One More Bad Boy

by Nora Flite

  “Only a little, just snippets. But I heard more than the rest of the world ever will.”

  “Then you're quite confident Beats and Blast won't be paying off her old contract to keep her on their roster?”

  “Chuck, I'm—wait for it—Hashtag Roshionfident!”

  I turned the radio off before I had to hear another second of the show. How does he know about the contract fiasco? Roshio must have reached out to Pickadillie Records. He'd probably spoken to my aunt. He'd definitely done his research if he'd found my videos on Caffeline's Instagram. What a scum bag, chasing the latest gossip.

  My anger gave way to misery. Roshio's certain Bach won't help me out. I didn't want Bach to pay my debt. I would never be able to live with myself if he gave up his company just because of me. But it still hurt to hear such a cold fact from another person's lips.

  It was still early when I pulled up Bach's driveway. Parking in the garage, I curled my hand around the Tesla's keys. This was the last time I'd hold them. I wasn't much of a car fan, but it was another nail in the finality of my situation to know this, too, was over with.

  Quietly, I entered the house through the garage's side door. I was hoping to head upstairs without being seen. Then I could pack my bag before I spoke to Violet; I wanted this done quick, like ripping off a bandage.

  When I got close to the stairs, I heard a masculine voice that set my heart racing.

  Bach is home.

  My fingers brushed the banister. I should have resisted, but... his claws were still hooked in me. I needed to see him, even if it was in secret. One more time wouldn't hurt.

  The voices became clearer as I approached the kitchen. Craning my head, I spotted Bach and Violet. They were facing away from me, her shoulder near his, her voice quiet but certain. “You have to do it, Bach. It's the only way.”

  “Why does everyone believe they know what's better for my company than me?”

  God, he sounded tired. Did he fly back this morning or last night?

  Violet's hair shifted as she hung her chin to her chest. “Think about it.”

  “I have.”

  “No, really, really think. Bach, you barely know her.”

  They're talking about me.

  “I know enough,” he said curtly.

  “Everything Laurence left to you... all of it... will be gone if you decide to keep her. Bach, I'm begging you.”

  His laugh was humorless, the edges tinged with defeat. “When I used to tease you about begging me, this was never what I meant.”

  “No more jokes. This isn't funny. None of it is funny.” Her shoulders trembled—I realized with horror that she was crying. Bach noticed, too, and I caught the shock in his profile when he turned towards her.

  His arm came around, nervous at first, then resting firmly. “When I made my promise to save this company, I didn't know there would be something I wanted to save more.”

  “Selling off Beats and Blast to Sherman won't do Amina any favors. She might be free of her contract with Pickadillie, but you'll be broke, done for. There are other people to think about here besides her. I hate it, too, but if you care about this empire your father built, brick by brick... we need to cut her loose and focus on the musicians we have left. It's the right thing to do.”

  His silence went on for an eternity. I wanted him to speak, and then when he did, I wished he'd remained quiet forever. “You're right,” he said softly. “That would be the right thing to do.”

  My hand sparked with pain—the Tesla key was cutting into my skin. I eased my grip, then backed away. Don't be sad, I told myself. This is what has to happen.

  There was no way a dream like this could go on forever.

  Halfway through packing, I heard an engine through my window. Glancing out, I spotted Bach's tell-tale orange Mustang with Violet in the passenger seat. They either hadn't noticed the Tesla in the garage or had decided to give me some privacy. Free of the fear of drawing attention to myself, I finished packing my things.

  A few taps into my fancy phone, and I'd ordered a Lyft to pick me up. They'd take me to the airport. I hated having to spend anymore of Bach's money, but I had no other way to get back to Portland. I'd cut the card up once I land, then mail him a check to pay him back.

  It would take me a few weeks working at the café to do it. That is, if they even hired me back.

  My phone buzzed—my ride was here. There was only one thing left to do.

  Walking across the silver music note that, once upon a time, Bach had spread out on top of with me beneath him, I entered the kitchen. Carefully, I placed the Tesla key on the counter.

