Fulcrum (Dark Tide Book 4)

by Max Henry

  I’ll bring wine too.

  I seriously love her. She gets what’s needed and when, which makes me think about our big sister, Marcia. Talking about her, or my lack of involvement with her, this weekend brought old feelings to the surface. It shouldn’t affect my situation at all, but I can’t stop myself wondering what she’d say about all of this: Toby, my job, everything.

  I pocket the device and head back to my desk, figuring I may as well get this column finished before I head home. Two steps out the door and I hear my name from the person I want to speak to least.

  “Jeanie. There you are.” Devon stops dead in my path, hands slung in his pant pockets. “Charles said he wasn’t sure where you’d gone.”

  I bet he did. I glance across to our station and find him intensely focused in his work—or so he’d have us believe.

  “Could you spare me a minute?”

  “Sure.” I traipse behind him to his office, the heat of the office’s curiosity on me.

  Devon eases into his seat, allowing me to shut the door behind us. “I need a favor.”

  Not that I feel like giving him one. “What is it?”

  He slides a few printed pages across the desk to me. I take the bait, edging closer to see what it is. Laid out with perfect double-line spacing is my bullshit article. My revenge piece. He’s had his assistant type this up, which is ludicrous when he could have asked me to send over the original file. Unless there isn’t one. Surely, Charles didn’t change his mind?

  “I need you to take a seat and highlight the passages that you can factually prove to be public knowledge.”

  “Pardon?”

  His dark gaze narrows, hands clasped on the desk before him. “You know we can’t publish private facts without permission.”

  Unless it can be proven to be newsworthy. “I do. Yeah.” He wants to know what he has to work with. How badly he needs to manipulate the subject. “And if I say no?”

  The arrogant ass leans back, sweeping one hand absently across the top of his polished desk. “I think we both know how that will affect your review before we relocate.”

  “We’re getting reviews beforehand?” I lift the printed pages.

  “Not everyone. Just those I deem need it.” Again, I could guarantee that’ll be me, and me only.

  “What do you intend to do with this?” I lift the pages before me.

  Devon’s gaze flicks between them and me. “You’ll find out in due course.”

  “You can’t publish this bullshit.” I clench my fist around the corrupt words, twisting the paper. “It’s wrong, professionally, and morally.”

  “And yet you wrote it,” he muses, saying each word slowly. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  “It was never supposed to go public.”

  “Five years, Jeanie. Five years ago, I hired you as an intern and nurtured you to where you are now. And this.” He points to the pages in my hand. “This is the first piece you’ve written that has real heart.”

  “Black heart.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to be known that way. Musicians need to trust me if I’m to get their story.”

  “You write advice columns for an online tabloid.” He snickers. “Backstage interviews are way at the other end of the spectrum. How long will you grind at this before you realize not everybody earns the right to that level of intimacy? How old will you be before you accept columns are all that you are and all that you’ll ever be.”

  “Fuck you.” Yep, I have one last one to give, and I just dealt it—to my boss. “At least I give a shit about the subject. At least I have a passion for music.”

  “I’m an entrepreneur. I don’t need to work from the heart,” he snaps.

  “You don’t need to have a heart—period.” I take the crumpled pages in my hand and spin for the door.

  Devon doesn’t stop me; he doesn’t even dispute the accusation. The jackass simply lets me walk.

  I’ll highlight the pages, Sure. But like fuck I’ll do it honestly. He wants grit. He wants something juicy. All that motherfucker will get from me is the bare minimum. Enough to elicit a yawn from the reader if he’s lucky.

  Only a columnist.

  He has no fucking idea.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Toby

  “I Barely Know Her” – Black Coffee

  “We’ve got fucking issues.”

  We’ve got issues? I’ve got fucking issues. “Do I want to hear about them?” I pull the faux fur throw out of my luggage and throw it over the hotel bed.

  “Want to? I’d say no,” Rick replies. “Need to? Sure.”

