by Kay Maree
I edged around the tiny, and hideously inadequate lot, and on my second lap, was relieved to see that somebody was just leaving, so I pulled up alongside them and put on my flicker. As the person edged out of the space, I got ready to pull in, but as I rolled slowly forward, I was beaten to it by a shiny black penis extension posing as a sports car.
“Hey!” I pressed down on my horn, making myself jump as the angry sound reverbed around the small space. The other driver didn’t stop pulling into my spot. What the actual fuck?
I kept my hand on the horn, but this time also wound down the window.
“Hey, excuse me! What the hell? I was waiting for that space.” The car’s lights went out and the doors opened. As the driver and passenger exited, I continued my tirade.
“Hey buddy, you can’t do that! That was my space.”
The driver looked at me, then looked at the space where his car was now firmly parked.
“Oh really? I don’t see anyone’s name on it.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered away with his passenger, without a care in the world. What an asshole. Who took something that was quite clearly not theirs, and didn’t even show any remorse like the world owed them a favor? I could barely contain my rage, but had nowhere to direct it, as the two leather-jacket-clad figures disappeared into the building.
I sat for a few more moments in stunned disbelief, before inching my way back out of the lot. The chances of another space opening up were slim to a snowball’s chance in hell, and I couldn’t afford to wait around any longer.
In the event, I got “lucky” and found a metered space a few blocks away. Not that my feet considered themselves lucky, as I teetered along on my fuck-me heels, that were way more practical for being fucked in than they were for traversing city blocks. Fuck. My. Life.
I was fuming as I hobbled into the sixth-floor reception area with blisters blooming on each little toe, and sweat beading my brow and other places I’d rather not think about. I saw Carson, my manager, just as the familiar and sickeningly overpowering scent of his obscenely expensive bespoke cologne hit my nostrils. He’d had it created just for him by a top-drawer perfumer, and as such, nobody had the heart to tell him that he smelled like their grandma’s bathroom freshener.
“Hi. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had to park on the street and walk back, so now I’m pissed off and sweaty. Worse still, I would have been fine. I found a spot in the lot out back, but it was stolen by a shiny black endowment-enhancer-driving douche canoe.”
As the last words of my sentence died in the air, I took in the rest of the room: Carson was in front of me. To my right was the reception desk and receptionist, to my left, the douche canoe in question, along with his friend. Recognition bloomed in his eyes, and I was sure the same expression was reflected on my face. Oh. Shit
I’d gone too far down that route to extract my foot from my mouth, so I met his hostile glare with an equally frosty one, and called it quits. I turned my gaze quickly back to Carson as though the douche was the least important thing ever to have happened to me. I leaned forward slightly and lowered my voice.
“Do you have any more information about this meeting?”
“Nada.” He shrugged. “Radio silence. I’ve called and left messages a few times, and sent two follow-up emails. Tumbleweed. I guess whatever it is, they really want to tell us in person,” he responded in hushed tones.
“Why does that idea fill me with dread?”
“Because, it’s not their usual MO, and—” He lowered his voice further, “—because of all the other shit that’s been going on. I mean I guess we’ll find out shortly, but the conclusions I’ve come to in my head ain’t pretty.”
“Same here,” I agreed.
He reached down to pat my hand. “Don’t give yourself an ulcer thinking about it. We could both be wrong—” I very much doubted it. “—and even if we’re not, you have me here to handle it. Whatever ‘it’ is. And handle it I will.”
Still, with the best will in the world, and all of Carson’s connections and skills, there was only so much anyone could do, no matter what. He was a talented and renowned manager, but he wasn’t the Wizard of Oz, or Jesus. Or Kanye. He couldn’t perform miracles. My unease grew as the thoughts swirled around my head.
“Hey, hey, hey. I can feel the worry pouring out of you. I know it’s hard, but try not to stress too much.” He led me gently by the elbow to some nearby seats and I sat down dutifully.
“There will be plenty of time for that afterward, if it comes to it, so you might as well save your energy for when it’s really needed. In the meantime, can I just tell you that you look amazing? That leopard dress brings out your everything.” He swirled a hand in my direction in his typically camp fashion. I silently thanked him for changing the subject and attempting to drag me out of my funk.
“Thanks. You should have seen me before I had to run a damned marathon to get here.” I shot a pissed-off glance across the room and found Douche Canoe staring at me as though he hadn’t looked away since the first time. He didn’t even have the decency to avert his gaze once he’d been caught in the act. Instead he winked, and I fought the urge to flip him off, remembering where I was.
CHAPTER FOUR
KING
Rome’s body bristled beside me as he stared down the beautiful woman from the parking lot. The amount of angry energy buzzing from him was phenomenal. It was like an electrified forcefield. I was sure that if I had a cigarette, I could have lit it just on the sparks flying between the two of them. Of course I didn’t smoke, so I’d have to borrow one from Rome, but that wasn’t the point.
I nudged him with my knee, to remind him where he was, and not to do anything reckless—which with him was tantamount to telling him not to breathe. The reckless gene was strong in his family. Either that, or he and his brother Marko had inherited the dose meant for their large extended family.
