Next In Line: A Cake Series Novel

by J. Bengtsson

  So far, I’d successfully managed to keep the Next in Line hitmen from getting to me, but it was only a matter of time before Andrew Hollis bulldozed through the front gates of my parents’ house and dragged me back to the stage where he would proceed to beat the hell out of me. More importantly, I had to figure out what was next, how I was going to take my blue check mark and turn it into gold.

  I needed a plan, and until I had one, I couldn’t go forward and I couldn’t go back. I needed direction. Help. But instead, I waited, growing more impatient by the hour. To calm my nerves, I took advantage of the unseasonably warm post-rain weather and opted to drift aimlessly in my parents’ pool, earbuds tucked in my ears as I let other people’s music transport me into a place of clarity.

  Maybe even to a place where Jess, my dream girl, would text me back. Because, god knows, it hadn’t happened yet. I’d sent off a handful of follow-up texts over the past couple of days, and while they were delivered to the number I’d entered into my phone, they had not been read or responded to. I’d decided that there were only three possible scenarios that made any sense. One: She was ghosting my ass. But there was nothing about our afternoon together to support that theory. Two: The emergency she was dealing with was more serious than I’d thought, and Jess had emotionally shut down somewhere between my place and the one she’d gone. Or three: I’d entered the wrong number into my phone and was now paying dearly for my mistake.

  The more time that passed, the more plausible the third option became, given that Jess had fired the numbers off so fast that I’d struggled to keep up. And if just one number was off, Jess would be the one thinking I’d ditched her. How was I supposed to correct this when I didn’t even have her last name? Jess was the only one who could fix this. She knew who I was. She knew where I lived. But for whatever reason, my getaway girl was nowhere to be found.

  And so I floated.

  In the full heat of the sun, a shadow fell over me. I could almost not be bothered to investigate, but something told me to open my eyes. A man was standing on the deck of the pool, watching me. It was a moment of panic, of uncertainty. For obvious reasons, I didn’t like being snuck up on, and even more so when the sneaker-upper was an unfamiliar man. I took in his pressed slacks and crisp button-down shirt. If he was here to do me harm, he certainly was smartly dressed for the occasion.

  The man pointed to his ears, and I popped my earbuds out.

  “Who are you?”

  No need for pleasantries until I knew what he wanted from me.

  “Hey there. Quinn, right? Name’s Tucker Beckett.”

  “Who?”

  “Tucker Beckett,” he repeated again, pausing a moment as if I was supposed to know him.

  I blinked.

  “The band AnyDayNow? I was their creator and manager. Made them international pop sensations. Tucker Beckett.”

  That got my attention. I lifted my head up off the pool floatie and squinted into the sunlight. Now I knew who he was. This dude was a legend—and had more enemies in Hollywood than Katherine Heigl. Total prick. Rumor had it even his son, Bodhi Beckett, the head heartthrob in the boy band AnyDayNow, hated him. What the hell did he want with me?

  “How’d you get back here?”

  “Your father invited me in.”

  Of course he did. You’d think with all the horror movies my dad consumed, he’d have learned to never invite bloodsuckers into his home.

  “Look,” I said, wanting to get rid of him as quickly as possible, “I’m not sure what he told you, but I’m an untouchable—Andrew Hollis owns me for the next ten years.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. I know all about your contract, Quinn. That’s why I’m here. I can help you.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  Tucker pulled a handkerchief—a handkerchief—out of his pocket and used it to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “I’m a busy man, Quinn. No way would I waste my time here if I thought you couldn’t be saved.”

  “From what I hear, you actually aren’t that busy.”

  It was a low blow, I knew that, but he deserved it for coming in here acting like he owned the place. My comment was a nod to another rumor I’d heard about Tucker, namely that in addition to being the creator and manager of AnyDayNow, he was also responsible for the band’s demise.

