by Teagan Kade
Poor Seth looks like he’s going to keel over at Sel’s sex kitten act.
I tease her about it on the way to the car. “I think Seth exploded a little in his pants back there,” I laugh, helping Sel into the passenger side. “You really can be a tease sometimes.”
“Oh, it’s all good fun. I thought he could do with a bit of the ol’ Torres charm, something to lift his spirits given his two biggest earners are on their way out.”
“Amen to that.”
“You haven’t enjoyed it?” she questions, the Pontiac’s engine rumbling into life.
I wait, looking to her. “Like you said, it’s been fun, ‘intimate’, but the world awaits, baby.”
“The world awaits.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SELENA
Mat throws the letter onto the table. “Can you believe this asshole? He’s suing us for stealing Better Days and prohibiting us from playing it until we prove we own it. This is fucking bullshit.”
I understand Mat’s anger. I’m right there with him on the tamale train, but it’s not achieving anything shouting in disbelief like this. “What can we do?”
He taps the letter. “Given this, I imagine fuck-all.”
He’s frustrated. I don’t blame him. We’ve come so far only to have everything undone now, and by the people we once trusted most. It’s unfair on so many levels it makes me sick to my stomach.
“This is a huge setback, Sel. Think about it. Arthur was really looking forward to us playing this song at Magma. He mentioned this song in particular. ‘Make sure you play Better Days, yadda-yadda, it received wide recognition, your big break…’ He’s not going to be happy.”
“So we’ll play something else.” But I’m clutching at straws—very thin, bendy straws.
“No, we have to play Better Days in the set.”
“What about the other songs we recorded? We copyrighted those, remember?”
We did. We learnt our lesson, but even I know it was too little too late.
“None of them are as good as Better Days,” says Matt. “You know it, I know it, and the crowd is going to know it.”
“Let’s call this Arthur guy and discuss it then.”
“You actually think he’ll listen?”
Truthfully, I don’t know, but it’s worth a shot. Better to be up front about it.
Mat nods in defeat. “Okay. We’ll get in touch, see what he has to say.”
*
We meet Magma organizer Arthur King at a swanky office downtown. I notice it’s only a block away from where Rick works. You can almost see his office out the window. I’d happily flip him the bird if I could.
Arthur motions to the two seats in front of his desk and seats himself. I notice the framed Magma lineups on the wall. There are some big names that have taken main stage over the years. I hope we can live up to expectations.
“It’s fantastic to see you guys,” he starts. “You look well.”
I’m put off by his overt friendliness. I’ve never met a promotor this happy. Most go gray after their first festival. Something’s up and I sense Mat knows it too.
“Are we still good for the festival?” Mat asks, jumping straight to it.
The pause that follows does not fill me with confidence.
Arthur sits back. “Yes, about that.”
And here it comes, folks.
“I’ve got bad news,” he continues.
I share a tentative look with Mat.
Arthur breathes in before speaking. “Your friend Alice.”
“She’s not my friend,” I note.
“Well, her agent convinced my investors to push her higher in the lineup.”
I know there’s more.
“What?” Mat pushes. “What is it?”
“She’s going to be singing Better Days.”
Mat slams his hand down on the desk. “Fuck!”
“Sorry,” I smile at Arthur, standing and trying to pull Mat back down into his seat, but he’s furious. “Mat,” I whisper. “Come on.”
He nods, quieting and seating himself again.
Arthur rocks forward. “I do have good news.”
“You do?” There’s hope in my voice.
“You’ve got the green light to talk about this petition of yours before the set, but frankly, I don’t know why you want to do it. I sure as hell wouldn’t want my mother around twenty-four-seven.”
Mat is not amused.
Arthur leans on his desk, looking down before turning his eyes up at us. “Look, you guys are everywhere at the moment. I’m still going to let you play main stage, but you’ll have to play before Alice does. It’s the only slot I have. It’s a fucking shame you can’t sing that song.”
“It’s our song,” Mat cuts in. “It’s Dad’s song.”
Arthur puts his hand up. “It doesn’t matter. Forget it. I know you guys will come through regardless, right?”
“Right,” I nod.
Outside, Matt paces back and forth in the courtyard.
I jump in front of him. “You heard Arthur. It’s not all bad. The money alone… We can rent a proper studio, record an album—our way.”
He nods his head In agreement as it sinks in. We can’t sing Better Days, but the situation isn’t hopeless.
“Want to get out of here?” I offer.
And there’s the Barton smile I love. “Hell, yeah.”
*
Getting Mat out of the house becomes my number-one priority. I call Mom, who is, of course, more than happy to have us around. If there’s anything that will cheer Mat up, it’s a good meal.
“Selena!” Mom beams as I walk through the door, suffocating me in a bear hug.
She spots Mat. “Mat-hew! It has been too long.” He receives the same bone-crushing treatment. If there’s one thing my mother loves, it’s hugs.
My brother Diego comes up behind Mom. He’s the only brother left at home. It looks like he’s been making the most of it given his belly. “Hey, Sel.” He smiles.
He offers his hand to Mathew. “Long time no see, my friend. I heard you were seeing the world?”