Rome leaned forward, and shot an angry glance my way. If looks could kill I’d have been past dead, but I’d stopped paying his daggered looks even the slightest bit of attention years ago. It was standard operating procedure for him. Instead, I tipped my chin, indicating for him to sit back, and chill the fuck out.
I found his caveman routine tiring, but it was just the way he was wired. He had two settings—too much, and way too much. Right now he was at the top of way too much, but looking like he might go over the edge.
We were saved by the appearance of James, our manager, looking every bit the greasy salesman that he was. Not that his greasiness was necessarily a bad thing—I didn’t have to like the guy, I just needed to know that he could get the best for us in the various negotiations on the table. He could. And he did. Often.
He pulled each of us in turn into a bro shake, then looked at his Rolex, I was pretty sure only because that’s exactly what he wanted us both to do—look at his grossly expensive watch. I didn’t know why he felt the need to do that—to try and impress us with whatever sparkly bauble was his newest acquisition—it was totally wasted on us. I just didn’t care about any of that stuff. Rome did, but only in as much as it made him angry that people lived that way.
Rome opened his mouth, and before he’d said a word, I knew whatever was about to slide out of it wasn’t going to be pretty. I sent him another warning glance. We really couldn’t afford for him to disgrace us before, during, or after this meeting—parking lot faux pas notwithstanding.
‘Luckily he took the hint—it really could go either way where Rome was concerned. He clamped his jaw shut and shot me another evil look. I ignored him, which was my usual way. I looked down at his fists as they curled and uncurled, and addressed James.
“So what’s the 411? Do you have any more intel on why we’re here?’
He looked around furtively, before leaning forward slightly.
“No clue. I’ve been trying to do some digging—a few off-the-record conversations with various contacts, but I�
�ve come up empty-handed every time. They are being uncharacteristically cagey, which worries me more than a little. But I guess we’ll soon find out either way, so let’s not jump to premature conclusions.” He grabbed a handful of his thick blond hair, and yanked at it before sitting down next to us.
“It’s fucking bullshit.” The words tore through the near-silence in the room, and all eyes were suddenly on Rome. I nudged him sharply again with my knee. “Do that again and you’ll lose the leg.”
Jesus. He was tightly wound at the best of times, but today he was too much.
“Then, keep your fucking voice down,” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth.
“Why should I? It is bullshit, and I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”
That part was true enough, but in all the years we’d known each other, I’d never managed to make him understand that there were good reasons why grown adults didn’t verbalize every thought that came into their minds, no matter how right they were.
Actually, that was a lie. Rome understood it to the extent that he knew it was a cultural norm, but he didn’t agree with it, or adhere to it. In fact he didn’t adhere to most social rules. The only norm with him was that he marched to the beat of his own drum, and did whatever the fuck he felt like doing at any given point in time. That seemed to be another genetic trait he shared with his brother.
I decided to let it go. There was nothing more guaranteed to make him obsess about something than telling him to forget it. Speaking of which, I sidled a glance to the other side of the room at the chick from the car park. She really was something else.
We saw pretty women all the time. It was kind of an occupational hazard, to the point where I for one had become a little blind to girls like Carolina from this morning’s bathroom episode. She was pretty in the way that models mostly were, but that was it. I appreciated her beauty in the same way I appreciated that paintings by the French Masters were “good”, but that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted one hanging in my home.
Carolina was pretty by accepted standards. Beautiful in fact, but beyond that aesthetic, she did nothing for me. I’d gotten hard watching her and Rome together, because the scene was hot—two obnoxiously attractive people, naked and horny was enough to turn on most people with a pulse, and I definitely had that. Still, I wasn’t attracted to her necessarily, more to the scenario.
The girl from the parking lot was different. She was objectively beautiful, yes, but there was something about her beyond just simple beauty that got my pulse racing. As I observed her, she raised her head, and glanced sideways furtively. I wondered whether she’d looked up purely out of curiosity at what was happening on this side of the room, or if she’d felt the weight of my stare, even as I tried to be discreet. Either way, when her gaze hit mine, she turned away shyly, a deep blush blooming under her rich, golden-maple-colored skin, My dick twitched in appreciation.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROME
As I watched him watching her, I wondered idly why what I saw made me want to knock his head right off his shoulders. It was a free country. He was a free agent. I knew nothing about her, apart from the recollection of what she’d felt like wrapped around my dick a year or so earlier, but even if she wasn’t free, there was no harm in looking. So why did that blush make my dick hard, but my hands involuntarily ball into tight fists again?
We were saved by the bell in the form of the receptionist calling out to the room. “They’ll see you now in the boardroom, if you’d like to follow me.”
I stood up, as did King and James, and to my surprise, so did our uptight “friend,” and her flamboyant companion. I was guessing also a manager—
though he and James couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried. Still, that wasn’t my concern at that point in time. What bothered me was the fact that they were clearly headed to the same meeting as us. What the actual?