  Tucker didn’t flinch. In fact, he bared a tooth or two. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  Ah, challenge accepted. Might as well fire away. “I also heard you almost got your son killed in a wildfire.”

  Those teeth flashed brighter. God, he was so confident. “I’m good, Quinn. But not good enough to control the weather. Now, come on over here. I can’t take you seriously on a unicorn pool float.”

  Was he seriously already micromanaging me? What a douche.

  When I didn’t comply, Tucker swiped the sunglasses off his eyes and sighed. “Please.”

  I almost laughed. This little power struggle we had going on was the most fun I’d had since Jess on the couch with my hand up her shirt.

  “Now was that so hard?” I asked, hand-paddling over to the edge. The pathetic splashing moved me one inch at a time through the water, even spinning me in a full three-sixty turn before my plastic blow-up bed hit the side of the pool. But that was only step one of the two-part extraction process. I still had to get off my floatie with as much swagger as possible. Wiggling around, I finally managed to finagle my way into a sitting position, but it was only a short-lived reprieve until the flotation device began to sink, plunging me sideways into the water.

  Tucker didn’t say a word, didn’t even give a twitch. Who didn’t find people disembarking a pool float funny? Jesus, this dude was ruthless. But maybe that was what I needed. A shark. Someone so hated in the business he’d make me look good.

  I hoisted myself up and out of the water, shaking out my hair.

  “Are you done?” he asked, a smile finally materializing as he handed me my towel. “That was quite an encore there, Quinn… really just inspired.”

  “Well, you know, it’s all in the dismount,” I said, swiping the towel over my wet skin. “So, Tucker. Explain how you plan to liberate me.”

  “That’s privileged information for my clients only. Are you my client?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You come over here while I’m busy…”

  “Doing nothing,” he finished the sentence for me.

  I glared. Maybe if I’d been properly informed he was coming, I wouldn’t have met him poolside in a pair of rubber duckie swim trunks.

  “No offense, Quinn, but this setup you got going on here, this is why you’re going to sink with the ship. Where’s the urgency? Do you even realize how tight a corner you’ve backed yourself into?”

  “I get it. My lawyer is working on it as we speak. I don’t need some Hollywood player to tell me what needs to be done.”

  “No? Tell me, Quinn, how many studio heads have you heard from? You’ve got a whole new legion of fans dying to buy whatever you send their way. The labels should be knocking down your door. Where are they? Oh wait, I forgot— you’re poison. See, the minute you took on Andrew Hollis, you became the kryptonite of the music world.”

  Goddamn, this guy went straight for the danglers. “So, if all of that is true, why are you here?”

  “Because I know how to get you in the back door. And I’ve got the know-how, the power, and the determination to launch you straight to the top.”

  “How? And don’t give me that crap about privileged information. How do you plan to get my music back from Hollis’s grip?”

  “By making it not your music.”

  “Not my music. What are you talking about?”

  “Hollis owns solo artist Quinn… and all future music written under that name for a certain timeframe. What he doesn’t own is your band or the music you’ll write for it.”

  “My band? I don’t have a band.”

  “You will if you hire me.”

  My eyes nar
rowed in on Tucker Beckett. It seemed too good to be true. There had to be a catch… and then it hit me. My voice dipped in octave. “You want me to join a fucking boy band!”

  “No,” he said. “Not a boy band. I’ve moved away from that. I’m looking to manage the next big rock band, and I absolutely believe that it’ll be the one you’re fronting.”

  Jesus, it seemed so simple. Too simple. “And what makes you think Hollis would leave that loophole open?”

  “It’s not a loophole. He could only take what was available to him at the time of the signing, and that was you. Quinn McKallister, solo artist. Look, I have a friend on the show that owed me a favor. He ‘loaned’ me the standard contract they make all the contestants sign. I had my business attorney look it over. He’s dealt with these deals in the past and has signed off on my plan.”

  “So, if you’re saying all I have to do is start a band, what do I need you for?”