Mat takes it. “I was, but it’s good to be home.”
We all press through the narrow hallway into the living room.
Mat looks around. It’s probably been five or six years since he was here last. Not a single thing has changed. Even the old CRT TV remains, my horrendous school photos—the works.
Mat spots the KISS pinball machine in the corner. “You finished it, Diego?”
Diego looks over his shoulder. “Yeah, for Dad, you know. Would you like to play?”
I think we all notice Dad’s absence then. He found this pinball machine in a dumpster almost a decade ago. He knew nothing about them, of course, but he was always fascinated by the inner workings of machines. A tinkerer, you might say. I think they had the same machine in his uncle’s bar back in Barcelona. God knows how much time and money he put into restoring the damn thing. Still, I’m glad to see Diego’s taken the project on.
Mom leans over and whispers, “I should have put fire to the thing years ago, freed up some space in here.”
I laugh. “But you’re not that cruel, Mama.”
She steps back in offense. “Then I guess you don’t know me as well as you used to, mija.”
I only gave Mom an hour’s notice that we’d be coming around, but somehow she’s managed to whip up enough food for an army.
I can see Mat salivating when we sit down. There was always an in-house cook at his place. Cooking skills do not run deep in the Barton family. Mrs. Barton had trouble buttering toast. The food was great, but the hint of proper home cooking at my place always lured him over.
“Did you visit Spain, Mat?” Diego asks, lifting salad from the bowl.
Mat reaches into the middle of the table. “Madrid, Seville, a few other cities I don’t remember so clearly, but—” he takes a tong-full of shredded beef “—no one does ropa vieja quite like you, Mrs. Torres.”
; Mat knows the easiest way to win my mother over is to compliment her cooking, not that he’s lying, because her cooking in second to none in this neighborhood.
“Thank you, Mat-hew,” she nods, never quite able to separate the syllables.
Mat looks across the table at me and smiles.
By the end of it I’m completely stuffed. Even Mat’s holding his stomach. He looks drunk—food drunk.
“Are you quite satisfied there?” I query.
I think he’s having trouble speaking. “Yes, thank you.”
“But what about dessert?” Mom pleads, already on her way to the kitchen.
My own stomach grumbles audibly. “Can we wait a while, Mama?”
“But—”
Diego puts a hand on her arm. “Your coconut flan isn’t going anywhere, Mama.”
She sits and smiles. “I suppose so.”
Even without Dad, this still feels like a family.
I see a whole future laid out for Mat and I, a big family of our own gathered around a table just like this, eating and conversing and having fun. I wonder if Mat sees the same. I wonder if he’s sick of me yet.
The self-doubt subsides when he nudges my foot under the table.
I make a face at him and he retreats.
Mama jumps in her seat, looking at Diego. “Diego, was that you?”
His hands go up. “No, Mama.”
I fire a look of suspicion at Mat. He looks around the room, his mouth making a little whistle.
Cheeky bastard.
*
We limp through the door of the White House and collapse on the couch in the den staring blankly at the wall.
Mat’s still cradling his stomach. You’d think he was pregnant. “I might have gone a little overboard.”
“You think?”
“I’d forgotten how good your Mom’s cooking is. You don’t think she’d move in here, cook for us every night, do you?”
“Free?”
“For her favorite son-in-law, sure.”
I hold up my hand. “Do you see a ring on this finger?”
“Not yet.”
We’re both silent, pondering on the notion until Mat’s cell buzzes.
He picks it up jovial, but in the space of a minute both his tone and demeanor have changed dramatically.
“I see,” he says. “Yes. Yes. Is there anything more you can do? Nothing?”
He leans forward holding his head, tapping the call out with his thumb.
“Fuck!”
The outburst is unexpected.
“Mat? Who was it?”
He throws the cell down, kicking it across the floor.
I’m worried. “Mat?”
“Mom was re-examined.”
“That’s good news, right?”
“The facility still denied our request. She can’t come home. I mean, what the actual fuck? How can they keep her locked up like a prisoner in there? It’s fucking insane.”
I don’t know what to say, how to calm him this time. “Mat, I’m sorry.”
I go to take his arm, but he shrugs me off. “Just… give me some space.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
MATHEW
“You’re not actually going to go, are you?” Sel’s asking.
Normally I love the way Sel paces around when she’s nervous or upset, tip-toeing in a figure-eight, but she’s far from impressed. Delaney invited me back onto the show to discuss Rick and Alice’s allegations. I accepted.
It doesn’t help this is the first time we’ve talked since last night.
“It’s a trap, you know,” she continues, pausing before me. “It’s going to sabotage all the hard work we’ve put in, all so Rick can get back at me. Can’t you see that?”
“We’ve let this drag on too long,” I reply. “It’s time we got our side of the story out.”
“You do know Rick and Alice were just on Delaney’s show again, right? She can’t be trusted.”
I’m confused. “I thought you said we could trust her. Isn’t that why we went on her show?”
Her lips screw up. “She owed me a favor, but I wouldn’t put it past her to side with Rick, or to screw me for ratings if she could.”
