by Lane Hayes
“I don’t—”
“You don’t have to answer now. Think about it. Can I get your number?”
“Well…uh. I guess so.” I rattled off my number while madly working through the twenty-five ways this was all a bad idea.
Before I got through the first three, Declan patted my shoulder and raised his cup in a toast. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Oh. Fuck.
Once upon a time when I still believed in fairy tales, I was pretty damn sure my dads were the smartest, strongest, and coolest men on the planet. One was a movie guy, the other was a music man…the producer and the professional songwriter. They had important jobs. The kind that made some of my classmates give grudging nods of admiration. They might have thought I was a dork, but they hummed Gray’s songs and talked about Dad’s movies, which I figured gave me some kind of immunity from getting my ass kicked on the playground every day. However, their cool cachet didn’t erase the vapid curiosity about their relationship.
I couldn’t remember a time when Gray wasn’t in my life. Or a time I didn’t think of him as a father figure, though I was always made well aware that Sebastian was Dad. I’d always thought they’d insisted that detail was significant because of our shared DNA. It wasn’t until much later that I realized it was part of their own make-believe story. To the outside world, they were best friends and roommates. Their closest associates knew they were more than close buddies, but no one talked about it. And neither did I. Dad was my father, Gray was my godfather.
Semantics and bloodlines aside, Gray was the one who taught me basic life skills, like how to ride a bike and how to memorize multiplication tables. He was approachable and easy company. He had high expectations and he could be very strict but was endlessly patient and loving. When Dad and Gray split, I divided my time between their homes evenly, just like every other child of divorce. And I hated it. I had a hard time adapting to the shift in dynamics. Once I did, it was the same ol’ story…Gray was easy, Dad wasn’t.
Dad worked all the time and when he was home, he wasn’t always accessible. He had a high-stress job and important clients to impress. Without Gray around to fill in the spaces, we were a little lost around each other. He didn’t know how to be a parent, so he tried to be my friend instead. Rules were slim to nonexistent at his house. I could stay up late, eat what I wanted, and watch anything on television. None of that flew at Gray’s house. After a few times of going to bed early with a sore butt or being grounded by Gray, I smartened up and realized I might be better off applying my own brand of structure when I was with Dad.
Maybe maturity or survival instincts kicked in. Either way, my relationships with Gray and Dad evolved accordingly. I liked to think Gray and I had an adult father-son relationship. I could go to him for advice or reassurance knowing he always had my best interest at heart. And whenever anyone asked how I felt about his much younger live-in lover…who also happened to be one of Zero’s founders and the lead singer, I could honestly say I was happy for him. Their relationship wasn’t a threat to what I had with Gray. He loved me unconditionally. The way a parent was supposed to love their kid.
Dad and I, on the other hand, were…complicated. I loved him for sure, but he wasn’t easy. The average observer would never suspect that, though. Sebastian Rourke had a reputation for being fun-loving, free-spirited, and approachable. A complete anomaly in Hollywood circles. Of course, he had to be a bit of a shark or he’d never have made a name for himself in the entertainment business. But in his personal life…let’s just say, there were days I wasn’t sure I trusted him. So walking into his office in the middle of the day to ask for advice felt like a crapshoot. He might see me, he might not. He might be intensely interested in what I had to say, or he might be distracted. Anything could happen.
I squared my shoulders, put my best ‘friendly but no-nonsense’ smile on my face and marched into Rourke Studios with purpose. I gave myself a quick pep talk as I bypassed the main lobby with a wave at the reception staff before heading down the plush hallway into inner sanctum…the executive suite. Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows casting an ethereal glow over the expensive modern furniture. My ‘no-nonsense’ smile morphed into a real one when I spotted Dad’s longtime secretary, Trish, at her desk positioned directly outside his office.
“Charlie!” she squealed as she jumped from her chair to pull me into a warm embrace. “Is your dad expecting you? He didn’t say anything.”
