And it all ended up being for nothing because Dad and his partner sold the company without letting either of us know.
This building swallowed time. My father’s. My brother’s. Now mine.
That’s not to say I don’t love this company. I do, but it’s a complicated love.
This box I’m confined in? Not even a little.
So I run. Not from the business—the music—but from the building. I spend most of my time scouting and recruiting, traveling across the country, and sometimes the world, looking for undiscovered talent. I don’t have my brother’s tenacity and business acumen. I may not have the talent myself, but I sure as fuck know artistry when I hear it. I recognize the spark and brilliance…theItfactor it takes to make a successful musician.
Unfortunately, this week I’m grounded. Contracts to draft, artists to evaluate, campaign decks to approve. Locked in a glass and steel coffin masquerading as a skyscraper.
Okay, fine—it’s a sleek office. Floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan, remote blinds, and soft leather couches that provide refuge when your mind is exhausted don’t scream prison, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still a cage determined to make me miserable.
So I spend every chance I get looking for excuses to be anywhere else. I probablyshouldhave a cubicle instead of a barely used office, but I’m the A&R manager, so it comes with the gig. Someone undoubtedly deserves the title and position more, given how much I avoid this place.
Brushing it all off wasn’t possible today. I’ve been here since eight this morning drafting contracts for a couple of prospective artists, combing song lists for others, and reviewing the social media plan for Maverick, my best friend and Sin Records’ number one artist. Well, number two, if we count Sons of Sin, but they don’t count themselves since they own the place, so neither do I.
It’s after seven, and I’m dying to leave. Eleven plus hours is more than enough time grinding the wheel. My eyes are burning, my head is throbbing, and I’ve been sober for too many hours in a row.
But I’m frozen in this chair, stuck behind this desk, watching, waiting for my damn brother to leave first. I hated being trapped in this office before he became CEO, but since he returned six months ago, I’ve leveled up my avoidance techniques.
With my cheek propped against my fist, I pretend to stare at the computer on my desk, a pen in my fingers tapping restlessly against the wooden top, but my eyes are on the window, watching through the tiny break in the blinds for Graham to pass. My teeth grind to the point of aching because it’s possible my brother may decide this to be a night he works on whatever the fuck bullshit he’s decided can’t wait until tomorrow. I could be here until midnight. But if I open that door, he’ll be there. It feels like we’re in a chess match, waiting for the other to make their move. If I crack first, I lose the illusion of indifference.
I didn’t use to avoid Graham. It was never necessary since whenever he was around, he was worried about our stepsister, Casey. Even during the years he spent working across the country, when he called it was always to ask about her. There was a time I was a little resentful, but since he and Casey officially crossed into taboo territory and told societal standards to get fucked, he’s been more interested in me, and I don’t like it.
My fingers rip through my hair as a groan tears from my lips. One of us needs to pull the trigger, and if I know my fucking Pitbull brother, he’ll stay here all night just to torture me. I’m the impulsive one. He’s the calculated one, and while we’re both fucking hotheads, his stubborn relentlessness means he’ll wait an eternity for me to crack first. Just like when we were kids.
Goddammit.
Pressing my hands against the edge of my desk, I push myself away and stand a little faster and harder than necessary, causing my chair to topple over. Just as I get the chair upright, my heavy office door swings open. My head drops, my nostrils flaring with a breath as I cut my eyes toward the door.
“Were you really going to stay here all night to avoid me?” Graham asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he walks toward the desk.
“Were you going to stay here all night just to catch me?”
“You haven’t been in the office in two weeks. You’re not on the road, so why haven’t you been here, doing your job?”
Okay, not the conversation I expected, but this one I can deal with. My chin tips upward as I walk around the desk and sit on the edge. “Some of us know how to do our job without wearing a suit and sitting behind a desk.”
“This isn’t a fucking joke. You have a damn job to do, Jagger. Running around, doing whatever the fuck you do all day won’t get any of it done.”
I roll my eyes. “I get my job done, Graham. I don’t need to be here eight hours a day to do it.”
“When will you stop acting like everything revolves around you and what you want to do? You can’t take care of the artist sitting in your apartment, getting high, and fucking everything that moves. You have responsibilities.”
I take it back. This isn’t a conversation I can handle. Because I might just punch my brother in the damn face. He doesn’t know shit about my job—what I do or how I do it. Just because I didn’t go to Princeton like he did doesn’t mean I don’t know my shit, and he forgets I wasn’t handed my damn job. Yes, it was still owned by our dad when I started, but he put me in the mailroom.
It was punishment for refusing to go to college after being accepted to Stanford and Harvard. It was Nichols Lockwood who promoted me after I brought a band with massive potential to him—a band my dad refused to even listen to.
Even at eighteen, I recognized talent, especially once-in-a-generation talent. Sometimes I think that’s why my dad fought against that band for so long. Because admitting they were good meant admitting I was right. Of course, now he doesn’t have a choice. They’re the most successful rock band of the last two decades and the new owners of his former record label.
Standing up, I walk until I’m toe to toe with him. “Let’s get one thing straight, big brother. While you were out there chasing money and making sure everyone knew how big your dick was, preparing to take over the label for Dad, I was here. Every day. I’ve been neck-deep with the artists. I’ve traveled all over this country, searching for talentfor this labelwhile you were chasing your own damn glory. So don’t talk to me about responsibility or my job. Or is that really your way of digging at me about something else?”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, a mixture of anger and regret flickers in his eyes. “You know I won’t push you about the other.” He drags his hand over his face. “You know what today is, right?”
My lashes drop. A sharp inhale expands my lungs as my head falls back. “You just said you wouldn’t push.”
“This isn’t me pushing. I just wondered if you even knew.” He shakes his head. Silence stretches like a rubber band, ready to sting. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” He didn’t have to. I could hear the unspoken words clawing at the back of his throat. “Casey wants you at her opening night.”
