by Cassie Mae
“Any idea who this person is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be coming to you.” He straightens, leaving the contract open on my desk. “This puts a giant halt in the production schedule.”
I nod, my chest tightening around my heart, and I plead with it to calm down so I’m not panicking in front of a staff member, one who’s actually been pretty buddy buddy with me considering my reputation.
“We’ll record Caged in You last,” I state, knowing both Ruby and Kevin won’t like the idea, but it has to be done. “Let’s put our technical team on research duty if Ruby isn’t cooperative on giving a name. Kevin was pretty hesitant about it.” Damn, I knew I should’ve followed my gut on this. I’m not making that mistake again.
“All the more reason to be extra cautious,” Grant says, scratching a thin, graying eyebrow with the back of his pen. “I’ll email a copy of the release agreement. If worse comes to worse, I suggest we leave that song off the album. However, the originality of the other songs comes into question—”
“I know,” I say, holding my hand up. It’s just another chink in the chain that’s going to be my downfall. I can’t even sign a major artist without things unraveling. “Thanks for telling me about this.”
Grant raises an eyebrow at my sincere gratitude, but doesn’t comment on it. He clips his pen on the inside pocket of his business jacket before buttoning it up and dismissing himself.
Pepper sniffs at the door after Grant leaves, and I lean against the desk with my head in my hands. No one is officially in today, but I page down to the studios anyway, hoping someone decided to put in some overtime.
“Mr. Davis?” Alex picks up. “You here on a Sunday?”
“Dealing with a tiny hiccup,” I say, underscoring the shit that’s hit the fan. “Is there anyone recording at the moment?”
“Uh…” The sound of paper shuffles through the phone. “We’ve got Gravel Road in studio two, Reed in studio five, and Velocity in studio eight.”
“That it?”
“Right now, yeah.” He pauses to cough. “There are a few guys in studio three setting up for the next artist.”
“All right. Thanks.” I click off before I realize I’ve expressed gratitude again when I’ve been pretty good at keeping that to myself lately. The suit must act as a thanking suppressant. It explains a lot about my father.
My eyes flick from the contract to my drawer full of demos. The silence surrounding me is comfortable—it’s where I’m allowed to feel nothing. I wonder if that’s why noise—music—allows me to feel everything to the point of overwhelming me.
I let my fingers graze over the handle, but I don’t slide it open. I’d rather listen to music from the source if I’m going to listen to it at all.
I push from my desk, ignoring the contract and patting my hip. “Come on, boy.” Pepper and I take the elevator down to the studios. I’d like to find an empty one, sit behind a piano, and just hit middle C over and over until I find the courage to attempt a demo.
Pepper’s collar clinks as he canters next to me. I turn the corner to studios eleven and twelve, knowing the particular hallway is empty and I won’t be disturbing any recordings. I pass eleven, eyes briefly glancing at the glass that separates the studio from the traffic in the halls, and I stop short.
There, wiping down the equipment, is Paige, her long red hair up in an unusual ponytail. She trails a finger over the soundboard, biting at her lip ring as if deep in thought. Her eyes are distant, yet concentrated as she looks at the empty stools in front of the microphones. A small twitch pulls at the corner of her lips, almost like she’s remembering something sweet, but it also saddens her.
It’s so jarring to see her look so vulnerable that I can’t seem to stop staring. A small wave of jealousy runs under my skin as her eyes close, and she starts swaying to some imaginary beat in her head. I haven’t been familiar with such serenity in so long, I’d forgotten what it even looked like.
Pepper whines next to me, shaking me from my daze. Paige’s spine straightens, and her eyes open to the hallway. So much for soundproof walls; they don’t exactly work when the door is cracked.
Her complacent expression hits me somewhere deep in my gut, and I wish she’d show a stronger reaction to my eavesdropping, whether it be anger or surprise. I crave those things from her. I’m drawn to passionate people, even knowing that a passionate person—my father—is the reason why I resent so many things.
I let my mind fight with itself as we stare at each other. I can imagine going in there with the intention of lying my ass off when she asks about Nora—which is bound to come up. I’d tell her that Nora is a great replacement because she does what she’s told, and while the latter part of that statement is true, Nora is far from a great replacement. Either Paige would see right through that bullshit, or she’d accept it. In both scenarios, I feel myself coming out of that studio feeling like an ass.
In the other side of my mind’s battle, I imagine going in there without saying a single word, clamping my hand around that smooth and slender neck, backing her against a wall, and holding her in place while I explore that overzealous mouth and that sharp tongue in the most primal of ways.
After a long moment, I push my lips together and let out a cutting whistle.
“Come on, boy,” I tell Pepper, and we keep moving down the hall, neither sides of my mind winning out over the other.
In my typical rush, I move through the lobby, dodging people like it’s an Olympic sport, and I’m going for the gold. I bypass the elevators since we’re clearly never on the same page. Even if I was able to catch it, with my luck, I’m sure it would get stuck in between floors before it plummets to the basement.
Condensation drips from my iced coffee, and I lift my wrist to lick it dry when my eyes catch on Ethan’s. A beautiful gray that are fitting for the pretty boy I thought he was, but now I can see past the beauty to something deeper.