“No. It’s a surprise.”
“Ah. Well, your timing is good. The BF just went on break and he was very giggly, so I’m assuming your dad is in a great mood,” Trish said with a conspiratorial wink I returned with an eye roll.
“TMI, Trish. You look fabulous, honey. What are we wearing today?” I asked, holding out a pretend microphone.
Trish chuckled at our standing joke before turning in a circle. Her red floral dress clung to her curves as she spun and her green eyes twinkled. Trish was a tall redhead in her mid-forties. She married her high school sweetheart and had three college-aged sons…all jocks. She’d been my dad’s executive secretary since he opened his studio ten years ago. I used to wonder if she was nice to me because she had to be, ’cause Lord knew I was nothing like her kids. But we’d developed a rapport of our own over the years with long-running jokes, like “Who wore what?”…a fashion critique by Trish and Charlie.
“Ross Dress for Less, last season. Don’t tell the Academy. What do you think, Charlie?” she asked, fluffing her hair as she leaned into the mic.
“Fabulous. Mum’s the word,” I said, hooking my thumb toward the closed door behind us. “How long till his next appointment?”
“One hour. Knock first…just in case Giorgio snuck back in when I wasn’t looking.”
I gave her a thumbs-up before doing as she suggested. It was unlikely that anyone would get by Trish, but the last thing I wanted was to walk in on sex in progress if I could avoid it. Been there, done that.
I opened the door to the spacious office and grinned at my father’s enthusiastic wave. He was such a goofball sometimes. He held up one finger and pointed to his cell, indicating he was finishing up a call. Then he bounded from his chair and paced to the bank of windows overlooking Century City.
“…not a chance. The crew arrives on the twentieth. They’ll start filming on the…”
I picked up the small photograph of Ollie and me in a silver frame from his desk and tuned him out. There were pictures of us everywhere in the executive wing. A few friends made the cut too, but other than Gray…no exes. And thankfully no current boyfriends. I might actually vomit if I had to look at a pic of Giorgio next to one of Oliver meeting the Easter bunny. Fine. Maturity was overrated.
My phone buzzed in my pocket just then, saving me from an unpleasant inner tirade against twinky gold diggers and middle-aged men who thought with their dicks.
Someone told me you sound like an owl, Ky texted along with a gif of an owl twisting its head in a circle.
I shook my head. Oh really…who?
Whoooo? Did you get that? An owl says who.
I sent an eye roll emoji. I got it. You need some new material, Ky.
Okay. Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Europe.
Oh my God. Really? I texted with five more eye rolls.
C’mon. Don’t leave me hangin’, baby!
*Insert dramatic sigh.* Europe who?
Hey, that’s not very nice.
You’re a moron. Why don’t you save those for Ollie? He loves that shit.
Ha ha. See you tonight.
I stared at his message like it contained a secret code or something. It didn’t. It was just silly…and yeah, I liked silly. I tried to think of a witty response, but nothing came to mind. Which was weird because I was an expert at throwaway lines. I’d learned from the best. I settled for a smiley-faced emoji and put my cell into my pocket when my dad returned to his desk.
“…that should work. Talk to you later. Bye.” He set his phone on his desk and grinned. “Hey! What brings you here?”
“I just happened to be walking by,” I joked.
“Nobody walks in LA…especially not you. What’s up? Are you okay? Is Ollie okay? He was fine this morning.” He frowned as he perched on the corner of his desk. “He was mad that I made him wear his glasses, but otherwise he seemed all right.”
So here’s the thing about my dad. Sebastian Rourke was a really good-looking guy who could be gregarious one second and preternaturally quiet the next. He was six foot three with dark hair and a light beard streaked with gray. He’d been an avid runner most of his life and it showed. His affable, outgoing side gave him an edge in Hollywood. He was known for his intensity and his unwillingness to compromise on his projects, and he could usually sweet-talk others into seeing his point of view. It didn’t always work with Oliver or me, though. We probably confounded him. Well, maybe Ollie didn’t, but I knew I did. Other than eye color and sexuality, we didn’t have much in common. I was short, blond, and fabulous. I stopped making any attempt to fit in with the general population when I was in high school. Dad’s career was based on feeding the public what they wanted. Literally.
