Broken Records

by Cassie Mae

  “I know.” I might be letting him down, but it’s better if I leave. “It’s fine.”

  I spin to head out, and Kevin grabs my arm. Fire rages in his eyes, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my bicep.

  “This isn’t New York,” he growls. “And last I checked, you’re nothing more than a pathetic intern.”

  His words go deep, slicing into an already opened wound.

  “Do you guys know each other?” Matt asks, and I rip my arm from Kevin’s grasp.

  “No!” we both say with a little too much gusto.

  Matt holds his hands up and steps away. “Whatever. I’m not getting involved. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee while you figure this out. I’ll be back in five.”

  He leaves the room, and suddenly it feels smaller. All the air that was here left with him to the coffee machine. The strength that got me to this point falters. Fight or flight kicks in, and just like the day I found the man I thought I would marry with his dick in the girl who had been like a sister to me, I run.

  I fly out the door and down the hallway, refusing to look back. I won’t. I can’t. I tried to pretend like seeing them didn’t rip open a barely healed wound, that feeling Kevin’s breath on my neck didn’t make me want to run to the bathroom and cry. Cry for all the time I wasted on him, for the broken girl who once loved him. I was strong for Ethan. I want to do right by him. But the minute Kevin threw those hateful words in my face, I crumbled. Nothing more than a pathetic intern.

  A tear slips down my cheek, and I swat it away. I’ve already cried too many tears for that jerk. For a best friend who was never really a friend in the first place. For the music they stole from me.

  I’m not going to cry. I straighten my shoulders and force the emotion back, but no matter how hard I try, it still sits just beneath the surface. I need to get out of here before something shatters the thin wall holding them back.

  I look at my watch and sigh a breath of relief. Technically, it’s lunchtime. I can make a quick exit get my shit together and get back here without anyone having to know. Ethan will think that I fought the good fight and made it through my morning in the studio. He’ll never have to know the coward I really am, and maybe he’ll never have to know the whole truth of why I came to California. Why I want to discover new talent and guide them through a world full of obstacles and people trying to rip them down. He won’t have to know the sordid details from my past, and he’ll never have to know about the girl I left behind in New York.

  Ethan never has to know the full truth.

  I turn the corner ready to jump into a sprint to the staircase when I run smack into a hard chest that I know all too well. His crisp fresh scent surrounds me, and for a slight second I find comfort in it.

  His hands rest on my shoulders as he holds me back. “Whoa, where’s the fire?” he asks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, but it’s been building for so long I can’t seem to get it to go down.

  He rests his finger under my chin and urges me to look at him. Concern etches the tiny lines at the corner of his eyes. “Paige, what’s wrong?”

  His voice is the most beautiful symphony, coursing through me and wrapping around my heart. The thin wall slowly starts to crack, and when I look into his eyes, I don’t want to keep running.

  Instead, I launch myself at him and press my lips to his, not caring who sees us. I just want to forget about the last couple hours, and Ethan can do that for me. He can help me forget.

  The kiss is full of desperation, urgent and hard. He pulls away, his breath coming out in short, rapid spurts, shock and confusion swirling across his gorgeous face. I brace myself for him to berate me for attacking him out in the open, but he grabs my hand and yanks me into his private elevator, shutting out the rest of the world.

  Paige grabs my hand and wiggles loose the stone grip I have on her waist, moving it under her skirt, right to her ass for leverage. My desk chair crashes into the wall as she thrusts her hips in a rushed and angry rhythm, one I recognize from myself the first time we did this together.

  She was so anxious as soon as I clicked the lock on the office door that we didn’t bother removing our clothes. Her soft cotton shirt clings to the sweat forming on my brow as her perfect, pierced tits bounce near my face. Her skirt is sprawled over my waist, getting caught between the armrests of my desk chair. The view alone has my dick throbbing inside of her, my heart rate skyrocketing as she uses me to get off.

