Pretty Remedy

by S. E. Hall

  I blatantly roll my eyes at my father and scoff. “No wedding, no items, and quit trying to get me to leave. You and I both know I have more rights than ever to be here. Now what’s next on the agenda?”

  Oh, pick your jaw up, Warrick. Yes, I have a brain, a backbone, and you by the balls. Spicy—that’s me.

  “All right.” My father pins me with his glare and clears his throat. “I’m proposing we sign Little Bone T to a one album deal with our option to renew. His demos were something fresh for us, appealing to a younger market and also the hip-hop genre, in which we’re not very strong. Thoughts?”

  “I have one,” I pipe up.

  My father has the nerve to drop his forehead into his hand. “Yes, Reece?”

  My name rolls off his tongue like acid, and… it hurts. I haven’t stirred up any real trouble yet, and I wouldn’t if he’d respect me. I’ve grown up in this business, do my research whether he realizes it or not and have some valid points and ideas. Not to mention I am the younger market he’s looking to target!

  “Father, with avenues such as YouTube, Vine and Snapchat, undiscovered, talented, young people are much easier to find. I literally watch independent clips with more views than some of our signed acts have in album sales. These outlets help two-fold. With global accessibility, these new artists know all their competition are being seen too, so they work harder to come up with original, eye-catching, memorable samples. And, companies such as ours can be choosier. For example, the young man you’re proposing? His name is ‘Little Bone!’” I look into the sea of blank faces and have to stifle my laughter. They’re far from ready to help me mold innovation. “That name is generic hoopla that he got backward! He’s literally insinuating that his male appendage is lacking. Um, not savvy—stupid. Not to mention, am I the only one who recently read the article about him punching his last manager, in a bar, that he wasn’t old enough to be in any way? Is that someone we want in the Crescendo family?”

  “Sir,” Asskiss Alan, aptly named by me, holds up his large-screen phone. “Those charges were dropped. And I’m sure T would work with us on a new, or improved, name.”

  “But there were charges, so something happened. And there’s no improving that name. My point is, his mentality is set. I promise you, millions of people Mr. Bone’s age are out there and dying for a chance to prove their ability and passion for their craft. Let me ask you, Alan”—I do nothing to hide my curtness—“can Mr. Bone play an instrument?”

  His face goes pasty before it drops to his phone. His fingers fly over the keys.

  “And while you’re at it, ask about lyrics. Has he ever written any? That can actually be played on the radio as is?”

  Ozzie stands guard at the door and flashes me a quick wink. Mr. Waterman, also team “Heads Not in Our Asses” smiles subtly.

  “Here’s my counteroffer, young lady,” my father says. “You have one week, seven days, to bring us demos of soloists, bands, whoever, you’d like to present for consideration. We will all listen and discuss them then. Will that appease you?”

  Not even close, but it’s a start. “Yes, thank you, Father.”

  “Moving on to financial reports. Reece, do you need to stay for this?”

  “No.” I stand, meeting Mr. Waterman dead in the eyes before glancing away. “I’m sure it’s covered. Pleasure all. See you next time.”

  Ozzie holds the heavy mahogany-and-glass door open for me, and I saunter through with the dignity I’m gonna keep demanding. I just have to be faithfully patient that’s it’s all worth it.

  By Tuesday evening, I’ve waited two days too long for Jarrett to pry his head out of his ass. Here I am, trying to have my brother’s back, and he’s unconcerned about forfeiting, again, what I thought were our dreams. The longer I’m left waiting, forced to make her do the same, the angrier I become.

  Looks like she’s fed up too.

  Teaspoon: I need your help. Can we talk?

  I push call without hesitation, grateful she reached out… ‘cause I wasn’t sure I should without an answer for her.

  “Please don’t say ‘I was just about to call you,’” she answers with a soft laugh.

  “Okay. How are you, Teaspoon?”

  She groans, in what’s meant as the classic sound of frustration, yet doubles as the catalyst for my current battle with a groan of my own... for very different reasons.

  “I don’t know if you’ve decided yet?” she asks.