“I’m sure Ollie is fine.”
“You’re right. So, what’s up?”
“I need your advice.”
Dad cocked his head and gave me a lopsided smile. “Really? Okay. How can I help?”
“I have a situation.” I opened my arms and gestured animatedly as I filled him in on the disastrous dinner Saturday night and my run-in with Declan at Sandstone. “There’s some kind of mind game spin on a PR move happening here. I can see that they’re playing some angle, but I’m not sure what their long-term strategy is and if it might work in Zero’s favor.”
My father sank into the leather chair next to mine and crossed his ankle over his knee in a deceptively relaxed pose. He regarded me thoughtfully before speaking. “Maybe. Maybe not. You might not like hearing this, Char, but Zero is a write-off or a win on a relatively minuscule gamble at this point. Even for a small label like Sandstone. You’re helping them build their fan base via social media and that’s great, but to be real contenders, they need to go bigger. You gotta go the tried and true route too.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to get a hit song on the radio.”
“Oh, that’s all?” I snarked.
“Yep. The problem, of course, is you never know what’s gonna sell. That works in every sector of entertainment…movies, music, books, art. You just have to choose the best song, make sure it’s well-produced, and start distributing it. I know a guy who has a contact at ‘I Heart Radio.’ I can see if—”
“No!” I held my hand up to stop him. “That’s exactly what I don’t want.”
Dad furrowed his brow and gave me a “what the fuck?” look. “I thought you wanted my advice.”
“Your advice, not your help. I don’t want you to take over.” I sighed heavily and looked out the window before turning back to him. “It pains me to admit this, but I might be in over my head. You have a lot of experience.…I don’t know how to say it nicely…manipulating situations to get results. I was hoping you could give me a clue with what they might be up to. Sandstone said they were still interested in talking to us, but when they canceled two conference calls this week, I decided to pop in and see if I could get any info. Sneak attacks tend to yield all kinds of tasty tidbits.”
“Is this a sneak attack?”
“Maybe, but it’s the good kind. You love unexpected visits. And you love puzzles. Gray’s in the music business but he’s an artist. He doesn’t have to pay attention to the full picture the way you do. Besides, if I tell him too much, he’ll share it with Justin, and the band will think I’m hopelessly out of my depth. They’d probably be correct, but I’m not giving up. Am I right to think Sandstone is up to something?”
“Of course they are. It’s simple. It all comes down to sex and money. Sex sells. The more titillating snippets you give the public, the better your product does in the market. So, what’s their story? There’s got to be more to it. Maybe Declan had a relationship with one or more members of the band.”
“Maybe, but that would have been years ago.”
“So what? It might be old news to you, but a rumor about sex can do just as much damage as the real deal. Or it can help…just depends on who’s telling the story. That’s why I’m in the movie business. I like stories and I like spinning them.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Well, I guarantee you every music exec you’ll speak to, regardless of how big, small, or ‘indie friendly’ they are will have an angle in mind. It’s how we sell the stories. We compare new artists to old ones or bring up old scandals to conjure ideas of bad boys and rebels. The art may be fresh and new, but the methods of delivery are as old as time. The sexy story will sell tickets, albums, magazine, etcetera.”
“I get it. But what about when you don’t know what they’ll do?”
“You grab some popcorn and wait it out,” he suggested.
“I don’t want them to control Zero’s story. I’m supposed to be protecting them, not feeding them to the wolves. All they had to do was mention Declan’s name in front of Justin to discredit me.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Boohoo. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and move on to the next label.”
