by Quinn, Cari
Fuck him and his puffed-up chest. Christ, had Trident laced his cigarettes with ego and fairy dust? Deacon swallowed a flare of anger. It would only feed Nick’s need to argue things into the ground. “They also want to own us and the rights to our songs. All the promises of ‘just this first record’ crap is going to bite us on the ass.”
Simon stepped forward. “It’s just a meeting, Nick. What’s the harm?”
“What if it gets back to Trident?”
The panic in Nick’s eyes shut Deacon up. “What did they say to you in that meeting? The one that me, Jazz, and Gray weren’t a part of?”
Nick’s gaze tracked to the floor.
Deacon gripped the edge of the counter. “I don’t care about that right now. I just want to know what they said to you.”
Simon slapped the side of his thigh. “Jesus, Nick.” He turned to Deacon, Jazz, and Gray. “Jackson told us that signing would protect the band. He laid it on thick, too.” He stuffed his fists under his biceps until they bulged. “And the fact that it was about as thick as buttercream frosting, I’m finally starting to wonder why.”
“Jackson warned us—”
Simon whirled to Nick. “Exactly, he warned us off. Don’t you think that’s shady?”
Nick speared his fingers into his hair. “So you want to take the chance? You want to lose all this?” He waved his hands around the spacious living room with the high end entertainment center and glossy kitchen.
“It’s just a shiny cage, Nicky,” Jazz said quietly. “Don’t you see that?”
“Maybe I don’t want to scrimp for food and live in the basement anymore.”
Deacon dropped into one of the stools along the counter. “I don’t want to either, man. But I can’t sell my soul…my music for this. I just can’t.” He stood again. “Maybe we don’t have to. This meeting might be our way out.” Deacon kneaded his triceps. “I’m not going to sugar coat it. The chances that we get a place like this? Not likely. But living here is a perk at the moment. Who’s to say they won’t dump us to the curb the minute we’re done with the album.”
Nick’s brows lowered. “What time is the meeting?”
“Nine.”
Nick nodded, then walked through the patio door and out to the loungers.
Deacon just hoped that Nick was going into this with an open mind. Because the contract had specified they had the apartment until the album was done. But the double penthouse in the heart of Los Angeles was too expensive to give to a bunch of kids. This definitely had the smell of executive perks.
That was probably why he’d never felt comfortable there. And why he hadn’t truly unpacked since they moved in.
Jazz came over to him and leaned her head on his arm. “At least you got him to listen.”
Deacon wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah. I guess we’ll see what’s what tomorrow, huh, Pix?” He looked down at her, but Jazz’s attention was on Gray. He was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Solitary and quiet as always.
They were all so disconnected. Deacon could only hope the meeting would change that tomorrow. That they’d go in as a band of equals finally.
Simon headed out to the patio after Nick. Maybe the two of them would actually talk about something other than the Trident deal. It was the only hope they had to keep the band together.
Thirty-Four
September 27, 9:02 AM - Broken Road
Deacon paced the length of the reception room. He tried to distract himself with the pictures on the walls, but he didn’t recognize half the people on display. Producers weren’t as recognizable to him without the names to go with them.
Sort of like him. He was very much a part of the behind the scenes in Oblivion and he liked it that way. He could walk down the street a helluva lot easier than Simon and Jazz could. Well, for the most part. His height certainly made him more of a target than he liked.
“Deacon McCoy?”
Deacon turned away from the display to find Lila Shawcross standing in the center of the room. She wore a cherry red suit today with a slim skirt that went below her knees with strappy black shoes that accentuated all the curves she had at her disposal. She held an iPad, tapping at it efficiently before looking up and crossing the room with her hand out.
“It’s nice to see you under better circumstances.” Her eyes twinkled and that almost smile was back.
Deacon shook her hand, surprised at her firm grip. She seemed so soft and feminine. Before he could open his mouth, she turned to Gray.
“Grayson Duffy, co-lead guitar, correct?”