  I want to say yes, unequivocally, and jump on a plane right now. I want to say to hell with Jarrett’s indecisiveness, putting me and the music on the back burner again, but I can’t. Growing up, I was always the target of everything that sucked about our house. I kept Jarrett protected and that older brother instinct, to watch out for him, never goes away. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. If you need to move on, I completely understand.”

  “I don’t want to move on. No plans to. But my hands are kinda tied on giving you more time. Unless you’re willing to help me out a little?”

  I sit up straighter in bed, my interest piqued. “I’ll help you any way I can, Tea. Whatcha got?”

  “Well… ”

  I can just picture her, pinching her lip in between her fingers, blinking rapidly as she glances in every direction.

  “I have a week to present a demo that I believe in. I know once they hear you, us, whatever, they’ll be sold. So I’m not saying you have to decide right now, but I need to seal the deal on my end now. Kinda like, buy you time. You understand?”

  “Nope,” I answer honestly. “You gave me a contract, so I guess I thought this was a done deal?”

  She sighs, and I realize there’re dynamics in L.A. that plague her, dynamics I don’t know enough about to fix for her. “As far as I’m concerned, it is. And if I have to get loud and ugly about it, I will. But I’d so much rather keep things amicable with my father and prove to him I’m capable of making sound business decisions, that I have an ear for talent and can be trusted with my company. I know it’s crazy, but his respect is, for some unfathomable reason, still very important to me.”

  We have more than amazing, late grandfathers and music in common…she speaks now to my similar skeletons; but I’ll never voluntarily disclose. And my protective instinct? Of course her five feet of precious goodness sets it aflame. “Tell me what I can do, Reece. Name it.”

  “There’s a studio in Apple Valley, almost mid-way between us. Well, about three hours for you, two for me.” She laughs. “But it’s fully equipped. We could meet and knock out a demo. I don’t feel like I have time to learn one of your originals and do it justice, and he’s already bought your lyrics, so maybe we could do a cover we both know?”

  Her optimism is contagious. She’s talking a mile a minute in an octave three pitches higher than usual, and by the time she pauses, she’s out of breath. Her determination and tenacity is admirable, but it sounds as though if I end up in L.A., I won’t be welcomed by anyone but her—and I’m convinced, more than ever, that’s enough. Reece Kelly is a pint-sized ball of fire when her mind’s made up.

  “I’ll play, or learn to play, anything you pick,” I say. “You tell me the song, time, and place—I’ll be there.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, Teaspoon.”

  “Okay!” she squeals, and I can’t help but laugh. “Let me call you right back.”

  And call me back she does, about an hour later.

  “Can you do tomorrow night at eight o’clock?” she asks. “The studio suddenly had a three-hour slot open up.”

  Obstinate lil’ thing. “Hello to you too, Mighty Mouse. You’re just makin’ all kinds of things happen, aren’t ya? Remind me to choose my battles with you very carefully.” I chuckle. “And yes, I can do that. Just text me the name of the studio, and I’ll find it.”

  “Thank you, Rhett. You have no idea what this means to me.” Her small voice carries a sincere respect that makes me anxious to see her again.

  “Actually, I think I do.” I
clear my throat. “Guess we’d better pick a song.” I’d suggest “I’ve Got this Friend,” but it doesn’t highlight two instruments.

  “What about ‘I’ve Got this Friend’?” she asks.

  And she just keeps coming with it.

  “I was thinking the same thing, but there’s really only one instrument in that one. What exactly do you want to showcase: voices, guitar, drums? Up to you.”

  “He knows what I can play, I think, and he wouldn’t know the difference between a good drummer and not, so let’s do you on guitar and our two voices. It’ll be great.”

  Yes, it will be. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow night?” her voice feathers across the line.

  “You will. Good night, Teaspoon.”

  “Night.”

  I hang up, a slight zing of adrenaline coursing through me. I tell myself it’s a response toward this step in my musical career, and that’s true, in part. But the thought of seeing Reece again certainly doesn’t lessen my heart rate.

