Rock Me Gently_A Havenwood Falls Novel

by Susan Burdorf

  Brett found his attention wandering as he looked around. The butterflies had returned. He felt overwhelmed and small in this room of famous, and infamous, musicians. Some he’d looked up to since childhood, some he’d emulated with his own playing, and some he was so awed at seeing, he could feel his breath catch in his throat as he thought how lucky he was to be here. Judging by the starstruck looks on the faces of his friends, they were equally shocked to be here among their idols.

  His attention snapped back to the stage when he heard his band’s name announced with the list of other nominees.

  “Pink Melon. I like those guys,” the girl said with a giggle as she took the card from the male announcer and tore it open.

  Giggling again, she quipped, “And the winner is . . .”

  Brett held his breath, waiting for the words he both dreaded and longed to hear.

  The male presenter peered over her shoulder and finished the announcement with, “Pink Melon! Come on up, you guys, and claim your prize. Look at that, I’m a poet.”

  “And I bet ya didn’t know it,” the female said with another giggle.

  Cooly, Harry, and Sticks held hands while raising their arms up high in a victory salute as they accepted the award from the statuesque models who were handing them out. Brett, walking across the stage with a slow, measured gait, reached them just as Cooly leaned in toward the microphone to give thanks for the award and to list the people who deserved credit for the band’s success, then he stepped aside to let Brett have his say.

  Brett stepped up to the microphone for his moment. Tossing his hair back, he looked directly into the camera and said as the music to cut off their speeches began to play, “Give me a minute, guys, this is important.”

  To his surprise, the music stopped. Brett held up the award and stared at it for a few seconds as he gathered his thoughts.

  “The guys and I want you to know that Pink Melon is not a fly-by-night band. We’re not a one-hit wonder. We are here to stay. We’ll be back on this stage again, God willing, and with your help, other dreams will come true. I want to take a moment to thank my mom, who recently passed away. She was a great woman who always encouraged me to do my best, and I want to pass that advice on to all of you. Do your best, and the best will happen for you, too. That’s all. You can start the music again, folks. We’re done.”

  Cooly met Brett’s eyes before sliding his glance toward the other two, who also looked a bit chastened by Brett’s speech. They all three turned to look back at Brett. The four grabbed hands, putting them up in the air as a sign of solidarity that Brett hoped rang literally true before going backstage.

  “Mr. Falwyck, sir? A gentleman left this for you.” The security guard held an envelope with Brett’s name on it.

  Puzzled, Brett opened it. Who left him a message? The other members of the band crowded around as Brett silently read the message while they read over his shoulder.

  Dear Brett, Eddie, Harry, and Peter;

  It is with deep regret that I write this letter to inform you that you are broke.

  Due to circumstances beyond my control, the money earned by the band Pink Melon has been lost in unstable investments.

  I resign as your manager. You are now the property of Forthright Records and Management.

  Sincerely,

  Alistair “Lucky” Locke

  P.S. Congratulations on winning the Grammy Award. I hope it is the first of many.

  P.P.S. I will be leaving the country immediately and will not be available for communication.

  P.P.P.S. If anyone with a scar running down the side of his face comes looking for me, be sure to tell him I’m not in the country anymore.

  Plans Change

  (Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)

  Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck

  I had it all figured out

  you and me forever

  a little house in the suburbs

  a baby or two

  Life would be perfect

  walks in the park

  ice cream with sprinkles

  umbrella kisses in the rain

  A dog, a cat,

  laughter in the dark

  warm cocoa in winter

  snow angels on the lawn

  Growing old together

  hands always near

  but I forgot to remember one thing

  I never asked you

  Plans change

  Castaway dreams

  adrift on ocean waves

  like a message in a bottle

  Chapter 6

  Lucky’s letter threw them all for a loop. No one expected to be broke just as their band was making it big. They didn’t win any other awards that night, but the success they expected after the Grammy win didn’t materialize like the members of Pink Melon expected.

  Instead of adoring fans, they found creditors knocking at their doors with letters and liens and threats of lawsuits and worse. Brett didn’t know what to do. They were advised to get a private investigator on the trail of the missing manager.

  The four met at the pristine, glass-enclosed conference room of their management company and were told to sign a dissolution agreement or face charges of fraud and other felonious charges for the crimes Locke had perpetrated against the company in the band’s name.

  “Sorry, Brett, Harry, Eddie, Peter. We don’t have any other option. We’re dropping you. There’s a clause in your contract that allows us to do this if we feel you acted in a morally or financially detrimental way.” The executive who handed them the paperwork did look regretful, but it didn’t make it any less painful.

  “No hard feelings,” Bryan said, handing them each a pen and pushing the dissolution agreement across the polished mahogany table.

  “We have no options?” Cooly asked. He looked pale and scared. They all did.

  Brett picked up the pen and signed his name with a flourish without even reading the contract. There wasn’t anything they could do about this anyway. They didn’t have the money to fight it, or take the management company to court, even though Brett was certain the company was just as guilty as Locke was for not catching the mismanagement of the band’s funds.

