by KC Enders
Rand, being the badass fucker he is, rocks the preproduction so that the tracks we lay are tight. Really tight. He’s got us in line with playing as close to perfection as we can get, so the mixing and engineering is almost as simple as layering the tracks together and adjusting a couple of slides on the board.
He and our producer, Slick, are firm believers in the theory that every shrug and, “We’ll be fixing in mixing,” adds an easy hour to the process.
That is why my fuckup with “One” sucks hard. It’s not just the money we wasted—I wasted; it’s also the time.
Money can be rationalized; it can be earned back, and that wealth shared makes everyone happy. But time squandered is time lost, and no one is happy about that. No one.
The hours wasted in trying to get the elusive “One” tracked has put the engineers behind. It’s put us behind, and I’m the dog who did that. Any grand thoughts I might have had about trying to slip away to see Gracyn for a couple of days are squashed with impunity because of my failure. And doesn’t that just piss me off?
Live and fucking learn.
Chapter 32
Gavin
“Go. Just get your pathetic, moody ass out of here,” Rand says scathingly. “But don’t you dare miss that fucking flight to Dubai. Schedule is tighter than Nate’s ass, back when he roomed with Kane. Don’t fuck this up.”
“Jesus, really?” Nate mumbles under his breath.
Sure, those days were before Rand’s time with us, but he’s heard enough stories that Kane should probably be concerned with the amount of dirt our manager has on him.
And, because it’s Kane, no one is surprised when, “Told you, you should have relaxed a little, Nathaniel,” comes tripping off his tongue with a lascivious smirk.
They’re all laughing while I’m hovering at the front door of our house, dying a slow and painful death. The kind of death that comes from not seeing the woman I want—need, love?—for far too long. I’d like to think I know what love is. Honestly, I would like to think that this is love, and maybe it is, but I need to get my hands on Gracyn as soon as fucking possible.
Ever a man of few words, Ian throws me a nod as I step back to push open the door like I’m leaving right this minute. I’m not.
“You need me to book your flight, or are you gonna start walking?” Rand stares at my hand on the door.
“A flight would be great—tonight if possible.” Anticipation wraps its tingling arms around me as I mentally pack my bags. I need to get away from these guys for a few days almost as much as I need to get with my woman.
My woman.
The words buzz through my brain, and my breath catches on the realization. I don’t want anyone else.
Rand taps away at his laptop while doing a final run-through of plans. “So, we have the label’s party tonight—food and booze … so not really gonna work with flights tonight. Build in some hangover allowance, so no six a.m. flights even if they are nonstop …” His fingers fly, obscuring his mumbling here and there, and it takes me a moment to catch on to how he’s chipping away the precious minutes I could be spending with Gracyn.
“I want the nonstop, first thing in the morning.”
I’ll pack my carry-on with just what I need for the weekend and send the rest of my shit to Europe with the guys.
“No fucking way your ass is making that,” Kane scoffs. “Just chill tonight, drink, get laid—prime your shit, so you don’t embarrass yourself with the woman.”
Rand looks at me over the top of his screen, fingers hovering and still.
“Book me the flight, Rand. I’m solid. I’ll do the schmoozing thing tonight, but I’ve gotta go. I need to spend one fucking weekend with Gracyn before leaving the country.”
After the longest pause in the history of life that these two months have been, he nods and taps, and immediately, my phone buzzes against my ass.
“Itinerary and confirmations emailed to you. Booked you a rental as well since I’m guessing you’re going in, to surprise her and shit.”
“Newark? You’re flying me to fucking Jersey?” It’s not that much farther than flying into the city, but really?
“Newburg, asshole. Forty minutes from Beekman Hills, not fucking Jersey. And I didn’t quite hear that resounding thank-you.”
I check my email again, and a smile breaks out across my face. This time tomorrow, I’ll be waltzing into Gracyn’s office with a bouquet of flowers and three days to lavish her with all the attention she can stand.