We filed into the boardroom behind the receptionist, and I couldn’t help but feel like we were being marched before a firing squad, except that instead of a line of cocked rifles we were facing, it was a lineup of label cocks. In many ways I’d rather the firing squad. At least I’d know where I stood. This was a row of smiling assassins, and we wouldn’t even see the end coming.
When the introductions were over and done with—a bunch of overdressed goons from Sonic Bully and a bunch from Audio Dissonance, the names of whom I didn’t even pretend to want to remember—I threw myself into the nearest chair, swinging my feet onto the table, and crossing them at the ankles.
This time both King and James looked like they would happily have taken me out, if the firing squad didn’t. I flipped them both off in my mind, but resisted the urge to do it in real life. Instead, I made a mental note to tell them to go fuck themselves when the meeting was done.
One of the assassins across the table kicked off proceedings.
“Okay, so now that we know who’s on this side of the room, I guess you probably want to know who the other people in the room are. No fucking shit, Sherlock. “This is Quincy Copeland, otherwise known as Que Violin, and her manager Carson Daniels. As well as a violinist, Quincy is also a singer-songwriter, and the jewel in Sonic Bully’s classical music portfolio crown, in my opinion. And not just in classical music, but across genres.”
“Yeah, we’ve ‘met,’” I air quoted, and all eyes in the room swiveled my way. Quincy Copeland looked at me like she wanted to gut me like a fish, and King raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged.
Label guy whose name I didn’t bother to listen to recovered himself. “And over here, we have James Portmeirion and his clients, Anthony “King” Kingston, and Roman “Rome” Ivanenko, the virtuosic cellists who make up Bowed & Dangerous—similarly standout properties in Audio Dissonance’s catalog across genres—”
I had no fucking idea what was going on, but one thing I did know, was that I hated it. I looked around the room at the assembled suits—all trying way too fucking hard to be something they weren’t: cool, funky, young, hip, whatever the hell they wanted to call it.
They were entirely too curated, too groomed, and trying to seem effortlessly authentic and cutting edge—or whatever people like that said about themselves—while probably consulting a stylist, hairdresser and fucking make-up artist before they left the house every day. The whole thing was so contrived, that all they managed to do was look exactly like the dude sitting next to them.
I tried and failed to hide my disgust. Okay, so I didn’t really try very hard—or at all, in fact—but the thought was there. For a nanosecond. I’d zoned out of the introductions earlier: managers, A&R people, number crunchers, bean counters. Colins and Adrians that I didn’t want to need to know. My mind drifted back to the morning’s activities with Carolina, and I told myself that was what was giving me the hard-on from hell, not the sidelong glances I was giving Quincy Copeland.
Five, maybe ten minutes in, my attention was abruptly brought back into the room by the scrape of chairs as King and James jumped from their seats with shocked and angry expressions on their faces.
“No!” King’s voice was firm and clear, if not a little too loud, bouncing off the polished concrete walls of the self-consciously urban meeting room.
“No. Fucking. Way.” He was as angry as I’d ever seen him.
“Dude, what did I miss?” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth.
“Fuck, Rome, can you not concentrate on anything other than your dick for more than ten seconds?”
Clearly not, because when I’d spaced out on whatever the fuck had just gone down in the meeting, that was exactly what I had been thinking about. I held back a grin. As angry as King was, a smug look from me would likely throw him over the edge.
“These geniuses, in their infinite wisdom, are suggesting that because she—” he jerked his head toward the Sonata Awards slash car-park chick, “—is a classical musician, and so are we, that we should collaborate, given that post-merger,
we are essentially label-mates.”
“What?” I’d heard, but couldn’t believe my ears. “What does she even play?” I may have banged her, but I clearly hadn’t been concentrating enough to retain all the details of particulars.
“Violin.” She and King spoke at the same time.
“There’s a clue in the title. Que. Violin. What do you think I play, the fucking accordion?”
I shot her a look that had her clamping her mouth shut.
“She does covers and rearrangements of soul and r ’n’ b hits. She’s like Rihanna, but with strings.” King jumped in, clearly trying to avoid an outbreak of all-out war.
“Apart from my skin tone, I’m literally nothing like Rihanna, unless you’re suggesting that all black women are the same?” She squared up to him like she was ready for a fight. So much for his diplomacy skills.
“What? Jesus. No, that wasn’t what I was suggesting at all.” He looked like she’d slapped him in the face.
“Good, I’m glad. And for the record, the covers thing wasn’t my choice. It was a decision made in a meeting not dissimilar to this. I fought against it and lost, so here we are. I write, and I have about ten album’s worth of originals that will probably never see the light of day, FYI.”
“Whatever. The point is that apart from the fact that we don’t play fucking Vivaldi, we have literally nothing in common musically. They’ve just assumed some kind of similarity or cohesion, based on the fact that we all play strings, and don’t have the traditional classical music repertoire. It sucks.”
CHAPTER SIX
QUINCY
“Well, that’s one thing we can agree on at least. It’s like saying that because Gordon Ramsey is in food service, and so is Ronald McDonald, they should work together.”
“Wait. So who’s Ronald McClownface in this equation?”