“Yeah. I’m still here.” I want to dig my heels in, but I’ve turned Casey down for everything lately. “I’d love to have lunch with you.”
She yips in my ear and gives me an address. It will cut into my time, but I guess it’s worth it.
And maybe I can pick her brain about her mysterious, surprisingly bossy brother.
Jagger
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound is as inexorable and restless as my bouncing knee under the table. My brother’s eyes flick to me. My annoyance isn’t just obvious, it’s catching. At least where he’s concerned, but the others sitting around the rectangular conference table ignore the incessant noise from my tapping pen.
It’s not a secret that I hate being confined in the office. Even less of one that I hate these meetings. But the manic movements to my left remind me I’m not the only one, and if they have to suffer, so do I.
My mood might not be so shitty if it weren’t for the lingering effects of the damn nightmare I had again last night. They’ve been unyielding, and I know it’s because of everything going on right now.
But I suppose that means my theory about Poppy shutting it all down, making all the guilt and anger go away, doesn’t work when I’m sleeping. She was by my side when they began. Although I didn’t know that. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. It’s what I want to believe anyway, even if logic tells me it’s all subconscious—both her effects when I’m awake and the inability to evade the nightmare when I’m asleep.
The fucking meeting with the lawyer earlier has wreaked havoc on my disposition. The one last week got postponed until today, so I’ve had seven days to obsess. It should’ve been straightforward. Papers should’ve been signed so we could move on to the next step, but I couldn’t do it. Maxwell made it so much worse. My dad and I have barely spoken in the last year, and when we do, it ends in a shouting match with me storming out so I don’t commit patricide.
This pointless meeting is just the cherry.
I blame my neurotic, anal brother. Nothing said here today is new. We’ve been over it, all of it, every day for the last two weeks. Memos, emails, individual meetings…You name it, we’ve covered it.
He acts like we’re all new to this, but the truth is, he’s the new guy in the room. The rest of us have done this for years.
My lids close as I roll my head around my shoulders. A small crack fills my ears as my impatience grows.
“These are the songs you have to choose from,” Liam tells Maverick.
Maverick catches my attention, nodding to the list as he mouths, “Told you so.”
Wrinkles crease my forehead as my brows dip, wondering what he’s talking about. I haven’t touched the papers in front of me yet. After all, I’ve seen the song list already. Picking up the paper, I scan the sheet, not seeing anything out of the ordinary.
Subtly, he taps a finger on another leaf while he pretends to listen to Liam and Graham talk.
I flip through the sheets, still not understanding until I get to a page with three lines.
Song titles.
They aren’t printed with the rest. They’ve been handwritten in red ink, circled, and underlined. I recognize the handwriting. Everyone who works here should. My head snaps up, eyes wide. My heart lurches in my chest before hammering a thunderous beat. Something swirls deep in my belly, but I can’t decide if it’s excitement or pure terror.
“And those songs I don’t get a say in?” He points to the list identical to the one I’m currently crumpling between myfingers as my stomach dips. His eyes jerk to the company owners. They grin in response, and Maverick laughs.
I don’t. I’m too busy deciding if I want to pass out or puke. I stare at the list, trying to figure out what’s happening. Why do they want these songs? Do they plan on changing them? Adjusting the music? The lyrics?
Because they won’t work—won’t sell as is. Their magic touch is the only thing thatmightsave them. They’re B-sides at best, but the truth is, they’ll get the entire album trashed. They must know that.
I don’t have the talent to write anything substantial. My dad told me so years ago. So did my mom. If they said it…
“We want the album recorded in six weeks, so we need the rest of the songs chosen ASAP. You’ll be on tour with them,” Liam nods to Maddox, who’s sitting next to me, and Ryder and Angel sitting across from us.
“It will start in March,” Graham tells him from his seat at the head of the table, leaning back in the executive chair like he’s the king of the world. I would laugh if I weren’t having a fucking stroke. “Anything to add, Jagger?”
My attention jerks to my brother. “Why would I have anything to add?” My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels thick. Sweat rolls down my back. I’ve never begged my brother for anything, but now I’m silently pleading for him to let it go.
His eyes narrow, then drop to the papers in front of him. Sweat beads at my temple as he thumbs through them, stopping when he finds what he wants.
I try to divert my gaze, look anywhere but at him, but I can’t. I’m frozen, staring at my brother, praying he’ll keep his mouth shut.
