I mean, he can’t know, right? He’s just guessing. He hasn’t seen a word or heard a note I’ve written in years.
But when his eyes leap back to mine, wide and brimming with something I refuse to acknowledge, I know he knows.
It shouldn’t bother me. If they want to waste their time with worthless songs, it’s their money and time. All of them.
But the thought of them bombing and Maxwell finding out they were mine…the inevitableI told you somakes me sick.
The memories roar in my head, made raw by the meeting I had to attend this morning with my dad. Everything crashes and blurs together as I remember running to my mom, eager to show her what I’d learned—what I’d written, only for her to scream it was trash and I was wasting my time as she hurled the guitar across the room. She was so sick. It was just a few days after that Graham found her dead body. Deep down, I knew she didn’t mean it, but I was a kid, and the words have been burned into my mind.
Then I’m back to the memory of handing my dad a demo I’d put together with a few covers, but mostly my original songs. He told me they were good, but not good enough. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Son, I know you want to make this your career, but you’re not good enough and you don’t have the discipline to get there. Which means everything you do will be mediocre. Stop wasting your time and mine.”
He wasn’t trying to be cruel. This business will chew up the best. He was protecting me because he knew I’d never be the best. But I was sixteen and already going through more than he could ever understand, even when I tried to tell him. I needed my dad, not just Maxwell Davis, music mogul. It was just another reminder that I would never live up to his expectations.
Or maybe I have.
I am the son without ambition or drive, with below-average grades, no talent, and a penchant for trouble while my Summa Cum Laude brother went to Princeton, started his first business in college, andwas completely independent of my father with his own wealth by the time he graduated. He was a goddamn billionaire by the time he was twenty-six, and he’s only five years older than me. I suppose it’s fortunate he did all of that. He might not even be CEO of Sin Records if he hadn’t, since Dad and his partner sold the company before Graham could take over.
But I knew I couldn’t compete, so I didn’t try. Not that I ever wanted to follow in my brother’s shadowed footsteps.
Straight out of high school, I went to work for L&D Records—the former name of the label. Dad had no idea his idea of punishment was right where I wanted to be. Starting in the mailroom didn’t faze me until I tried to prove myself to him, and he brushed me off. He was still punishing me for refusing to go to college. He wanted me to learn a lesson: without a college education, I would never move beyond the mailroom.
It was Nichols, Dad’s partner, who moved me to Artists and Repertoire as a talent scout not long after I started, despite Dad’s protests. My tattoo artist was the drummer of a band, and I brought Nichols to see them at a dive bar in Brooklyn called Lucky’s, where I used a fake ID to get in. It infuriated my dad when Nichols signed the band and promoted me.
Fuck, has it been six years?
“The marketing approach will be to push a few small, intimate venues, live, over social media platforms, hyping a song before it drops. We want them to go viral before they release.” Thad says to everyone because not a single person, except my brother, has noticed I’m fucking spiraling over here.
“We need PR on hand, too. The shit that happened last tour can’t happen again.” Graham’s nostrils flare as he glares at Maverick.
Maverick holds his hand up in defense. “I can’t help what the band members do.”
“But the band can sinkyourcareer,” Liam tells him, agreeing with Graham. It’s weird when they agree, considering Liam is technically his father-in-law, even though he didn’t want Graham and Casey together for a long time. From his perspective—his little girl and her older stepbrother, together?—no one could blame him.
“This is a music label,” Angel interjects. “The best we can hope for is they stay away from anything too criminal like murder and fulfill their contracts.”
“I disagree. The artists’ behavior is a direct reflection on Sin Records,” Graham says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The name of the bloody label isSinRecords, mate. If misbehaved rock stars crumbled music labels, this one would’ve been finished years ago,” Ryder chuckles.
“Right?” Angel laughs. “Let’s see. Ryder got arrested for fighting six times in one month on our last tour. Not to mention the DUI. Maddox got arrested for possession. Let’s not forget getting shot by his brother, and a practically public psychotic break. Jake’s girlfriend and daughter were kidnapped by freaking human traffickers in Europe,andhe was arrested a few months ago after he punched a photographer in the mouth when he wouldn’t get out of Cara’s face while they were at the zoo with the kids. I could keep going.”
“And you’ve made my life hell trying to handle the press,” Liam spits.
“Why did I agree to work here?” Graham presses his fingers into his temples while I press my lips together.
“Your ego,” I finally manage to add. How I’ve kept up with the conversation at all is beyond me. Graham glares at me, but his eyes are full of concern more than irritation.
“All right,” Angel says, pushing away from the table. “I’m done.”
“We haven’t finished, Angel,” Liam tells him, looking exasperated. “We need to finish going over the marketing plan, discuss artwork, promo…videos.”
“I have a plan for the video,” Maddox says. “The rest is in the memos. If it’s not, you’re the A&R guys. Get it done. We don’t need a conference for every artist.”
“Agreed,” Ryder says, standing as well. “I have a lunch date with my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife,” Maddox jokes.
“Just because you needed a piece of paper…”