Gray nodded, but kept his hands in his pockets.
She made a little hmm sound and moved on to Jazz. “Jazz Edwards, resident media guru. Deacon has sung your praises.”
Jazz blinked. She tugged at the sleeves of her purple blouse then held out her hand. “I guess that’s me. I really just like to annoy the guys with my phone cam.”
“No, you have effectively brought the band out of mediocrity and into stardom.”
“Mediocrity?” Nick stood. “This is your wooing technique?”
Lila leveled him with a patient look. “I don’t have to woo. You came to us.” When Nick opened his mouth, she held her hand up. “Nick Crandall, your reputation matches you in every way.”
“Oh, really?”
She nodded. “Brash, impatient, and insolent. It’s a good thing you’re so good at writing lyrics and music. Maybe professionalism will top that list by the end of today, hmm?”
“I do not need this bullshit.”
Simon clamped a hand on the back of Nick’s neck and held him still. “Don’t mind my bandmate. His manners kick in around ten o’clock.” He held out his hand. “Simon Kagan.”
Surprised, Deacon rocked back on his heels. It was a rare day when Simon reined in Nick.
“Pleased to meet you Mr. Kagan.” She shook his hand then pressed her tablet to her chest and crossed her arms. “I’d like to take you through the studio before we meet with Mr. Lewis, if that’s all right.”
“Can we skip the pony show? We just want to talk business.” Nick’s voice bordered on rude.
Jazz stomped on Nick’s foot. “We’d love to see the studio. Through here?” Jazz, in her typical excitable manner, rushed through the door marked, “Studio”.
Lila locked eyes with Nick, badass and unflinching. Nick didn’t shy away from her boring look, just smirked before sauntering through the door behind Jazz.
Deacon stared at the ceiling. “God, give me strength.”
“Not sure prayers are going to cut it with this group, Mr. McCoy,” Lila said as Gray and Simon walked ahead of her through the door.
Deacon sighed. “I’m really sorry about Nick. He’s the one I need to convince the most, as you can see.”
“And I’m here to help you. I think the studio will go a long way in doing so.”
“I’m surprised you have your own studio.” Deacon held open the door for her.
“That would be Mr. Lewis’s idea. If we can keep recording costs down, then it’s a win for everyone.”
“Even though the output had to be in the hundreds of thousands?”
“Millions actually,” she said and glided through the door.
Millions? Deacon followed down the soundproofed corridor. Platinum and gold records graced the narrow hallway, but there were also posters from shows and cutouts from the trade papers. It was all collaged in a way that, again, had that throwback to the London scene flavor.
Things he’d only seen in documentaries for the Stones, Sex Pistols and the Beatles. There was a deep appreciation for music, not just the current acts that were perfectly framed at Trident’s offices.
Lila smoothly passed everyone to lead the way down the hallway to a door covered in Beatles memorabilia. “As you can see, our people have a deep and abiding love for the past as well as the present. This is the Beatles room.”
“Shocking,” Nick deadpanned.
Lila curled her fingers
around the handle, invading Nick’s space. “You wouldn’t be shitting on the Beatles now, would you?”
Nick flicked his gaze down to her mouth then to her eyes. The smirk returned full force as he hummed a few bars of, “Revolution”.
A delighted smile spread across her scarlet lips, and Nick backed up a step. “I might just like you after all, Mr. Crandall.”
“Don’t count on it,” Jazz muttered.
Lila opened the door with a throaty laugh. They all poured into the room, Deacon heading up the rear. He’d remembered Lila’s and Nick’s sparks at the show, but he’d thought it was just because she’d interrupted Nick mid-groupie sex act.
Evidently not.
Deacon caught the scent of paper first. In a world of Pro Tools and iPhones, there was little reason to write anything down anymore, but Deacon always worked on paper. In fact, they all did. Notebooks were scattered all over the bus.