  It was time to go.

  - Chapter Twenty-Six -

  Amina

  The Lyft was about to get on the 405 when my phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I answered it. “Hello?”

  “Amina? Hey, this is Farrah.”

  “Oh, hey.” Why was she calling me?

  “Could you swing by the office? I've got some mail here for you.”

  I glanced at my driver. “I think that's okay. I'll be there soon.” I hung up, then gave the Lyft driver the Beats and Blast address. What kind of mail did I have? Just go in, grab it, then get to the airport.

  Letting the Lyft driver know to wait a few minutes, I darted into the big building. I kept shooting nervous looks around, expecting Bach or Violet to pop up any second. I felt awful not saying a proper goodbye, but they sounded so miserable in the kitchen. I was sure this was better.

  “Amina!” Farrah said, waving when she saw me approaching. I jogged up to her desk, and she handed me a little box. The stamp on it said it was from LAX.

  “Oh!” I gasped. “My old phone!” Fumbling it out of the box, I laughed in surprise. “Never thought I'd see this again. Thanks.”

  Farrah extended an envelope to me. “There's also this.”

  Turning it side to side, I frowned. There was no writing on the outside. “What is it?” I asked.

  “It's from Mr. Devine.”

  A tremble that didn't seem to end began in me. Clutching my old phone, I weighed the envelope in my other hand. Why did it seem heavy? Was it because I knew there was something terrible inside?

  “Hey,” she said, leaning closer. “How did it all go last night?” I stared at her in confusion. “Vegas,” she clarified.

  “It went... fine.”

  “Really?” She twisted her mouth. “Weird. When he came through here earlier, he looked bad.”

  I tapped the envelope on my wrist. “I need to go. Thanks, Farrah. For everything.” Not letting her respond, I raced out of the building. My driver eyeballed me as I dove into the backseat.

  “You okay, lady?”

  “Not at all.” I waved a hand, sinking into the seat. “Please, just drive.”

  “You got it.”

  Opening my phone, I marveled at how beaten up it seemed next to my new one. But it was still comfortable in my hand, like a pair of old jeans you never wanted to throw away. The screen was black—of course, the battery had died.

  The driver glanced at me in his mirror. “Need a charger?” He pointed at the array of wires hanging from the middle console. Unsure what possessed me, I fit one into my old phone. The screen lit up; staring back at me was the website I'd left open before boarding my plane last month.

  Bach Devine was still gorgeous, but after being near the real thing, his photo was a poor substitute. I ran my thumb over my screen and remembered all the things I'd worried about while sitting in the airport. No, before that—I'd been terrified since Korine showed me the message on Caffeline's Instagram.

  In spite of all those fears... I'd done it.

  I'd made it here.

  And now it's all over with. Because inside of this envelope was a message from Bach. I already knew what it was—he was ending my contract with him. It was all he could do. What I'd heard Violet begging him to do.

  Peeling apart the top of the envelope, I blew inside. The air that rebounded smelled like him. The s
heet of paper was covered in his handwriting. Shivering, I began to read.

  Amina,

  You are who you are in your soul.

  That means you're a star. But you don't have to be mine, it was wrong of me to put that on you. Hurting you was never my plan.

  You once asked me what my father was like. He was caring, and he always put his artists first. I'm nothing like him. But for you, I'll try to be.

  He would have paid off your debt. So, I'm going to end your old contract.

  I'm not, however, going to ask that you stay with me. You owe me nothing.

  You're a free agent.

  - Bach

  Tiny, rapid breaths escaped my lips. The paper was rattling around in my grip. I saw now that there were two other sheets—one of them was a release from my invalid Beats and Blast contract. The last paper, the writing smaller than the rest, said I was free of all obligations to Summer and Pickadillie Records.

  I was free.

  The mistake from my past had been fixed.

  I should have been happy... relieved.

  All I felt was grief.

  “You alright back there?”

