab came to be. It’s not much yet, but the microphone line and possible headphones could definitely be going somewhere. Baby steps.

  When I get to the airport, I drive into the private entrance, where the hangers for the private jets are, and park in the lot. My heart feels heavy as I get my things out of my two-door Audi. It’s stupid, missing something tangible like a car, but I can’t help it. I lock it and drag my suitcase to the small building. I notice that the airplane is missing from the runway and wonder where it could be. The Harmon jet is used mostly by my father, but I know he lends it out to the artists signed to the label here and there.

  Once inside, I hand my bag to the nice lady at the front desk and take a seat to wait for the plane to arrive. As I scroll through my phone and check my email, I type a message to Allie letting her know I’ll call her when I land. Then I call my brother because I still have no idea who’s picking me up.

  “Hey, BK,” Hendrix answers on the second ring.

  “Hey, are you picking me up at the airport?” I ask. I wish I didn’t sound as hopeful as I know I do, but I haven’t seen my brother in a couple of months and I truly miss him.

  He pauses and I hear him shuffling papers in the background. I begin to twirl the skull and anchor rings on my fingers out of habit as I wait for a response.

  “It’s okay if you can’t,” I offer quietly.

  He sighs after a moment. “Sorry, Bee. I’m gonna try. If I can’t, I’ll send a driver. Love you, sis, can’t wait to see you.”

  “Love you too,” I reply as he hangs up on me. Staying in the same city as my brother again will be interesting. We were never close growing up, even as kids we both did our own things. He’s only four years older than me, but our parents had us both in completely different things. While Hendrix went to karate, I was stuck in piano lessons. While he was in fencing, I was in ballet. Even as children our parents made sure to always keep us busy and out of the house which meant little time together. As we grew up and developed different interests, we drifted our own ways. I think Hendrix regrets that now and wishes that he would have been there for me more than he was, but we both know it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. My demons are my own and they would have probably developed regardless of his presence.

  “Sorry, Miss Harmon, the plane should be here soon, then it refuels and we’re ready for you,” the nice lady says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I thank her and glance down at my watch. It’s eight forty-five, which means the flight will be late. I wonder who’s using the plane this time. Dad didn’t mention anything about any bands or my mom using it, but somebody must have.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I walk over to the counter. “Do you know where it’s coming from?” I glance at her nametag: Farrah. She looks like a Farrah with her blonde hair and fair skin.

  “San Francisco,” she responds with a smile. “Should be here any minute.”

  Even though I haven’t been there in years, a shiver runs through me at the mention of that city and the awful memories I have there. I push my negative thoughts away when I see the blue Harmon plane approaching the gate. I haven’t been excited about my move to New York until this moment, and I allow myself to smile and revel in it. I am moving to New York City! I’m starting over. I’m going to give talented people the opportunity to make a name for themselves. I should be ecstatic about this change, and I will be. I pick some lint from my sweater off of my black skinny jeans and stand up to walk to the window, in hopes of catching a glimpse of who used the plane. It doesn’t matter, and I figure that it can’t be anybody too famous since there were no paparazzi or fans waiting outside. This part of the airport is definitely hidden, but not enough that the vultures won’t find you.

  As soon as the staircase is settled in front of the plane and the doors open, my phone signals a text message. I sort through my purse to look for it.

  Nina: When do you get here? Get ready to party, bitch.

  I laugh at my cousin’s message and type in a response as I look up to see who’s walking down the stairs of the plane. A blonde girl, about my age, is wearing a black maxi dress and her hair is tied up in a messy knot. I squint my eyes to see if I recognize her, but I don’t. Walking behind her is a tall well-built guy, maybe a little older than me, wearing dark washed jeans and a fitted black V-neck shirt. Aviator sunglasses sit on top of his light brown faux hawk, which he snaps down to shield his eyes as he drapes an arm on the girl’s shoulder.

  I notice that she’s much shorter than he is, and they both have amazing tans. He drops his arm from her as quickly as he put it there and stretches over his head. My eyes drop to his exposed torso, which is freaking ripped and has musical notes tattooed along his ribs. I wonder what the notes are for. Does he sing? Does he play? Who is this guy?

  My phone rings in my hands, making me jump. I look away from the couple and frown when I see my cousin’s face on my screen.

  “What happened?” I ask, confused, looking back up as I wait for her response.

  “What the hell was that message?” she asks.

  “What message?”

  “Your text back to me! It was gibberish, you dork.”

  My frown deepens as I try to figure out what she’s talking about, not that I’m really paying attention, because I’m still looking at the hottie in black and his girlfriend.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.

  “Are you on the plane?” she asks. “Brooklyn! What the hell are you doing?” she shouts.

  “God, Nina, what do you want?”

  “Rude. I was just calling because you’re taking so long to reply and I want to make sure you’re still coming today!”

  “Yeah, soon,” I respond distractedly.

  “Ok
ay, I can tell you’re busy. Call me later!” she says, sounding annoyed at my lack of interaction.

  I don’t pay much attention to it because Nina is the type of person that constantly needs undivided attention. I swear, she picked the perfect career for herself: Broadway actress.

  “Yeah, bye,” I respond aimlessly after she hangs up on me. My eyes are still glued to the couple outside.

  They’re still standing right by the door, and I’m assuming they’re waiting for their bags, until I see two more people get out of the airplane. This time my jaw completely drops, along with my heart and every other organ in my body. Another guy walks out, wearing a baseball cap, a white T-shirt and worn jeans. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, leaving his heavily tattooed caramel arms exposed. A huge smile breaks out on his face as the guy in the black shirt yells something at him. It’s not his good looks or his tattoos that get my attention, it’s the fact that I didn’t expect to see him. I usually like to prepare myself before seeing an ex-boyfriend. You know, give myself the whole “you can do this, you’re totally over him” pep talk. I hate being caught off guard like this. It makes the inside of my brain turn into complete mush. It’s stupid, really, since Shea and I are still friends and talk often. I am completely over him but I would’ve preferred a little warning. I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath. I can do this. I’ve seen him a million times before. I’ve seen him with a million girls before. I’m fine.