And there was one sitting on the console now. Dog-eared and battered with random pages sticking out. Some printer paper, some newspaper, glossy magazine…was that a napkin? A sketch pad sat on a chair with a fat crayon-looking pencil. A pile of unused spiral bound and composition notebooks lined the top of the filing cabinet with a cigar box of pencils.
“Don’t mind the mess. Jamie and Lindsey from Brooklyn Dawn are working in here this week.” Lila laid a hand on the notebook before picking it up and putting it into one of the drawers. “We value the rights of the artist in here. Because we own the studio, there’s plenty of time to work without being rushed.”
Deacon smoothed his hand over the leather bumper at the edge of the console. Dials, switches, and a keyboard made up the majority of the panel. Two wide screens flanked the workspace, both blacked out at the moment.
It left the window into the studio wide open. The space was cozy, where their first taste of a studio had been overwhelming. Comfortable chairs sat in the center of the room with guitar stands and guitar cases making a large U-shape around them. Microphones, both with guards and without, were set up on stands. There was a larger room to the back that had a drum kit already set up.
Deacon noticed Jazz’s eyes light up. There had been very little music in the penthouse since they’d been off tour. Some guitars and the occasional keyboard had been pulled out, but they’d been in fight mode so much that music just hadn’t had room to breathe.
“Is this where we’d work?” Deacon asked.
“Depending on what you need, yes. We have a slightly larger room—The Stone’s room—that can hold more instruments and has a separate vocal booth. We understand that you’ve toyed with some orchestra work in the past, so we want to be able to give you more flexibility.”
“If we take the contract, of course,” Nick said with mock sincerity.
“If we offer you a contract,” Lila answered coolly. She looked down at her watch and her eyes went from ice to sunny sweet. “Now that you’ve seen the candy store, how about we go meet the man in charge?”
They all filed out after Lila and Deacon stood alone for a moment soaking it in. He’d found it very hard to work at the studio for the first album. It had been too big and so many people had been in and out of the rooms. This felt…good. Inspiring.
The door thunked open and a woman with jet black hair with flame red tips rushed inside. She came to an abrupt halt. “Who the fuck are you?”
Deacon blinked at the woman. The tall woman. She came up to his chin. He automatically looked down, surprised to see her wearing black Chucks. In his experience, women needed a four inch heel to hit six feet. “Uh, hi. I’m, Deacon McCoy.”
“And I’m looking for my notebook.” Her golden eyes narrowed. “Did you steal it?”
“No.” What the fuck?
She looked around, her hair flying around her shoulders as she pushed through papers on the console.
“Sort of green and looks like you put it through the washing machine?” he asked.
“Rainstorm, thank you very much.”
Deacon nodded to the filing cabinet. “Lila put it in that drawer, I think.”
The woman dragged open the file drawer and her shoulders sagged. “Thank God.” She tucked it under her arm. “Well thanks, Stretch. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have wanted to kill you.” Her eyes flicked over him. “You’d take a whole lot of time to bury.”
Deacon laughed. “Glad to be of service.”
She went for the door then smiled over her shoulder. “I’m Jamie. Guess I’ll be seeing you around.” This time, she took her time. Her gaze slid over his face, down his chest and directly to his crotch, then back to his eyes. “Very nice to meet you. Now that I know you’re not a thief.” She sailed out the door. “I’ll cut off your dick if you mess with my stuff.”
Deacon barked out a laugh and followed her through the door.
“C’mon, Deak,” Jazz called from the door at the end of the all. “We’re meeting, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“I’m coming.”
He followed her out to the waiting room and then down another hallway to a huge glass walled room with a 180 degree view of Los Angeles below. Simon and Nick were standing in front of the window. Gray was sitting at the table, one finger tapping on the ebony surface.
Jazz went to sit next to him.
Lila stood at the head of the boardroom table, tapping at her iPad.
Drawn to the view, Deacon stood next to Nick. “What do you think?”
Nick shrugged. “We’ve been impressed by the bells and whistles before.”