He’s not some incompetent trust fund baby playing dress up in a suit and using his charm and wits to stay afloat. He knows music. He knows real music. I just still don’t understand why he’d rather have someone else listen to the demos and scout new talent. As a music lover, that should be the fun part. The part that runs through his blood and makes all the other aspects of the business worth it. It shouldn’t make that sadness streak his face and tighten his jaw.
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I’m pinned in place by that impenetrable stare. A warm current moves through my body, swirling into hot desire that makes me feel like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I mentally kick myself, knocking my mind back into place and far away from any crazy thoughts.
My lips part, and I go to wave my hand to ask him to give me a minute. I want to apologize for never showing up to the studio when he asked me to. It’s been over a week, and he’s done his best to avoid me, taking asshole to a whole new level, and I want to make it right.
Before I can even get my hand to move, he tears his gaze from mine and pushes his finger against the wall of the elevator, closing the doors and leaving me alone with my pathetic apologies.
Looks like all the extra work I’ve been putting in to show my dedication to the job has been for nothing. He doesn’t care. Usually it’s three strikes and you’re out, but apparently Ethan Davis is stingy when it comes to chances.
I hate that I did something to jeopardize this internship, but what I hate more is that I disappointed him.
My efforts may go unnoticed, or maybe he just doesn’t care, but I’ll never stop proving my worth. I’m more competent than I seem. I have experience on both ends of the industry.
Three hours later, I’m at my desk, which is really just a table thrown in a storage room, working on my newest social media campaign and trying to forget about a grumpy CEO. Maybe it would be easier if I stop looking at him as Ethan and go back to seeing him as Mr. Fancy Tie. At least then he was just a pretty face.
A knock at the door catches my attention, and I look u
p from my computer screen. Nora stands in the doorway in a tan pencil skirt and a baby blue button-up tucked into the waist. A gold bauble necklace wraps around her neck, making her look like the perfect vision of what an assistant to a CEO should look like. Classy and sophisticated and everything I’m not.
“What’s up?” I say, taking the earbud out of my ear.
“I’m going to go grab some lunch. Do you want to come?” she asks.
“Sure.” She isn’t someone I’d ever see myself being friends with; she’s a little too buttoned up for my taste. She thrives on perfection, does everything by the book, doesn’t know a thing about letting loose, and can be overbearing, but at the same time, she’s growing on me. She’s easy to bullshit with, and I still remember that first day when she warned me against my big mouth.
I grab my bag and follow Nora out. She goes right to the elevator, and I take her arm, guiding her toward the stairs.
“Seriously?” she asks, looking down at her tan kitten heels and running a hand over her curves. “I thought you’d be over your elevator fear by now.”
“It’s not a fear,” I say. “Now come on. The exercise is good for you.” I link my arm through hers and drag her to the stairs.
“So is having a pet, but I’m not going to go out and find me a Golden Retriever.”
“Maybe you should. It might help with your cheery disposition.”
She rolls her amber eyes as she strolls by me into the stairwell.
We make our way to a little café on the corner that has become a favorite of ours with their chopped salads and artisan flatbreads. We take our usual seats in the corner and place our orders.
“So how’s filling in for Jerome?” I ask, really wanting to know how she feels working directly for Ethan. I would never admit that I miss working closely with him—that my mornings are a little less bright since I know my days won’t end in his office overlooking the city while he quietly mumbles to himself as he reviews financial statements and contracts.
“It’s great,” she says with a little too much oomph. “I’m learning so much, and I’m really helping Mr. Davis. I reorganized his Outlook contacts since his system was unmanageable. I updated his calendars to include all his reoccurring appointments, which for a person in his position you’d think he’d be more structured.”
“What does E… Mr. Davis think about all of that?”
“He loves it of course. I’m making his life so much easier.”
I nibble on my lip ring, trying not to let the green monster of jealousy rear its ugly head. A part of me—a very horrible part—wished Nora would fail miserably and Ethan would realize how much he missed me. I also thought Jerome would be back by now. He must have a serious illness.
We eat our flatbreads, and Nora continues to go on and on about how amazing she is and how lucky Ethan is that Jerome is out so she can fix everything that is wrong with their systems. I nod politely and smile every now again until we finally head back to the office.
“I’m taking the elevator,” she says as we walk into the lobby.
“Suit yourself,” I call over my shoulder.
“Oh, Paige, wait.”
I stop and turn toward Nora, who is hurrying toward me. “I forgot to ask you. I am fixing a PowerPoint presentation for Mr. Davis, and he wants me to change the background, but it’s permanently set on the template. Any idea on how to fix it?”
“You have to use the master slide. It’s at the top in the view options. You can do all your settings for the slides in there.”
“Awesome. Thank you. I’ll catch you later.” The elevator appears as soon as she steps in front of it, and I silently curse her under my breath as I take the stairs.
My phone buzzes, and I look down at a text from Jimmy and one from my sister. I open the second one to see my niece with a big smile on her face, her little hand in mid-wave at the camera. It’s been a couple weeks since I spoke with them, so I make a mental note to video call them later before sliding my phone into my bag. I pivot on the landing and slam smack into a suit and tie.