  “Spit it out, then.” It’s seriously sick that I packed the fucking thing, let alone that having the throw with me makes me feel less alienated from Jeanie. “What’s the damage?” It’s not as though the fucking throw was hers, to begin with. It just makes me think of her.

  Like I’d forget the woman anyway.

  “I can’t pursue any of this legally.”

  I cross the room to the large windows and look down at the gray city below. “Why not?”

  “The informant gave away your information, sure. But he’s been dealt with from an employment law viewpoint. What happened after…” He sighs. “Unless the recipient uses the information acquired maliciously, we can’t prove any distress was caused to you personally.”

  “You’re jerking me, right? My fucking phone number was dished out to a journalist. Can that not distress me enough?”

  “Has it blocked you creatively?”

  “No.”

  “Has your health suffered?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “So, what the fuck am I to argue, Toby?” Rick hesitates, sighing again. “The asshole at Better Beats phoned Leonard.”

  “Eager.” I threatened our lawyers, but I never intended to waste the money unless Devon refused to back down.

  “He countered your threat with a restraining order.”

  One hand slapped to the window for support, I lose my shit. In a hilarious way, not a bad way. Laughter erupts from deep in my chest, manic in its pitch. “He did what? That’s priceless, Ricky-Dick. Just priceless.”

  “It’s not a laughing matter,” he states, monotone. “If he goes ahead with it, you’ve just added another hurdle to your possible case.”

  My humor slides away, much like my hand slides off the glass. “What’s left, then?”

  “Let it go. Stay the fuck away and take it fair in the ass. You can’t do anything about what hasn’t happened.”

  Fuck. So, not how I wanted to start our studio session. “You’ve put a real dampener on the mood, you know?”

  “How is the hotel?”

  “Cozy.” My gaze lands on the throw.

  “You could have stayed with Rey.”

  “Weird when he’s not home yet.”

  “Then why not Emery?”

  “Break my back sleeping on his floor for several months?” I’ve done it before. “Figured a room to myself would be a nice change.”

  “Whatever the diva wants…”

  “I am not a diva.” My ass hits the end of the bed. “That title’s taken already by my fucking brother.”

  Rick chuckles. “Right on the money, there. How is he?”

  “Why don’t you call him yourself and find out?” Seriously, the fur might be fake, but my ass cheeks are in heaven.

  “I would if he’d accepted the ones I’ve already made.”

  I snort a little. Atta boy. “He’s fine. I’m sure he’ll tell you whatever he thinks you need to know when you pick him up.”

  “You’re an optimist, aren’t you?”

  “Always.”

  We end the call, Rick promising to catch up again after signing Rey out of rehab. As a family, we would have been there to drive him home, but Wallace stipulated that the label needed to see the evidence of his recovery for themselves, hence why he assigned his son, Rick, to do it. Cassie said she’d meet him there, but Rey insisted we save ourselves the trip and convene here, nea
r the studio, instead.

  Honestly? I think he has unfinished business with Tabitha. That woman stole his heart in a way I’m coming to understand and then left him in limbo when she walked away. She had guts, I’ll give her that much, but she didn’t come back—even when I begged her to after my brother spent the last week of the tour near death, drugged to the eyeballs to keep him moving.

  He could have died. We almost facilitated it. What justification is there for that? Loss of revenue, if you ask our label.

  I flop back on the bed, phone held above my head, and open the evil and mind-fucking social media app. Three days ago, I dropped Jeanie at the airport. I told her to let me know what happened to her job. Maybe she doesn’t know yet? But I kind of expected something from her. Anything.

  Still employed?

  It’s lame as fuck after I kissed the hell out of the vulture before she left. But I’m not the greatest at opening up—she knows that. I could tell her how I feel with a hastily composed score, but when it comes down to putting it into actual words, the English language? I’m fucked.