  “What does this mean?” Sticks asked as he signed his name.

  “We’re out. A one-hit wonder,” Brett said, when no one else had the courage to speak up.

  “Yeah, about that song . . .” Bryan Winston, slick in his dark suit and white shirt with his power red tie just perfectly knotted, licked his lips and leaned slightly away. Glancing toward the glass into the office area, where two other executives were nervously avoiding their gazes, Bryan cleared his throat.

  “What about the song?” Brett said. His tone was cold, and a tight knot was forming in his stomach. He had a strong premonition this wasn’t going to be good.

  “That song was part of the band’s inventory, and well, it doesn’t belong to you anymore. It’s part of the payment for the debt you owe us.”

  “What?” shouted Brett, vaulting to his feet. “What are you talking about? I wrote it. I put it together, I sound mixed it, I—”

  “In our studios, at our expense, and in the original contract you signed, you all agreed to keep the band’s inventory of songs with us for a span of five years or longer if we needed it to pay off debts incurred in organizing and arranging your appearances and so on.” Bryan had flinched when Brett stood up so abruptly.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the security guard, a kindly old man with a face like Santa, hurrying toward them. The old man carried a pistol, but Brett wasn’t even sure it was real. Usually the old man was quite nice, and he and Brett would often discuss the Super Bowl or other sports events. The old guy had a grandson Brett had signed a poster for just last week.

  Sitting back down, head in his hands, Brett whispered, “Take it. Take it all. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

  “Brett,” said Cooly softly, “we can fight this.”

  “How? How do we fight this
?” Hands splayed on the table to keep from raising them into fists, Brett tried to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. “Do you have a million lying around that I don’t know about? We got nothing. Lucky took it all.”

  Bryan grabbed the paperwork and stood up abruptly. “Okay, gentlemen, that’s all. I’ll have Baxter show you out.” He pointed to the door, careful to stay out of reach on the other side of the long table.

  “Oh, and guys . . .” Bryan licked his lips again, the words he was about to say frozen on his lips as all four heads swiveled toward him, anger and defeat in all their eyes.

  “What?” Brett finally said. “What else do you need? Want our souls, you motherfucking blood-sucking vampire?”

  Bryan tittered at that, then straightened his shoulders. “No need to swear. I’m not the one who trusted all my money to a guy I barely knew. Lucky’s actions have left you with nothing. We’re dropping you. We keep the rights to your songs for the next ten years, of course. Even your cars, perks of the contract, were confiscated.”

  “Wait a minute,” Harry bristled, stepping toward Bryan with anger in his eyes. “Those belong to us. They were gifts to us. Bonuses. I remember you clearly saying that when you gave us the keys.”

  “No, you misunderstood,” said Bryan with a smug smile. “They were a loan, and we have taken them back. Your stuff has been removed from the cars and is waiting for you out in the anteroom. You can take everything when you go, or we will be happy to dispose of it for you.”

  “Bryan,” said Brett coldly, rounding on the executive they’d all shared steaks and champagne with just weeks ago, “may you rot in fucking hell.”

  The four walked out to the elevator.

  “Brett? Brett, wait a minute, I need a word with you.”

  Brett turned to see Bryan standing in the doorway they’d just walked through. He pointed to the table and chair Brett had just walked away from.

  “What now? Need more blood?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I have something to discuss with you. Something I think you might want to hear.”

  “Brett?” said Cooly. The guys were standing by the elevator, waiting for him.

  Brett hesitated, torn between leaving with his bandmates and curiosity about what Bryan wanted.

  “Wait for me downstairs? I’ll be right there,” Brett said to Cooly.

  Cooly nodded before turning to the other two. “Come on, boys, we need to figure out how we’re getting out of here. Anyone got a credit card with them? Maybe we can Uber it?”

  Brett watched the doors slide closed, the faces of his bandmates as shell-shocked as his own must look.

  Seated once more at the table, Brett raised an eyebrow as he waited for Bryan to pull together some paperwork and approach him. The man leaned over Brett, the smell of his cologne so sickly sweet, Brett nearly gagged.

  “We realize what happened was not entirely the band’s fault. We are heartsick over it all, but business is business, and frankly, with the economy the way it is, we just cannot take on any more debt. Putting a band on the road is an expensive proposition, and with the win, we know your fans will expect a tour, and we just can’t support it right now. Pink Melon’s bank accounts were wiped out, and that means we still have debts to cover for bills already invoiced. I didn’t tell everyone the worst of what is to come—you know the debt collectors will start calling soon.”

  Brett looked at Bryan in astonishment. “You mean you expect us to pay those debts out of pocket? Where do you think we’re going to get that kind of money? I thought covering those debts was what you took our songs for?”

  “That will cover part of it,” Bryan agreed. He stopped pacing and gestured to someone outside the glass.