  I find the studio easily and park before grabbing my Martin OM out of the backseat, its dovetail neck construction ideal for sliding in some extra stylings. When I get out and head to the glass door, Reece’s waving wildly from behind it. I’d take my time perusing the form-hugging jeans she’s wearing or the small strip of her belly peeking out from the bottom of her shirt, but something about the formidable, none-too-happy-looking man at her hip tells me that isn’t a good idea.

  “Rhett!” She pushes open the door and jumps up to fling her arms around my neck. No way can her feet reach the ground right now, so I wrap an arm around her waist to hold her up. “I’m so excited. It’s great to see you.”

  I’d tease her about the fact that it’s been less than a handful of days since we last saw each other if it hadn’t felt much longer to me too. Jesus.

  Big Boy clears his throat loudly, so I gently set her on her feet, resenting the fuck out of him already. “Hey to you too, Teaspoon,” I say and give her a quick kiss on the cheek, then step to the side and stretch out my hand. “I’m Rhett Foster.”

  He returns my handshake, ensuring I’m crystal clear that I’m shaking hands with a real man, and shoots me a look I’m guessing he gets paid to give to anyone who gets too close. Fell down on the job there while she was in Vegas, bud.

  “Ozzie, stop.” Reece nudges him with an elbow and giggles. “Rhett, this is Ozzie Riley. He’s my friend, driver, bodyguard, surrogate father, business associate and worrywart. He’s just trying to scare you.”

  “Yeah, picked up that.” I wrench my hand out of his. “Nice to meet you,” I lie.

  “Sweetpea, maybe you should go inside and get things ready?” he suggests to her, still eyeballing me.

  Sweetpea? If he didn’t have thirty years on her and the word “father” somewhere in all those titles, I might be trying that whole handshake thing again—my way.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t. Stand down, killer. Come on, Rhett.” She takes my hand authoritatively, and I follow her inside the studio.

  For the entire three hours, Ozzie never takes his eyes off us, so I’m denied a touch of her, a kiss, a sniff… nothing. We nail our Civil Wars cover in four takes, so then we try “Broken” by Seether with her on guitar—which she shreds—and me on the house drums. Next, and maybe my favorite of the night, we both strap up for an acoustic run at “Falling Slowly.”

  Her singing voice is far different, not necessarily better, than when she speaks—it takes on this mesmerizing, raw quality, with a grittiness that’s sexy as fucking hell. And her eyes glaze over with every emotion the song draws out of her. If you didn’t know they weren’t her own words, you’d never figure it out by watching her perform. She injects so much into her singing that it feels personal. I can only pray her father, and Jarrett, come around—I’d give anything to work with this girl.

  Ozzie raps on the glass and points at his watch.

  “I think our time’s up.” She rolls her eyes at him and snickers but steps closer to me. “We got it. No way they won’t want you, which just makes it peaceful. I wanted you anyway, and I would’ve made it happen. You know that, right?”

  “I do, absolutely. Like you said, they can’t deny they approve of my lyrics since they bought them almost three times.”

  “That’s true, yes, but I mean me. I need to know that you believe me when I say no matter how, I will make it happen. That I want you.”

  “Teaspoon, you can’t say you want me with your Man-Bear standing right over there. I won’t be of much use if all my good parts are broken.”

  The next bang on the glass is twice as hard, and Reece startles.

  “Go,” I say, bowing my head to her ear. “I’ll see you soon. Find him a hobby before then.” She snickers faintly, and I press a kiss right below her ear. “Soon.”

  “Soon,” she whispers.

  I give them a head start, then walk out and climb into my car.

  That felt…found.

  Time to talk, once and for all, to my brother. Enough of his wallowing, almost two days of sending me straight to voicemail, not answering my texts or his door, and conveniently, not being anywhere I look for him. This is exactly the kind of “Jarrett Bleeding Heart” bullshit that proves why God made me the big brother.