  Sniffling, I scrubbed at my eyes. “I'm fine.”

  “Uh, sure. I'll put on some music.” So you can cry without me hearing it, was his subtext.

  My driver flicked on the car's radio. The end of a song blasted out, fading as we caught the tail. The host started to chat—a perky girl with an abundance of energy. “Ooookay! That was Four and a Half Headstone's latest single, Georgia Moss! They'll be playing at the SoCal Artist Awards tomorrow, I hope to see you all there! My booth will be right next to Danny Eckland's! Maybe I'll get to talk to some of their stars, or even better, the man behind all the hits, Sherman Proud!”

  Sherman.

  That man was stealing everything from Bach. Thinking back to the day I'd run into Sherman in the phone store, I scowled. He'd tried to steal me, too. He'd been quick with the compliments. Fluffy words were meaningless, especially coming from someone who only wanted to use me.

  If I stop singing, no one can use me anymore.

  The idea stabbed me so abruptly it stole the air from my chest.

  Quit music? Me?

  That's what you're doing, remember? I glanced at my bag on the seat beside me. You're leaving this city. You're giving up. I'd only planned to leave because I'd been sure my career was over. How could I have paid off my old contract?

  Bach did it for me.

  I don't have to leave.

  Sweat began to pool in the crease of my stomach. My shirt stuck to me, my nerves going erratic. The reality was sinking in—Bach had set me free. I didn't have to run from my past anymore. My aunt couldn't control me. Hiding was pointless, too, since Roshio had blabbed about how I'd fled my old record company all over the news.

  For the first time since I could remember, I was genuinely free.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  The driver glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

  “I need to go back.”

  “What about the airport, lady? Weren't you going somewhere?”

  “I was. I'm not anymore.”

  He laughed until he started to cough. “Fine, whatever. You're crazy.”

  “I know.” Folding up the letter, I clutched it to my chest.

  It felt good to be crazy.

  - Chapter Twenty-Seven -

  Bach

  “It was the right thing to do.”

  Violet had said that five times now.

  She'd be less comforting if she knew the full extent of what I'd done. I hadn't told her, though. Not yet. There'd be time for her to learn. Sherman had been amicable to my terms—he was happy to take Violet on, give her a good job with a pay raise. I hoped it would be enough to keep her from hating me too much.

  Maybe I had to go back to not caring about if people hated me. I hadn't given a shit about anyone or anything for most of my existence. When had that changed?

  Violet flipped through her phone as she spoke. “I prepped Sally and Chianne as fast as possible. The award board wasn't happy with the last-minute entries, but... well, I guess they've been pretty excited to see what Beats and Blast will do this year.”

  I knew why they were excited. And that reason was no longer here to amaze them.

  She's free.

  It had killed me to write Amina's letter. It was worse that she hadn't spoken to me since the other night. I'd made her cry. ME, of all people. Fuck... that was the worst.

  “I wish I could have said bye to her,” Violet mumbled. “I guess it's not that shocking she'd pack up and leave without a word. I wonder—”

  “Please,” I sighed. “Stop talking about her.”

  “Sorry.” She looked at me from the corner of one eye. I waited for her to say more, but she respected my wish and buttoned up.

  I really didn't want to talk about how I, too, had wanted a proper goodbye. I was a coward, putting the responsibility in Farrah's hands to deliver the news. And she didn't even know what was in that envelope she'd handed off yesterday.

  The only ones who knew were me, Amina, her aunt's lawyer, and...

  “Bach, I'm surprised to see you here,” Sherman said. He was standing beside me in the aisle, his bright blue and gold suit made more garish by the red carpet. He hadn't looked so damn happy in years. I hated being the reason.

  Violet leaned around me, glaring at him. “Excuse me? Why wouldn't we be here?”

  I squeezed the arms of my chair to keep myself sitting still. Sherman's smile inched lower, until he wasn't feigning surprise. “You have no one on your roster anymore. Unless you're here to enjoy the show for purely recreational reasons?”