  My fingers curl into the soft plush skin of her ass, eliciting a mind-numbing moan from her wet, kiss-swollen lips. I hook a finger around the thin string of panties she’s wearing, pulling them out of our way.

  Her tempo increases, and I let my head fall back and ride the high with her. I’m given the perfect view of her exposed neck, flushed and glistening in the low light of my office. A red-hot fog clouds my thoughts, but I manage to get a palm around the back of her head and bring that neck down to my mouth. I run a tongue along her pounding pulse as she finds her release. My own inevitable orgasm follows immediately after.

  Her chin lands on top of my head, her hand smoothing through my hair and making a shiver run through my spine. I don’t know what possesses me to do it, but my lips find her wrist, and I plant a soft kiss against her damp skin.

  She trembles in my arms. “Told you I’d be quick,” she jokes, giving my head a comforting squeeze before carefully sliding from my lap. Once I get my bearings, I take care of the condom and tuck myself back into my jeans. Paige is fixing her skirt when I let my eyes flick up to her, and even though she just gave me the ride of my life, I want to close the gap between us and peel every piece of clothing off of her, run my hands over every inch of skin, and ask her every question I’ve ever had about her.

  She meets my gaze, and the frustration I noticed resting in her eyes earlier may have been alleviated, but there is still a sadness touching the edges of her dark greens that won’t be erased—just forgotten for a moment. I sit up in my chair and push my way back to behind my desk. A small smile forms in the corner of my mouth.

  “So… how’d it go down there?” I tease.

  Surprise crosses her expression at my tone before she gives me a playfully annoyed grimace. “He’s an ass, you know,” she says. “Kevin. And Ruby Foxx isn’t that talented.”

  I press my lips together thoughtfully. “Mmmhmm. Well, her fans will probably argue that point.”

  Her brows pull inward. “Right,” she forces through clenched teeth. “I’ll have to deal with it, despite my opinion.”

  “Yes.” I push out of my chair and smirk at the fact that I have to zip up before continuing our “professional” conversation. “But, while you’re ‘dealing with it,’ can you keep an eye on something for me?”

  Her tight lips relax and part. “What’s that?”

  I pull open the drawer directly below the one full of demos and hand over the files I’ve collected since we signed with Ruby.

  “There are a few songs I’m concerned about,” I tell her as she flips through the file. “Particularly Caged in You. Ruby and Kevin are acting a bit strange every time I ask about it, and I think it’s because they know it’s not theirs.”

  Paige’s eyes go over the papers, her breathing starting to quicken. I reach out and close the folder in her hands.

  “I know he’s your ex,” I say, and she blinks her gaze up to mine. “I get if this is something you don’t think you can do. But… damn it, I think you’re plenty capable.” I let out a sigh and scratch at the back of my head. “I don’t put my trust in too many people here. For obvious reasons.” I nod at the news still perched at our doorsteps. “If the first artist I sign has stolen intellectual property, it probably won’t look good on my resume.”

  She humors me with a small laugh, letting her gaze float back to the folder in her hand.

  “It’s not their song,” she states, not a doubt in her tone.

  I nod, a sickening dip in my gut making me gulp back a rush of anxiety f
lowing under my skin. I assumed it wasn’t theirs, but I really hoped it was so I wouldn’t have to backtrack and cover so many of my mistakes.

  “Who wrote it?” I ask. “Do you know?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I shove up off the edge of my desk and stick my head out of my office.

  “Josh, get a press conference set up for tomorrow morning.”

  “What are you doing?” she asks, nerves creeping into the edge of her voice.

  “Getting these people off my lawn.” I grab my sports jacket and slide it on over my white tee. Paige watches quietly, nibbling at the ring in her lip. There’s a stray piece of hair floating over her eyes, and the urge to tuck it back is too strong to ignore.

  “This,” I say, taking the file from her hands and slapping it back on my desk, “unfortunately doesn’t take priority with the shit show I’m dealing with. You want to find the next artist? You’ve gotta be able to handle the ones we already have. Find out who wrote that song, and in the meantime, play nice with Kevin and Ruby so they don’t figure out that we’re onto them.”