Deacon nodded. “That’s true.”
“But that studio?” Nick cracked his knuckles. “So quiet.”
Unsure where the conversation was going, Deacon turned to him, resting his shoulder on the window. “Is that a good thing?”
Nick pressed his forehead to the glass looking down. “I always felt like I was drowning in the other studio. Like it was going to swallow me up. Swallow my words up.”
“And here?”
“I wanted in that room so bad,” Nick whispered. He pushed away from the window as the door opened, and they turned to face the man that walked in.
The man wore a suit like Deacon wore a t-shirt. It seemed to be a part of him. Crisp, unrelieved black with a patterned silver tie over a snow white dress shirt. He was about Simon’s height and build, but there was a power there that Simon didn’t have. Elegance and knowledge lived in his face instead of Simon’s cocky bravado.
He went straight to Lila, his hand hovering, yet not touching the small of her back. He said something low in her ear before he came toward them at the window. His smile was open and genial, where Deacon had been expecting cool.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. A meeting ran long. I do hope that Lila kept you entertained.” His voice was pure British posh.
Nick stiffened next to Deacon.
Deacon stepped forward and held out his hand. “Thank you for taking our meeting, Mr. Lewis.”
“Donovan, please.” His handshake was firm, his palm dry.
Deacon nodded. “My bandmates, Nick Crandall, Simon Kagan,” he turned to the table. “Jazz Edwards and Grayson Duffy.”
“Pleasure,” Donovan said with smiles all around. “Let me say something before we begin. I’m not here to play games, like some labels do. I don’t need this business.”
Deacon’s eyebrows rose.
Donovan held up a hand. “You misunderstand. I don’t need this branch of my company. I do this for myself. I hand pick people that I’m interested in and work with them to build a career. Of course, I want to make money as well, but the music and the product that comes out of Ripper Records is more important than a tally sheet and hidden clauses in a contract.”
“That sounds all well and good, but we came to you.” Nick stepped up beside Deacon.
“And I wouldn’t have taken the meeting if I wasn’t interested. Lila had vetted you weeks ago, we just thought we’d lost the opportunity already. I didn’t know you were still shopping for a contract. My intel is
usually better.”
Deacon folded his arms across his chest. The lick of excitement teased at the back of his neck. Christ, how long had it been since he’d felt that? He tried to stuff it down. Too many wrong turns and pretty words had come at them in the last few months. How could he trust himself again? He was the one that had brought Trident into their world.
It had looked like such a good opportunity.
What happened if he chose wrong again?
Donovan linked his fingers in front of him. “Look, I understand. You’ve been handed a line from everyone that’s talked to you I’m sure.”
Simon moved to the table and sat down, crossing his feet at the ankles. “We’ve been offered penthouses and money.”
“As long as you sign your life away, I imagine?” Donovan looked down at Simon, one eyebrow raised. “Under the guise of a forty page contract?”
Jazz turned to face him. “Sixty-seven.”
Donovan sighed. “Trident does love to bury people with legal jargon.”
Nick tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “And what makes you such an expert on Trident contracts?”
“Let’s just say I’ve had a few run-ins with Jackson Miller’s throwaways.”
“Johnny Cage?” Nick asked.
“I can’t speak on behalf of the men of Rebel Rage, except to say that they’re now on my label. But there are plenty of other bands and artists that have been discarded by Trident, as well as a host of other labels.”
“And why would you be so magnanimous?” Simon asked dryly.
“As I said, I don’t do this for the money.”
“Everyone does it for the money,” Simon shot back.
“Really? Is that why you sweat it out on the club circuit for years? For the love of money?” Donovan challenged.
“You’re not a musician,” Simon returned.
Deacon saw a flicker of understanding before the smooth smile took its place. “No, but I understand it and the nature of the business. I also know too many artists that have been lost in the shuffle. Oblivion isn’t a one album band.” Donovan walked back to Lila. He picked up five stapled packets and handed it to each of them.