I hold my hands up, the apology on the tip of my tongue, and I look up into Ethan’s gray eyes. My words turn to muffled noises as his lips shift into a scowl, stoking the fire inside me.
“Is your private elevator broken?” I ask with maybe a little too much bite in my tone.
“No,” he says with no other explanation. He gives a half-assed nod and steps around me.
“Hey!” I call out because this is ridiculous, and I’m sick and tired of him treating me like I killed his puppy.
Reluctantly, he turns, his eyebrows knit together like it pains him to look at me.
“I screwed up,” I say. “I wish I could change that, but I can’t. But this grudge you’re holding against me all because I didn’t show up to take a damn picture makes me realize you’re exactly who I thought you were.”
He steps toward me, making the landing seem impossibly small. I can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves, smell his cologne, see the black and blue specks in his eyes that battle between light and dark.
“And who is that?” he growls.
I meet his intense gaze with my own fervor. “A spoiled rich kid.”
His lip curls in disgust, and I know I just basically signed my dismissal letter, but I don’t care. Everybody tiptoes around him, afraid to be honest with him, terrified to tell him how it is. I’m not scared of him, and I sure as hell won’t take his shit anymore. It’s not that I think that either, I’m just trying to prove a point.
“Watch yourself.” His tone is full of caution and heat.
“Or what?” The words fall out before I can stop them, so I stand behind them, refusing to show Ethan any regret.
A storm brews in his eyes, and any sign of light disappears, consumed by the darkness. He steps even closer, towering over my five foot three form, and glares down at me. “In case you forgot, you’re an intern and completely expendable.”
"Nice to know what you really think of me.” Emotion clogs my throat, but I swallow it down. If he can be brutally honest, so can I. Before, what I said was fueled by anger and maybe a little cruel, but now he needs the truth. “And in case you forgot, Ethan, you aren’t a spoiled rich kid you’re just acting like one. For someone who has been giving a second chance, I can’t seem to fathom how you’re so unwilling to give me one.
“But let’s forget about me for a second because the bigger issue is you. You need to stop listening to what the damn tabloids say about you because they have no idea what they’re talking about, but I do. You’re more than capable of running this label. You feel music, and you just have to fight whatever demons are inside of you and let the music back in.” I look him straight in the eyes, the intensity in his gaze so strong it nearly knocks the wind out of me. “You’re not your father, and you need to stop trying to be him because if you keep going that route, you’ll fail. Pretending to be someone never works. Trust me. Just be you.”
His jaw tightens, the tension in his neck and shoulders evident. “You don’t think I tried that?” His voice echoes through the stairwell, and he stops a moment to calm down. He runs a hand through his hair, then continues with a lower voice. “Before you showed up, that’s exactly what I did, and not a single person here took me seriously. They didn’t want me. All they want is my father, and no, I’m not him. I’ll never be him, but I’m all this company has, so they’ll just have to settle for a poor excuse of a man who didn’t even know how to tie a goddamned tie until a couple of months ago. Not a single person here believes I can do it, and you know what, maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m exactly who the tabloids think I am.”
I shake my head. A hundred words race to the tip of my tongue to apologize, assure him he’s not a poor excuse for a man, to tell him screw everyone else because I believe in him and sometimes it only takes one person. I know he has what it takes to keep this label great and to save it from going under. But before I can get a single one past my lips, he takes off, leavi
ng me alone in the stairwell feeling a thousand times worse than before.
“I believe in you,” I whisper as the door slams shut. I go back to my desk and take my anger out on my keyboard. Smacking the keys with misdirected vigor. I’m such an idiot. Instead of apologizing and smoothing things out, I made more of a mess. My big mouth got me in trouble again. I should just sew it shut. Everyone would be better off.
“Paige?”
I pop my earbud out and glance up at Alex, who is hovering over my desk. “What has that keyboard ever done to you?”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“You look like you could use a break. Can you run down to the cleaners and pick up Mr. Davis’s dry cleaning?”
I go to argue, tell him I’m the last person Ethan wants doing anything for him, but what happened between Ethan and I was personal and shouldn’t affect my job. I’m being asked to perform a task, and I will do it. “No problem,” I say with a forced smile.
Twenty minutes later, I have his clothes, clean and neatly pressed beneath plastic. I take the stairs and go straight to Ethan’s office, hoping I can drop the hangers filled with starched dress shirts and pants with Nora and head back to my storage closet.
Of course Nora is nowhere to be found so I inhale deeply and knock on Ethan’s door before pushing in.
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes linger on the head of a snake sticking out from Ethan’s white short-sleeved shirt. The ink wraps up his arm, and I can only imagine where it ends and if he has any more tattoos beneath the suit.
My tongue slides across the metal in my lip at the thought.
“Is that my dry cleaning?” Ethan asks, pointing at the hangers in my hand.
“Yes. Here.” I walk toward him, refusing to make eye contact but noticing the coffee stain on his shirt and crotch.