  Her lip curls upward. “You know, I think I liked it better when you didn’t think I could do anything.”

  “Grass is always greener.” I finally tuck that hair behind her ear, then quickly turn to the door so there isn’t a risk of any meaning behind the gesture. I open it for her, silently ending our conversation; I really do have a lot of work to do.

  ***

  I slump onto my couch after a long, exhausting day, for once a satisfied grin on my face that I was actually productive. The news had an onslaught of new faces coming forward after the earlier “you’re welcome to walk” meeting, and I’ve got a press conference set up to at least point out my side of things. I’ll be candid, and whether my honesty helps or hinders, who the hell knows at this point. I’m too tired to care.

  My phone buzzes next to my hip, and my stomach jolts at the name scribbled across the screen. The message just has an address followed by a “Get your ass down here, now.”

  I may have heard my bed calling, but I grab my keys and slip on my shoes instead.

  ***

  I double-check the address before finding a spot to park in. I half wonder if the small café is open, even with the neon light that indicates that it is.

  The place isn’t packed by any means. In fact, I’m one of five people who are there for a cup of coffee at ten p.m.—an older gentleman in a corner booth, a couple of teens that look like they’re on their first date, and a gorgeous woman with long red hair, wearing a loose-fitting tank top and a pair of tight leggings. Paige relaxes back in her seat, her feet kicked up on one of the empty barstools, watching the corner stage as a young girl sits down with her acoustic guitar.

  “Can I get you anything?” the guy behind the counter asks as I settle in behind Paige. She swivels her head around long enough to connect eyes with me before she returns her focus on the young guitar player.

  “Whatever she’s drinking,” I tell him, just to have an idea of what Paige enjoys drinking this late at night. He nods and turns to the cappuccino machine. At least I’m in for some caffeine, not that I’ll need that to stay awake. Being this close to Paige seems to be doing the trick.

  “Do yourself a favor,” Paige says, leaning back as I lean forward. “Forget about your dad for the next three minutes.”

  My eyebrows rise. “What?”

  “Every time you listen to music, you hear your dad, right?”

  Did I tell her that? It must’ve fallen out at some point, and the fact she remembers causes my heart to race under the old concert tee I threw on when I got home. Her eyes flick over her shoulder, connecting with mine long enough for me to see past my own reflection in her glasses and to her passionate soul resting in the emerald irises.

  Damn, this woman is wrecking and taping me back together all in the same beat.

  “When she starts playing, try to only hear the lyrics, the melody, the individual notes. Trust me, you’re about to have an out of body experience.”

  “I’ve already had one of those today.” I smirk, and she playfully narrows her eyes before turning to the stage. She closes her eyes, her shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths as if she’s preparing to go on stage herself. I toggle between the performer and the woman sitting in front of me, noticing how similar they are—not in looks, but in demeanor, in spirit.

  I saw it growing up, and I’m reminded of the passion that turned into an obsession that turned into resentment. Music isn’t all bad. I remember my hands on ivory keys, strings that played chords, and melodies that stayed with me while I slept. I remember the shiny black polish of the grand piano, the smile on my father’s face when he surprised me with it.

  “All right,” I say quietly so I don’t pull her out of the zone she’s in. “You have me for the next three minutes.”

  I don’t expect three minutes to repair the years of damage that I sense he harbors, but it’s a start. Ethan rests back in his chair, but it’s not completely relaxed. There’s an edge to his demeanor, a bit of stiffness in his back and neck. A part of me wants to reach out and dig my fingers into the muscles, work the tension away as I kiss a line down his neck. Help ease the burden that he clearly carries on his shoulder but pretends he doesn’t.

  Jimmy brings Ethan a mug of cappuccino, and he smiles at the intricate leaf drawn in the foam.