  Brett turned as a woman in her early thirties entered. The pretty redhead was wearing a dark navy suit, white blouse, and sensible pumps. She carried a stack of papers in her arms. She was followed inside by two other equally stiffly dressed men in dark suits, white shirts, and loafers. They set more paperwork on the desk in front of him.

  “Hello,” said the woman, her voice soft and reassuring. Brett did a double take. This was the woman he’d slept with the time he had the shower dream. What was she doing here? He could see kindness and a little pity in her eyes. He narrowed his eyes but before he could speak, she nodded to the paperwork.

  If she remembered him, she was great at hiding it. She didn’t betray a single clue that they knew each other intimately. Of course, it had only been one time, and they’d both been a bit wasted, but surely he was memorable enough in bed for her to at least wink at him. Fine, two could play at that game. He kept quiet as well.

  “My name is Amanda Harrison. This is Joe Barnes and Mark Thomas. We’re part of the accounting team here.”

  “Amanda, Joe, and Mark are part of what we call our ‘dream team’ here,” Bryan said. “They are very good at following the money.”

  “Following the money?” Brett was confused. First they told them the money was gone, and now they were saying there might be some left. At least, that’s what he assumed if they were following it.

  “Bryan, why don’t you let us explain what we do?” Amanda’s voice was still soft, but firmer this time. She gestured toward the door. “Can you get us all some coffee?”

  “I can’t stay,” Brett said, starting to stand up. “My friends are waiting for me downstairs.”

  “I think you’ll want to hear this,” Amanda said, fixing a steady gaze on him. All pity was gone from her eyes. Now there was only a firmness that spoke of confidence, and Brett found himself sitting back down before he realized it.

  She pushed a packet of paperwork toward him and began explaining.

  “So you think we can pay off the debt and find the rest of our money?” Brett asked a half hour later.

  “That’s what we hope. There are no guarantees. But it will take some time. So . . . Bryan thought that maybe you might want to help your friends and possibly sign on as a songwriter with the company for a period of no more than a year. With this steady flow of cash from your songs, which are quite good, by the way, we think we can stave off the hemorrhaging—the financial hemorrhaging that is—from the damage Mr. Locke created by his theft.”

  Brett stared at her, trying to process her suggestion. “If I sell my soul, you think my friends will be okay?”

  “Don’t think of it like that,” Amanda said. She rubbed her eyes, and he realized with a start that she was trying to make the best of a bad situation. This was an out, a way to keep his friends and himself from filing for bankruptcy and losing their houses, at least.

  “Think of it as a gift, a gesture of the love you have for those guys. And . . .” She stood, stretching her arms overhead and then, glancing his way, blushed a bit. Brett realized, with a start, she was trying to help him.

  “Why?” he asked, pushing the books back to her.

  “Why what?” she asked.

  “Why help us? You don’t even know us. What do you get out of this?”

  “I get nothing out of this. It’s the right thing to do.” Amanda met his eyes without lowering her own.

  He could see the dark ring around the blue widening as she stared at him. He felt like he was drowning in them.

  “I will think about it,” he said finally, standing up.

  Without another word, he left the room and stepped into the waiting elevator. He was luckier than his bandmates. He’d bought his house himself. His car, a fancy Porsche, had never been one he liked anyway, but it suited the fans’ expectations of his lifestyle, and he drove it for that reason. He wasn’t sorry to see it go.

  The elevator bumped as it stopped on a floor and opened to let in two guys in their late twenties. They punched the button for the basement as Brett listened with half an ear to their conversation.

  “So, vacation time, dude. Where are you going?” one said to the other.

  “Oh, this little ski resort area in Colorado near Telluride. It looks dope. Can’t wait.”


  Brett’s ears perked up at the words “Havenwood Falls,” and he jerked his head around to look at them.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said apologetically, an urgency he didn’t understand in his voice. “Did you say you’re going to Havenwood Falls?”

  The man’s brows furrowed together. “Uh, no. Not even close. Never heard of the place.”

  The two exchanged a what’s with this guy look until the one’s eyes lit up with recognition of Brett’s face. “Oh, dude, I know who you are! Sorry, man. Nah, I said Telluride. A ski town in Colorado. Here, I think I have a flyer about it somewhere.”

  The man patted his pockets and then handed Brett a flyer with snowcapped mountains, a skier, and a street filled with shops. It was like the one Brett had received in the mail the other day.

  “Telluride,” the guy said, pointing at the headline—right where the words Havenwood Falls were emblazoned in red lettering.

  Brett looked at the guy to see if he was serious—which he seemed to be—then back at the words on the flyer. That now said “Telluride, Colorado.”

  Weird, Brett thought as he handed the flyer back to the man. But what a strange coincidence.

  He stepped into the lobby, surprised to see his friends were still there waiting for him. He’d figured he’d been too long, and they would have left without him. His heart skipped a beat at their loyalty.

  He took the bag with his stuff from Cooly and grinned. “Well, boys, it looks like we’re back where we started.”