  My phone remains silent, so I toss it aside and stare up at the ceiling instead. I’ve barely shut my eyes, resigned to the knowledge a siesta would do me good when my phone startles the fucking shit out of me. Blindly answering, I slap it to my head, keeping my eyes trained shut.

  “You know, I don’t care what Rey said. I think I should go with Rick to check him out of that place.”

  I take a deep breath to give Cassie time to cool off. “How long have you stewed on this?”

  “Oh, like, since last week.” She laughs, all high-pitched and unsure. “I want to make sure he really is okay to leave, Toby. I don’t want those jackasses busting him out for their bottom line.”

  “He’ll say if he’s not ready to come home. He sounded good when I talked with him last week.” I choose to ignore the lapse in communication between our dysfunctional family.

  “I know.” She hum-groans. “Why aren’t you staying at Mom and Dad’s?”

  “Felt like being closer to the studio.”

  “They’re not much more than an hour away.”

  “And an hour feels like a goddamn lifetime at the end of a fourteen-hour stint.” I open my eyes and stare up at the simple white panels.

  “I guess.”

  “I know you’re worried about him, sis, but he knows himself best, and we need to trust his judgment.” I huff out my nose.

  “Well, haven’t you changed your tune?” Cassie singsongs. “Where did mister ‘this is bullshit’ go?” She mimics my deep voice—poorly.

  “I had time to think about it.”

  “Good. How’s everyone else? Have you tracked down Carmen Kris-Diego?”

  I chuckle at her nickname for our lead guitarist. “He sent Emery a message with proof he’s booked to come home.”

  “Did it say where he’s been?” The tone of her voice has me imagining her on the edge of her seat.

  “He’s smarter than that.” I run a hand over my face. “Fucking tired of Emery, though. I had Deanna tracking him down again this weekend, calling me up to demand I find out where he is.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Got hold of him and demanded he sorts her out. He needs to ditch the bitch.” I pull myself up to a seated position. “His mom said he was attempting to get sober for this album.”

  “Has he?” Her tone softens. Cassie has always had a soft spot for Emery.

  “Sobered up?” We asked her years ago if his charm had suckered her in, but she refused to give a definite answer. Em doesn’t say much, but Rey and I have a side bet on it having happened.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. A month isn’t a long time to shake a habit like his.”

  “Have you not seen him?”

  “I only arrived today.” I push off the bed and stroll across to my gear bag, riffling through what lies on top. “I’ll see him when we start.”

  “Go visit him before that. He might need the encouragement.” She huffs while I begin to pull my clothes from the bag. “You’re hard on him, you know?”

  “He needs me to ride his ass,” I snap. “If we left it up to Em, he’d spend his life in a drug-induced coma with an IV of pure alcohol in his arm.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Am I? He’s had as many press releases about his antics as we have about our music.”

  “Okay, now you’re being way over the top.”

  I toss a T-shirt on the stack to hang and sigh. “I just want the others to take this as seriously as I do.”

  “They’re not the same as you are, big bro,” she reminds me softly. “Not everybody is as driven as you are. Not everybody feels so deflated when they’re not perfect; they feel their best is enough.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Toby,” she chastises. “Kris is a brilliant guitarist, right?”

  “Legendary.”

  “And Rey has a vocal style that nobody alive can match.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Emery has talent, but he also has charisma. He brings the stage alive.”

  “I see where you’re headed.” I lean my butt against the back of the hotel chair.

  “Everybody has their strengths. Your meticulous nature means you’re the best drummer they could wish for. It also means you’re the one who has the level-headedness to see what they can’t because they’re too caught up in the moment. Don’t see that as a negative, okay?”

  “You sound a lot like someone else.” I rest the side of my hand against my brow, head hung.

  “Mom?” Cassie chuckles.

  “Nope.” I lift my face and stare toward the window, noting the darkening sky. “Somebody I shouldn’t have let go.”

  THIRTY

  Jeanie

  “On to the Next” – Tyler Bryant & the Shakedwn

  “Have you got a minute?”