  A cold, wretched understanding crossed my former VP's face. “Bach,” Violet whispered, her eyes straining as she searched mine. “What did you do?”

  “You didn't tell her yet?” Sherman asked.

  I'd been bracing myself for this since yesterday morning. It allowed me to keep my tone emotionless. “I did what I had to.”

  “You asshole!” she shouted. My cheek burned from her open-palm slap. Gritting her teeth, Violet stormed off into the crowd of gawking onlookers. Let them stare—I deserved to be shamed like this.

  Sherman looked down his nose at me. “Why didn't you warn her?”

  I glared up at him, my lips twisting in a snarl. “Fuck you.”

  “Eloquent as ever. Well, enjoy the show. I sure will.” Done gloating, he walked down the aisle. I didn't look to see where he sat, I didn't give a shit. None of this mattered anymore.

  Why am I even here?

  The question burned in my gut until I couldn't ignore it. I distantly heard the stage hands announcing the first acts, the lights overhead shifting in colors to suit each song. None of it reached me. I could have been at the bottom of the ocean.

  “...Come along, hollow bones. Stay strong enough to keep me up.”

  The thick misery in my head was cracked open.

  That's my song.

  I stared because this couldn't be real.

  Amina was on the stage.

  “Hollow bones aren’t so bad. It’s a hollow heart that’s rough...” She was wearing the same glittery purple dress from the gala. As she swayed under the lights, she looked like a living firework. If anyone tried to touch her, they'd be burned by a sparkling energy too pure to be contained.

  That was probably why she sang for as long as she did—people were too shocked to stop the girl who'd barged onto the stage without being announced. “And I'm sorry that I'm empty. I'm sorry there's nothing here,” she crooned. “But hollow bones are what let me fly... they help me escape the fear. And I—” Someone had cut the mic. She kept singing anyway, her voice so clear and powerful it rose above the surprised shouts. “I'm sorry I want to go! I'm sorry you're so low! If you fill my hollow heart... I won't go, I can't go.”

  The determination in her beautiful face gave me strength. It demanded I run to her. “Amina!” I roared, trying to get throug
h the massive crowd that had formed in the aisle. People were cheering, others blocking the way as they took photos. Security was rushing the stage; I couldn't get to her.

  I needed to get to her.

  “Amina! Amina!” I yelled her name so loud that I was sure Heaven would hear me. She turned her head—had it worked? Did my voice reach her ears?

  Then multiple security guards collapsed on her.

  Shoving my way forward, I fought with all my might to get to the stage. My throat was raw from screaming; I don't know what I was yelling anymore. The world was pandemonium.

  Grunting, I pushed the last of the people who dared to block my path aside. I'd done it—I was at the stage! PA's rushed around, clearing things away, chatting in their headsets.

  There were so many people cluttering the stage. Not a single one of them was her.

  Amina was gone.

  - Chapter Twenty-Eight -

  Amina

  “Stop!” I cried, struggling in the steel grip of the man who'd yanked me from the stage. There were too many bodies for me to keep count. People chatted on walkies, all while I was dragged along an increasingly empty hallway. “Where are you taking me?”

  “The security office,” one of the men said, giving me a shake.

  Another set of hands pressed my wrists into my spine until I hissed in pain.

  “Isn't this extreme?” a familiar voice asked. I was yanked around as the group turned to face the person talking. Sherman had followed us down the hall, his bright suit out of place in the bland, gray hall. “You don't need three men to hold down one girl,” he scolded.”

  Amazingly, they released me. “Mr. Proud! It's just—well, she caused hysteria by intruding on the stage.”

  “Hysteria?” he snorted. “She sang a song. If you look at the contestant paperwork, you'd see she's on the list. Things probably got mixed up is all.”

  It wasn't a total lie, I had been listed to sing. But the final sets were created this morning, and I hadn't showed up to fill them out in person, so officially, I was out. The security guards didn't know how to verify that; Sherman's authoritative energy was making them back down.