  Tucker lowered his glasses, peering at me over the top of the rims. He then whipped out a business card from the same pocket the handkerchief lived and thrust it in my direction.

  “Oh, you need me.”

  Call me—sooner rather than later, he’d said as he walked away. We’ve got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it.

  Fuck Tucker Beckett!

  I watched him stride off, convinced I’d rather shove bird seed up my ass and let a blue jay go to town than hire that guy. He thought he had all the answers. So smug. Tucker was so wrapped up in slick packaging you’d think he was the spokesperson for a condom commercial. No wonder his son had risked first-degree burns to get the hell away from him.

  And just because he said I was doomed didn’t make it true. Although, okay… yes… it probably was true, but that was beside the point. Look, there was no denying that I was wrapped in lead and Tucker Beckett might possibly be the only one in Hollywood strong enough, and ruthless enough, to lift the chains off me before I sank to the bottom of a very muddy pond. But the question remained: did I want it bad enough to trade one captor for another?

  My father met me halfway to the main house. “So, how’d it go?”

  “You couldn’t have given me some warning?” I asked.

  “You would’ve said no.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He eyed me. “I do know. What did you tell Tucker Beckett?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” my father questioned, irritation filtering over his normally jovial features. “Why do you always have to be so bullheaded? That was your chance. Maybe even your only chance.”

  “Tucker Beckett is not a chance. He’s a curse. I’m gonna call him back tonight and tell him no.”

  Now I was just being a dick because I knew my father wanted it so badly, and I was still irritated that he’d arranged this marriage of convenience without my consent.

  “I see,” Dad said, his lips pressing tightly together. “And why would you do that?”

  “Because he’s Tucker Beckett. His reputation proceeds him.”

  “Yeah, well, so does yours.”

  Ouch.

  “You have no faith in me, do you?”

  It was meant to be a meaningless reply, but my father hesitated… He actually fucking hesitated.

  “Seriously? Thanks a lot,” I said, knocking into him as I passed.

  He grabbed my arm. “Don’t walk away from me. I’m talking to you.”

  “Do you really think I can’t make this decision on my own?”

  “No, Quinn. No, I don’t think you can make this decision. Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch you throw away every opportunity you’ve ever had? It kills me to watch you sabotage yourself over and over. I mean my god, Quinn, you are so talented. So damn talented. You say you want it. You work so hard to get it. And then when you’re right there at the moment of release… you don’t finish.”

  The slap to my face stung as much as if he’d used his hand. What the hell was he talking about? I finished… didn’t I? What possible reason would I have to sabotage myself when fame, when besting Jake, was all I’d ever wanted? But now that he’d said it, I couldn’t get the words out of my head. Shit, was I actually doing this to myself?

  My voice low and contemptuous, I replied, “Maybe I don’t want to finish because none of those earlier opportunities were right.”

  “But that’s the thing, Quinn—they were right. You told your mother the other day that it’s not success unless it’s Jake-level success, yet there you were, steps away from a record deal with your last band… and you walked.”

  “Because it was a shit deal.”

  “Who cares?” Dad said, raising his voice. “It was a deal! And now Next in Line? My god, kid, all you had to do was sing that song the other night and stay on that stage. Literally, Quinn, all you had to do was stand there, and all your dreams would’ve come true. But instead you ran. Like you always do. Things don’t have to be perfect. Sometimes we have to adapt to the situation even if it’s not ideal.”

  “Jake never adapted.”

  “If you believe that, then you know nothing about your brother’s early struggles in this business. It’s not always about how good you are or about how good he is; it’s about how much you want it. You, my friend, are every bit as good as Jake, and the only reason you aren’t where he is now is because you’re not living up to your full potential.”

  “Like you lived up to your full potential?” I said, narrowly containing my irritation. “Didn’t you also have aspirations of becoming a rock star? What happened to that dream, huh, Dad?”