  I stash Toby’s message away, shunting my phone into my shoulder bag. “Sure.”

  Our copy editor, Lenora, stands on the far side of my short partition. “Did you write this?” She slides a page, hot off the printer, onto my desk.

  I pull it toward me and begin to read. My gut twists, tightness in my chest that I don’t enjoy one bit. “What is this?”

  She glances over her shoulder before answering. “Devon sent it to me last night to have back to him for release first thing this morning.” She rolls her lips, long black lashes sweeping up and down. “It felt off the first time I went through it, and then I realized why: it’s your voice in this.”

  “That’s because I did write it,” I grumble. “Most of it, anyway.” I pause to read a bit more.

  Charles rounds his side of our setup, taking his seat with a fresh bagel in a cardboard takeout tray. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” Lenora chirps.

  “Hey, Chucky.”

  “What you got there?” He licks his fingers and scoots the chair across.

  “Lenny needed me to fact check something.” I shove the page back at her. “I can’t say I’ve heard anything about it.”

  She nods at my double innuendo and turns for her desk.

  I’m steaming. Piping hot, I’m that fucking mad. The asshole took my words, my theory, and twisted it the smallest bit before stamping his name on it. I don’t want to be associated with such a scathing piece, but I want somebody to steal my creation even less.

  “Did you do those pages for Devon yesterday?” Charles scoots back to his bagel.

  I watch as he lifts it from the box and takes a large bite. “I did.” After Devon instructed me to paint my highlighter across the revenge piece, I asked Charles if he had changed his mind and cleaned my computer. As expected, I got the same hostile reaction—my confirmation that Devon did, in fact, waste his goddamn time all to hide what he planned.

  “Kaitlyn send you the link to the new premises?” Charles makes a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  “No. Why would she?” My gaze fli
ts to Devon’s office. His door is open, and I know he hasn’t gone out.

  “I thought she sent it to everyone.” Chucky continues his bagel, oblivious to my building fury.

  I rise out of my seat.

  “Do you want me to forward it to you?” he asks around a mouthful.

  “No. I don’t want you to bloody well send it to me.” My fist flexes at my side. “Why would I care what it looks like if I won’t be there.”

  Charles sighs. “Here we go.”

  “Fuck off.” I stomp across the office to Devon’s corner.

  Kaitlyn jumps in front of me, clearly sensing shit is about to get real. “Can I help?”

  “No. You can’t.” I try to sidestep her, but she’s more agile in her Gucci’s than I credit her for.

  “He’s due on a conference call soon. Maybe I can let him know you’d like to see him?”

  “Get out of my way, Kaitlyn.”

  “Jeanie. Is this the best way to handle things?”

  My head jerks back, eyes wide. “Excuse me?” I snort a laugh. “I haven’t even told you what it is I want to see him about.”

  Her lips flatten, and she looks at me with a lazy stare akin to pity.

  “You damn well do, don’t you?” I utter a groan in the back of my throat. “I bet he filled you in when he asked you to type it up, right? You’d know it was mine because he would have had to show you the message thread.”

  “Jeanie!” Charles stands between our desks. “Come sit down.”

  “What’s going on?” Aryan, the intern, pipes up.

  Fucking fantastic—Kaitlyn’s stalling has drawn a crowd. “No, Charles. I won’t sit down. And Kaitlyn, this has nothing to do with you, so go back to whatever you were doing.”

  “What’s new?” Lenora interjects, rising from her desk. “Has something interesting gone down?”

  “Why would I know if there’s a fucking scoop?” I throw my hands in the air. “I’m lucky if I get more than a paltry how-to to write since I’m apparently only good for columns.”

  “Who said that?” Kaitlyn frowns.

  “Just get out of my way.”

  She steps aside to let me past, and I lock gazes with Devon. The fucker stands in his office doorway, shoulder against the frame while he watches his office implode. “Something I can help with?”