I take her point, but I’m still going. “Okay, so there’s an element of risk, but do you really think the best course of action is sitting around twiddling our thumbs while Rick and Alice get to say whatever the hell they want about us? I mean, come on, Sel. They stole our song. I can prove otherwise. Give me a chance.”
She walks to the doorway, turning. “Do what you want, Mat, but you’re on your own.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I call dismissively.
She leaves and I curse at myself. What was the fucking good of that?
I slap my forehead. Keep it together. Treat it like a court case. The show’s live, after all. What could go wrong?
*
I sit in the makeup chair, a pixie blonde spending a little too much time admiring her work in the mirror.
Normally I’d be sweet-talking her into the locking the door, having my way with her on the desk, but Sel’s the only woman I want. She’s all I think about, all I want, and she’s not going to be happy if she ever finds out it was me who contacted Delaney this time.
I knew Sel would never go for it, but this had to be done. Andrew wanted us to keep quiet while he looked into it, as did Dom, but that’s not the Barton way.
The same stage hand as last time opens the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Barton.”
Mr. Barton. I have to laugh at that.
Mr. and Mrs. Barton—that has a better ring to it.
Delaney meets me backstage during the ad break. A giant digital clock on the wall counts down until we’ve live again.
She reaches for my hand. “Mat! Great to have you on board again. I’m sorry Sel couldn’t make it.”
“Yeah, she’s still not feeling the best,” I lie.
Delaney shakes her head. “Damn seafood. That’s what we get for ordering fish from China instead of our own doorstep, right?” she laughs.
It’s a strange kind of laugh, strained. She looks over my shoulder. I turn, but there’s no-one there.
The clock hits sixty seconds, a beep sounding to mark it.
Delaney claps her hands together dramatically. “That’s my cue. I’ll see you on stage, cutie.”
She darts off and I’m left waiting.
The show goes live, Delaney speaking to the camera. “Our next guest is the son of rock star Mason Barton, a Delaney regular, here to discuss recent allegations of song stealing.
Cue dramatic ‘Ooo’ from the crowd.
“Ladies, I give you super-hottie Mathew Barton!”
I come out smiling with my lips together waving to the audience.
I take a seat and settle myself.
“So, Mat,” Delaney begins, leaning over as if we’re confiding. “How are things?”
“Not bad,” I nod, hands on the folder I’ve brought with me. “But these allegations have been a bit of a sore point for Sel and I, truthfully.”
Delaney taps her knee, her producer signaling her. “Yes, where is the splendorous Selena Torres tonight?”
“Ill, I’m afraid, but she’ll be back to her best soon enough.”
I notice the camera on me roll forward, the zoom pushing in.
“Now, Mat,” says Delaney, looking into the camera. “What would you say to Rick Evans if he was here?”
I don’t hold back. “I’d say he’s a liar and a scumbag.” I want to say a hell of a lot worse, but this is a PG show as far as I’m aware.
The producer signals again.
What the hell is going on?
Delaney’s smile is a little too crocodile-esque for my liking. “Well, you’re in luck, because here’s Rick right now!”
The snare tightens.
Oh, fuck no.
I see Rick walk in from stage left undoing the top button of his suit jacket. He waves to the audience as I did and takes a seat that t
he crew manager strategically placed on the other side of Delaney. It’s not going to stop me clearing those couple of feet and ramming his head up his ass if I have to.
Selena was right. This was a trap all along.
Fuck it. Improvise.
I press the anger down and summon composure, keeping eye contact with Rick, who shoots it right back. We’re both stubborn, so Delaney is bound to get her money’s worth here.
She addresses the audience. “This isn’t a boxing ring, boys, as much as we’d all love to see with your shirts off getting hot and bothered, so let’s keep it civilized, shall we?”
We both nod, even the fucking snake that used to be my best friend.
Delaney, of course, brings up the allegations, but I’m surprised when she allows me first response. I take out Dad’s old notes, the camera pulling in for a good look. Both Rick and Delaney are quiet as I detail the facts. I go on to show how there were many more songs Dad left incomplete. By the time I’m finished, I think I’ve put together a pretty fucking iron-clad case.
Delaney continues to play impartial. She nods, her chair swiveling to Rick. “Well, Rick, what do you have to say in response?”
Rick avoids the question. It soon becomes clear why he came. He rocks forward in his chair, looking past the Delaney at me. “Yes, let’s talk a little about Mason, shall we?”
I’m wired hotter than a fucking time bomb.
Rick looks to the audience for support. “Let’s not forget this is the same Mason Barton who got drunk, got behind the wheel, and ending up claiming the lives of a young family.”
The audience grows silent. They don’t know what to do. Even Delaney is sweating now, but Rick keeps on. “If you ask me, we shouldn’t be glorifying him or his progeny here. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid.” He points at me. “And you’ve seen what he got up to on his ‘world tour.’ ‘Musicians’ like this guy, who have no regard for anyone else but themselves, shouldn’t be allowed to perform.”
I clench my teeth together hard, cannot stop my hands balling into fists. Give me an excuse. Please. I’ve been in my share of bar fights. Rick? Probably never taken a hit in his life.
Let him see what it feels like.
Delaney fans herself. “Woo, it’s getting serious in here, isn’t it?”