  “That was different. I sucked. Like really sucked. I didn’t even realize how badly I sucked until I saw you and Jake and realized…my god, Scott, you really sucked. Maybe if someone had believed in me growing up…” My father’s voice unexpectedly broke. “You have no idea what it’s like to make your own way in the world.”

  I scoffed. “Yeah, I think I know.”

  “No, you don’t! There was a time that you were neglected, yes, and your mom and me, we’ll never forgive ourselves for that. But after Jake came home and we were able to heal, I dedicated my life to you kids. I was a fucking awesome dad to you and you can’t deny that.”

  His anger floored me. My father rarely lost his temper. That was my mom’s job.

  “I don’t deny it,” I said. Everything he said was true.

  Dad shook his head. “You think you had it so rough, try being neglected your whole life.”

  Neglected? My father? By my grandparents, affectionately known as JimSuey? They’d never been solid fixtures in our lives, but they did come around every so often… when it was convenient for them. But they didn’t seem like bad people. I mean, they wore knee socks, for god’s sake.

  “JimSuey were shitty parents?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

  Dad’s posture stiffened, the muscle in his arm rigid. “I misspoke. They were fine. The point I was making was…”

  “Wait. No. No. Go back. Did something happen with JimSuey? Do you not get along with them? Am I the only one who doesn’t know this?”

  “Quinn, leave it alone.”

  “No. I want to know.”

  Dad fidgeted from one foot to another. He was nervous. Why?

  “Look, they never cared about me, all right? I was just living in their house until I was old enough to… not be there.”

  “Did they treat Uncle Paul that way too?”

  “That was different.”

  “Why was it different?”

  Dad looked away, like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Had I just stumbled onto something big?

  My father—the most open book I’d ever read—had a secret.

  It had to be the single strangest conversation I’d ever had with my father, but it did make me think. Where did I want to be in thirty years? Because I now understood it wouldn’t be on Jake’s throne. He had that gig solidly wrapped up. But did I really need his level of success to be relevant in the music world? Could I be happy as a m
inor player and have my parents deem me worthy?

  I unlocked my apartment door and let myself in. My parents’ house, with all its earthly comforts, was feeding my complacency. It was time to leave. Some hard decisions needed to be made, and I couldn’t do that on a pool floatie. Hell, by the state of things, I might already be too late. The parking lot had been buzzing when Kyle picked me up here three days ago, but look at it now. The photographers were gone; the reporters had moved on to fresher news, and I was quickly sliding back into obscurity—with a blue check next to my name.

  Jess. I needed her now. She’d know the correct path for me to take. I grabbed the near-empty Grey Goose bottle and prepared a glass. Might as well drink to my girl since I couldn’t drink with her.

  There was a knock at the door. Holy shit! Had she read my mind? I shot up from the chair and jogged over, so proud of her for realizing my error and coming to rescue me. I swung the door open, unprepared for what greeted me on the other side: my brothers Jake and Kyle.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, fighting off my frustration. I might possibly be the only human on earth disappointed to find Jake McKallister standing on the other side of my door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I got paged. Something about a cleanup on aisle Quinn.”

  “Ha,” I said. “Funny. But true.”

  We exchanged a knowing laugh and I could tell I’d been forgiven without even uttering an apology. That was often how it went down.

  “I’m actually also in the hallway.” Kyle declared himself with a wave.

  “Yes, I see you,” I replied. “You wanna come in?”

  “Uh…yeah.” Kyle held up a bag. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Taco Bell, of course,” Jake announced the obvious. Not only could I see the overflowing bag of munchies in his hand, but Kyle was rarely spotted without.

  Kyle knocked into Jake on his way in. “Don’t be hating on my bean burritos, dude.”

  “Then don’t be rippin’ ass in my car once they’ve made their way through your digestive tract.”

  Shutting the door behind my brothers, I waited as they bickered about the potency of Kyle’s Taco Bell exhaust.