“Thanks, man. You’re solid.”
It was a toss-up when the flight attendant wheeled her happy beverage cart past me. Coffee—the time sure as shit called for it—Bloody Mary—hair of the dog unquestionably—or sleep. All of the above, thank you. It was just all about the order and timing. Bloody Mary, sleep, and a Starbucks as soon as I got the rental pointed east toward Beekman Hills. Venti, black with two extra shots, man. That will get me through. And warm me up because early December in New York is a far cry from the perfect Cali sunshine.
The mid-afternoon sky is thick and heavy with the threat of snow, but the sleepy little town looks like it could be the model for New England Christmas cards. Main Street is lined with shops and restaurants, a pub that looks like it’s witnessed a lot of shenanigans, and older houses perfect for college students living off-campus.
On a corner, tucked back behind an Italian restaurant and a gelato place that looks like it’s doing good business despite the frigid temps, I park my rental and wish again that I’d thrown more than a handful of T-shirts in my bag. My leather jacket is solid, and it looks badass, but toasty warm it is not.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I make my way down the block and pull open the door to George & Son Accounting. The son is hanging in LA, soaking up the sun—from what Gracyn has told me—not here, running the family business. But George & Daughter Accounting just “doesn’t present the right image.” I hate that her dad is so hung up on that shit.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” The receptionist looks to be about my grandmother’s age and has probably been around since ground was broken on the historic brick building. But her bright blue eyes are sharp, and she is rocking the multitasking with an efficiency that is seriously fascinating.
I hit her with a warm smile and shift her old-school name plate to the right, so I can rest my arms on top of the granite ledge separating us. “I’m here to see Miss George. Is she available?”
Margaret checks her computer and knits her brows at me. “She’s stepped out, did you have an appointment, Mr.—”
“Keller. Gavin Keller.” I cringe slightly, hoping she’ll be willing to help a guy out. “I was, uh … hoping to surprise her,” I say sheepishly. “Will she be back soon?”
Maggie smiles as she slides her assessing gaze over me. “I’m afraid she’s gone to collect a client from the train station, Mr. Keller. I’d be happy to schedule you for Wednesday afternoon,” she offers, pecking away at her keyboard. “I’m afraid that’s the first she’s available.”
Maybe I should have let Gracyn know I was coming. I give the counter two quick pats and pull out my phone. “Thanks. I’ll just call her and let her know I’m in town.”
Thumbs flying, I type out a text, and before I can hit Send on that fucker, I’m thrown off my game by the nasally whine I thought I was done with two months ago. And, sadly, the only person that voice could possibly belong to is that dickhead client of Gracyn’s from when she was in the city.
I grit my teeth, trying to talk myself into thanking him for choosing George & Son for his accounting needs because, without that little tidbit, I never would have run into Gracyn. Maybe I do owe him something.
“What, pray tell, are you doing here?”
Yeah, maybe not.
The older gentleman with what’s his fuck pipes in with, “Brooks, is this an … associate of yours?” Condescending as fuck, the old guy takes in my non-corporate look.
“Absolutely not, Mr. George. I
don’t associate with people who attended Yale, let alone cretins who couldn’t even cut it in community college,” Brooks responds with his haughty laugh.
If this asshole had half a clue, but dickhead is as dickhead does.
Choosing not to let him get to me, I step back with an, “Excuse me,” and turn toward the door.
“In fact, I was surprised you’d be okay with your daughter associating with someone like him. Musicians are nothing but glorified addicts and porn-star wannabes.”
“Nice. Very classy, coming from you,” I mumble. Keep walking. Just let it roll off your back and get out the door.
But the asshat can’t seem to give up. “Honestly, he seems more your son’s type with the way he was being publicly groped by one of his bandmates down in the city. Perhaps Gracyn isn’t aware of his indeterminate preferences.”
That stops me in my tracks. People can talk shit about me all day long, no worries. But this guy just slammed Gracyn and her brother in the same breath … to their father. I turn so that whatever he says next is to my face. Maybe that will shut him up.