  I get in my car and drive to On Tap. There’s only one way to squash this tension in my body and torture in my mind. I scan the noisy, dark club and immediately think of the last time I actually took the time to look around this place…her. Any girl who’d ever gotten a number written on her hand knew to stay right there and wait for me, but not Teaspoon. She was immediately up and wandering around, unknowingly drawing the eyes of every fucker in the place that night. And when we danced, her body molded to mine in instant knowledge, ceding all control to me instinctively. I’m not sure there is a better first impression to make on a man like me. She didn’t throw it at me but made me come find it. Showed me her sexy surrender, impressed me intellectually, then threw on the brakes…denying me access.

  But Tea’s not here now, so I dismiss my musing and make my way through the crowd, having spotted what I came for.

  I come up behind her at the bar and speak brusquely over the music. “Hey.”

  She swings around, her eyes doubling in size. “Rh-Rhett.”

  “We need to talk, now.” JC’s watching, and I shoot him a look that erases any thoughts he might’ve had about interrupting.

  “But I have to work.” Her excuse sounds pathetic even to her, which is why she won’t meet my eyes. We’re all amply aware of her work ethic.

  “I can fix that problem with one word and you know it. Let’s go.” I gently take her elbow. “JC, she’ll be gone about thirty. Cover her.”

  Neither of them attempt to argue, and I lead her to Thatcher’s office, to which I have a key. We’ll be able to hear one another clearly here.

  “Have a seat,” I tell her as I shut the door and move around behind the desk.

  “Rhett, what are you doing?”

  “No need to be nervous, Vanessa. You know damn well I’d never hurt you. Yes, I’m mad at you and disappointed. I think you’re probably a little of both those at yourself too. Jarrett was good to you, and he didn’t deserve being lied to and cheated on, but that’s not why I’m here.” I lean back in the chair and cross my arms. “I have a few questions, and I need you to answer them honestly, no matter what you think I want to hear. Can you give me that?”

  “Y-yes.” She nods shakily.

  “Are you still in love with my brother?”

  She fumbles with her apron, never looking up.

  “Vanessa, just answer honestly.”

  “No. I’m so sorry, I just—”

  I hold up my hand to stop her bullshit rambling. “Are you ever planning on going back to him?”

  “No,” she answers low and shamefully.

  “What if this new kid dumps you? Or, say, cheats on you? You gonna come running back then?”

&
nbsp; Now she’s looking at me, disdain in her slitted eyes. “Not that Stephen would ever do either of those things, but no, not even then. Jarrett’s a great guy, and how I did things was wrong—I know that—but Jarrett and I don’t have the stuff that makes for a forever.”

  “So if Jarrett became famous, won the lottery, started dating someone else, his dick grew seven inches overnight, or he bought you the biggest house and ring possible, still no way? Never, no chance, whatsoever?” I hate redundancy as much as I hate talking to her in the first place, but I have to be positive.

  “No!” she yells, gripping both sides of her chair. “Enough! I’m sorry, so sorry, but no, no, no!”

  I smile, and that really throws her off-kilter, wary confusion smearing across her face. “Good to hear. I’m glad. You don’t deserve him anymore than you deserve any hold on him you may still have. Which is why you’re going to tell him exactly what you just told me.”

  “The hell I am. I don’t dance for you, Rhett Foster!”

  No, I have a dancer, thank you. “Yes, you are. Jarrett needs to know that you’re never coming back so he can move on with his life, his dreams, and toward opportunities that could very possibly make those dreams a reality. You are gonna tell him, in a convincing, kind way, and you are not going to mention I had anything to do with it.” I speak calmly, but she hears the warning weaved into my instructions. “You’ve moved on. You’re happy and still employed; Jarrett is stagnant. The unbalance of power ends now, because you’re conceding your power over him.”

  “Why would I even think about listening to you? And speaking of that, what’s in it for you?” she snarls and throws one leg over the other haughtily.

  “You’ll listen, because if you don’t, you’ll be fired immediately. I’ll see to it personally that you’re ostracized from every club, bar, and casino in this town. I know people, and those I don’t know, Thatcher does. As for what’s in it for me? That’s none of your fucking business.” I stand, walk around the desk, and cage her in the chair, leaning over her. “I won’t let you take anything more from him, Nessy. Do the right thing, and do it soon. Good night.”