  “I had a heart,” I say, pointing my finger down at the now half-empty cup. Ethan’s eyebrow rises slightly, and I continue. “Jimmy here is a genius in foam art. I told him if engineering doesn’t work out after he gets his degree, he should take it on the road and wow tourists with his skills.”

  “Because my mother would love that,” Jimmy says, resting a hand on my shoulder, and I notice Ethan’s eyes following it.

  “That’s because she clearly doesn’t know how talented you are,” I say with a laugh, and Jimmy rolls his eyes.

  “I need to get back behind the counter. Give me a wave if you need anything.” Jimmy walks off, and Ethan watches before leaning into me.

  He nods his head toward Jimmy, but Bailey takes her place behind the mic, and a hush falls over the small space. Ethan shifts back in his chair, his hand resting on the bar beside him, his fingers flexed against the wood.

  Wanting to calm the obvious tension running through him, I reach out and rest my hand on his. His eyes linger on my hand for a second before meeting my gaze. “Close your eyes,” I say.

  He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I smile.

  “Trust me.”

  His long eyelashes flutter down, and he takes a breath, his grip on the countertop relaxing beneath my touch. I’m tempted to lace my fingers with his, but instead I release him and bring my hand back to my lap, closing my own eyes.

  Bailey introduces herself, and I wait for that very first chord, the same chord that will tell me if I’m going to love a song. The warm earthy tone floats from her acoustic guitar and seeps through my veins. A smile spreads across my face as she eases beautifully into the song.

  Listening to good music is so much more than just listening. It’s a sense of euphoria that consumes you, filling you up with all the feels and touching a place deep inside you.

  Bailey opens her mouth and sings the first note with a smooth, silky richness that has my toes curling inside my flats.

  I sneak a peek at Ethan, and his stiff fingers hover above the wood grain of the bar like they’re fighting a battle between strumming along or staying closed off to the feeling completely.

  A hint of a smile tugs at his lips, but it’s quickly gone. His eyes are still closed, which makes me think it’s working. That by closing his eyes he’s able to block out all the bad things that music represents for him. It allows him to hear the music and only the music.

  Bailey brings the song to a close, her hands strumming lightly on the guitar strings before singing that final note that is like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold New York night.

  “Thank you,” Bailey says
into the mic and small audience offers a quick applause before going back to their coffees.

  Ethan keeps his eyes closed for a second longer before opening them and shifting in his chair. He presses his hands into his thighs and stands.

  “You’re leaving?” I ask, confused.

  He doesn’t say anything just nods and throws a ten down on the bar top before heading outside.

  For a second, he looked like he was enjoying himself, the music, the experience. Puzzled and concerned, I grab my purse, give a wave to Jimmy, and take off after Ethan.

  Outside, I don’t have to look far. He’s leaning against the side of the building, his hands shoved into his jeans that fit him in all the right places and make him look comfortable, despite the tension in his shoulders.

  “Hey,” I say not exactly sure what Ethan I’m going to get.

  “Hey.”

  His voice isn’t strained or in business mode. It’s relaxed if not a bit somber. So I decide to just talk.

  “She was good, right? I mean that voice is like a mix between Amy Winehouse and Adele. That perfect blend of soul and blues that can have a pop spin on it. She’s the type of person the music industry needs. She’s talent. Plain and simple. She doesn’t need ridiculous outfits or over-the-top performances. She only needs her voice, her guitar, and a chair. I think she could be big.”

  Ethan doesn’t say anything, just nods, and he’s not yelling at me to stop talking so I keep going.

  “You closed your eyes, so I think that means you trust me. So trust me again. Trust me when I tell you she can be the start of the new Broken Records. A label that puts out quality music. A label that represents you and not what the world of social media dictates. I know your dad started the label, but it’s yours now. Why not make it something you can be proud of?”

  His eyes squint slightly, and I can’t tell if he’s wincing or thinking. When he doesn’t say anything again, I feel like I may have overstepped my boundaries. Kevin’s words come back to haunt me. Nothing more than a pathetic intern.