“Of course, I’d still be willing to push forward on our relationship despite her past with this … this individual,” Brooks cajoles, placing a hand on Mr. George’s shoulder.
The old guy sneers at me like I’m dog shit in the middle of the Persian rug.
Eyeing me up one side and down the other, Mr. George’s gaze lingers on my hair, my jeans, and my shitkickers, the tats peeking out from the collar of my tee and the cuffs of my leather jacket. I’ve seen that judgment a hundred times, and I could not give a shit. I don’t care what he thinks or about any of those things said about me. But, when he wraps his arm around the cunt in classy clothing and responds with his heartfelt appreciation, I just fucking can’t.
“Yeah, and the only way you could possibly get someone as amazing as Gracyn is to suck her daddy’s dick,” I say, staring each of them in the eye in turn. Mumbling, “Fucking asshole,” I turn to walk away, like I should have done a hell of a lot sooner.
As soon as my back is turned, Brooks throws a weak-ass punch from the hip, his fist glancing off my chin.
I face my absolutely unworthy opponent and throw him an evil grin. “I’d expect nothing less than a sucker punch from a POS that puts women down and throws around money like his personality is dependent on it.”
Shock registers on Brooks’ face seconds before my fist connects with his cheek, reeling him around. But the Ivy League asshole recovers himself and comes at me, swinging. This for sure isn’t his first fight, but the crunch and spray of blood when my fist smashes his nose slows him down and puts him in his place. It’s with sick satisfaction that I watch as the blood stains his pretty white shirt, one that looks stupidly expensive. And he was pissed when G did her pathetic drink toss.
Unfortunately, we’ve drawn attention, including the cops who show up like they were just strolling by. They step in and push us back from each other. Mr. George snaps his fingers at the receptionist and points to the pretty box of tissues sitting on the corner of her desk. All as blood streams down the face of that cocksucker. Serves him fucking right.
“You all right, man?” a young officer asks. “Hey, let’s—Jesus, you … you’re in The UnBroken. The guitarist?”
“Yeah.” I laugh, pulling my focus away from what’s happening with the other cop, who’s getting welcomed into a private office with Gracyn’s dad and his dickhead buddy. “You a fan?” Not that I feel like doing the PR thing right now, but if it’ll get me out of here faster, that’s cool.
Officer Matthews, according to his name tag, surveys the gathering crowd, people popping out of offices like prairie dogs, and nods toward the door. “Big fan, but let’s, uh … this could get out of hand. You got a car?” I pull the rental’s key from my pocket and he nods. “Yeah? Let’s get out of here, go sit down, and talk about what happened without the public ears.”
The light bulb is going on for some of these people, and the recognition has some of them pulling phones from their pockets, their fingers start flying.
I need to get out. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Rand is going to be pissed at this nightmare.
Fuck my life.
Chapter 33
Gracyn
It feels strange, collecting Mr. and Mrs. Langston from the train station. Seems like they should have arrived upstate in a limo or something. But the couple is just as sweet and unassuming as they can be. They’re sharing one small suitcase that Mr. Langston won’t even consider allowing me to roll for them, let alone lift into the trunk of my car.
Not at all like their pain in the ass son. That PITA had a bag twice as big and demanded a porter carry the thing across the lot so as not to scuff the wheels. Really?
We chat as I drive them through my small town, answering questions about the college, what it’s like to live “so far out in the country,” and the various historic sites in the area, including the Beekman Inn my father so generously booked them in. Well, our receptionist, Margaret, did the booking of the rooms. Lord knows that task would be beneath my father.
“Gracyn, dear, would you mind if I ran up to the room before we scooted to dinner?” Mrs. Langston asks as her husband hands the bellhop a five-dollar bill to not carry his bag.
Maybe Brooks is adopted.
“I’d love just a moment to freshen up.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll just wait down here for you. Take your time.” Mr. Langston places a hand at his wife’s back and guides her into the shiny brass elevator, granting me a moment as well.