“You’re right. But this Declan thing bugs me. He’s rock star sexy, he’s a real musician, and he can sing. But he’s missing something. Did I tell you he asked me to be his manager?”
Dad furrowed his brow. “When?”
“Just now over an Americano with a triple shot of espresso.” I slumped in my chair and let out a dramatic sigh. “Can you even?”
“Do it.”
I threw my hands in the air. “How? I can’t manage Declan. I don’t even know if I can manage Zero.”
“You’re doing a great job, Char. Listen…if you manage them both, you control the story.” He tapped his temple and flashed a cocky grin.
“Sounds fabulous. Ky thinks I should start my own label too. Maybe you’re both right,” I joked.
“Do it,” he repeated.
“Are you working on a Nike campaign on the side? I appreciate the pep talk, but let’s keep it realistic, shall we?”
“I am. A record label is responsible for production, manufacturing, distribution, promoting…and making sure no one steals your ideas.” He straightened off the desk and moved to the window, clapping as he recited a to-do list as though it was a matter of picking up a few items at the grocery store. “Gray can help you find reputable engineers to produce your album. Distribution is mainly digital now, so you just have to get it on Apple or another platform, and you already know how to promote. You just have to widen your reach. Charlie, you can do this. Start your own company. You have one client and maybe a second one if you take on the sexy rocker. You control the story and you allow your clients to control their vision. Everyone wins!”
I was flabbergasted, gobsmacked, dumbfounded…all those fabulous adjectives. Because, really? I was doggy-paddling in the shallow end with this manager gig. What he proposed sounded like getting thrown into the ocean during a hurricane.
“That’s so…crazy. Ky said the same thing. Weird. And while I appreciate your confidence in my ability, based on…being your kid, I think…I don’t see how this is possible.”
“I already told you. Talk to Gray, begin production, and trust your instincts. I don’t care what anyone says—you’ve got this in your blood. If you think about it, it’s the perfect marriage of your papa’s musical background with my business background. You can handle this, Char. Ask Gray. He’ll tell you the same thing and—”
“Wait.” I stood slowly and leaned against his desk. “You just called Gray ‘Papa.’ You haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
“Oh. It was a slip.” Dad shrugged nonchalantly. “Hey, I thi
nk we’re on to something big and—”
“Do you still miss him?”
He stopped in his tracks and furrowed his brow. “Gray? I saw him two days ago. What kind of a question is that?”
“It’s a valid one. You love him. I know you do.”
Dad inhaled deeply, then let out his breath in a long rush of air. “I’ll always love him, Char. Not the way I did when you were little, but that’s okay. It’s different now.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He tilted his head slightly and lifted the corner of his mouth in a lazy smile. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just worry sometimes.”
“But there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Since when does that matter?” I opened my arms and gestured around the room before flying off the handle. “Worry is my middle name. It’s my drug of choice. I can’t possibly get enough worry in my life. My first barista of the day…there have been three, in case you’re curious…cut her finger on a cup holder and bled all over the counter. I’m worried about her. The sweet nurse at the clinic this morning told me her son had a horrible asthma attack last night. Guess who’s worried about him? My head is bursting with things to worry about. Bursting. Between a label for Zero, Ollie’s social anxiety, Ky, the blood work and—”
“Whoa! Back up five steps.” Dad pointed a parental finger at my chest and gave me a sharp look. “Why were you at a clinic? What blood work, and what’s up with Ky?”
Fuck. I put my hand over my mouth before I could remind myself to act natural.
“What about Ky?” I bluffed, slowly lowering my hand.
“That’s the fifth time you mentioned him. Is something going on between you?” He scratched his head in confusion. “I thought you said he was straight.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.” I picked up my bag and made a production of zipping an inside pocket. “I should go and—”
“Did you guys…?” He made a circular motion with his hand, like that would fill in any necessary gaps.
“Oh, you know me. I’m always doing things, but—”