A drink is exactly what I need to make it through this stupid dinner tonight. I get the rubbing of elbows, shaking of hands, and the back-patting in new business relationships, but with as little regard as my father gives me professionally, it’s pointless for me to be there. Almost like I’m an accessory and nothing more.
“Whiskey neat, please. Do you have … awesome. The Redbreast Twelve Year,” I order quickly, not sure just how much time Mrs. L will need to powder her nose.
And I need this. Need the connection on some level to Gavin and the way he grounds me, believes in me, and encourages me to just do me.
The caramel and vanilla notes of the Irish whiskey tickle their way up the back of my throat and warm me from the inside out. He would so appreciate this one. I tuck a twenty under the edge of my cocktail napkin and check my phone, hoping for a message from Gavin, but there’s nothing. Not a word.
Something’s not quite right.
My dad is being his usual pompous self, but Brooks looks fake in an almost too-perfect kind of way.
Thankfully, our waitress is one of the girls I worked with through college at the little Italian bistro in town, and with a wink and an eye roll, she keeps my wine glass appropriately filled. Wine is for the women, and whiskey is a man’s drink, according to my father, so wine it is. I can work with this though. My driving obligations are done, and while I don’t plan on getting shit-faced, I do see an Uber in my future. Kate or Lis can help me get my car tomorrow … on the way to McBride’s because I’m going to need normal after today.
“Michael, we couldn’t be happier with how the transition has progressed. Your firm’s expertise is exactly what our company needs to move forward.” Mr. Langston raises his glass to my father in gratitude.
Yeah, my homophobic asshole of a father is named Michael George. It chapped his ass like nothing else when his son went through a George Michael stage.
“Well, William, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you choosing George and Son. I know you had a lot of options available to you, and I feel like this will be an absolutely symbiotic relationship that will benefit your company as much as it does me.” Not a benefit to the company, but to him personally.
Mostly, I hear, Blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah. I blah, blah, blah. Me.
Because, regardless of the fact that I was the one who waded through—sorting and tracking—and made sense of the mess of sketchy financials
that had come out of the deceased Mr. Langston’s storage unit, Mikey is gonna take all the credit. Had things gone south, he’d have sold me out bigger than shit.
Mr. Langston extends his glass to me along with a nod and a thank-you. The sneer mars my father’s face, and he barely has a chance to school his features before Mr. L turns back to discuss golf dates and taking the yacht out on the sound once the weather warms up.
I would love to be anywhere but here.
After dinner is done, Brooks clears his throat and leans forward in his chair. “I hate to interrupt, but before we forget, I need some pictures for Langston & Langston’s social media launch.” He snaps his fingers at a passing server—not even our waitress—and hands off his phone before the poor thing has a chance to put down the heavy tray she’s balancing. “Now, if we could all stand …” He looks around the restaurant for the perfect backdrop to his photo. “This should work well enough.”
He directs the group over to the fireplace and poses us so that our fathers are leaning across us to shake hands, their wives tucked sweetly next to them, as the near-silent accessories they are. Somehow, I’m standing on the Langston side of the handshake, and Brooks’ mom reaches back to pat my arm. Brooks wraps an arm around me, placing his hand over his mother’s, in turn pulling me off-balance.
“Sorry,” I apologize, pushing back from him, my hand planted firmly on his chest. “Oh, sweet Jesus, are you wearing makeup?” My bark of laughter is louder than is polite by any standards, but this asshole is wearing concealer and powder.
Instead of being offended at getting called out, Brooks warmly smiles down at me. “Hmm, I had a little run-in earlier and managed a bruise to my eye. In fact, I had to run out and get a new shirt due to the mishap, so I just had the girl at the makeup counter cover it up.” He runs his free hand down his chest, smoothing the tie that is slightly different from the one he had on earlier today. “Can’t blame me for wanting to look my best for this little photo op, can you?”
