by Lori Folkman
……
Ah. New York. Sucks. This trip had been absolutely suck-tacular. It was so blasted cold. The people were so annoying with their stupid accents and avoidance of personal body space. It was too crowded. And Ben was so, so, so tired. The city was too fricken loud. All the time. Ben was having a hard enough time sleeping as it was. Now add in sirens, cabs honking, and air traffic overhead. He was desperate to go home to his quiet hilltop.
And that was it really—why he wanted to go home. He no longer had that person to go home to. That ate up his insides like termites inside a log cabin. He didn’t deserve that—her hostility. Her unwillingness to listen. He expected her to trust him. To have faith in him. And her lack thereof left him with a really sour taste in his mouth. What could he have possibly done differently?
To make matters worse, he had ticked off Brishell. Seriously. Not that he cared that much about how she felt about him. That much. He did care a little. A little too much for his liking. It was part of his nature—human nature—to crave adoration. So he never minded it when girls crushed on him. And to have THE hottest model in the world trying to gain hold of his heart was flattering. But when it became apparent that she was trying to gain hold of more than just his heart, he had to put her off. He had tried to do it as gingerly as possible. That night at the club, he had waited until the song was over and then pulled her off the dance floor and into a private suite. She must have thought that it meant something else, because all of a sudden, she had at least eight hands. They were roving everywhere. “Brishell, Stop!” he’d said. And he’d actually pushed her away from him.
Her shoulders had hit the wall—which was padded, so no need to worry about her bruising a boney shoulder blade or anything. The look she had given him—the Czech words she had said: yikes. He was pretty sure that she’d just put a hex on him. And his children. And his children’s children. He had tried to back up, to say what he’d intended to say before she had molested him. “I can’t do this with you. Right now. Believe me Brishell, it’s tempting. But I can’t. I’d always regret it.”
She’d looked mad. Offended. Hurt. “Regret me?” she’d asked, her voice low and thick with confusion.
He was positive no one had ever said something along those lines to her before. Or even thought along those lines before. Brishell was regarded as a treasure—as the ultimate prize man could ever hope to achieve. “It’s not because I don’t like you. I’m attracted to you.” More than he would like, even. “I just … I’m with someone else right now.” There. He’d said it out loud, for the first time. It felt good—relieving even. It had made him smile. Big mistake.
Her bottom lip had puffed out. Her chin had quivered. “That … silly little high school girl?”
“Yes. Katrina.”
“You are choosing her over me?”
He could hear the anger and astonishment in her voice. He didn’t answer. What could he say that would make this situation any better? Nothing.
She had spoke in Czech again. He recognized a few of the words. They weren’t nice. She had turned on her stiletto heel and left, her straight hair nearly flicking him in the face as she snapped her head. Her scent had clung to the room after she left. It had clung on him—on his clothes. His hands. He knew that perfume. It was Ferrion. It was laced with pheromones. It was expensive, worn only by rich girls. Of course there were cheap knock-offs. But they never smelled as good—as tantalizing as Ferrion. And Ben had never known Ferrion to smell as good as it did on Brishell. It had almost worked. But he had will-power. The thought had made him smile with pride.
He remembered thinking—while in that plush red room with its flickering candelabras and gas-lit sconces, the room that still reeked of Brishell and her wanton desires—how lucky he was to have found Kat. A girl who would never rely on Ferrion to seduce Ben. She would never, in fact, try to seduce him. And that was part of the fun—watching her resistance wear thin. He couldn’t wait to get home to her.
But that was then. Almost a week ago. Now he was left with bitterness about the entire situation. Kat should have been more understanding. He wasn’t just another high school guy, cheating on her with the head cheerleader. It was Brishell “The Bod” Broz. A professional seductress. And. He. Had. Resisted. But Kat didn’t know that. Because she wouldn’t listen.
To make matters worse, he’d been lonely this week. Feeling discontent. And since he no longer had Kat, he’d tried to contact Brishell. To pass the time. But she wouldn’t take his calls. And she was doing more than ignoring him, she’d been trash talking him to some very influential friends, namely other attractive females that could have been used to help pass the time.
So Ben was just coming back to the penthouse after another long, boring day doing the interview circuit. He was tired. Lonesome. Grumpy. Miserable. He smiled for the cameras as he stepped from his limo. Waved at the crowd. Blew a kiss to a young girl who was standing at the front of the crowd. All the while thinking of the big lie that was his life. That no matter how overrun his heart was with holes and termite tunnels, his face had to say, “My life is perfect. Envy me.”
There was a commotion at the right side of the crowd. Ben glanced over his shoulder. A man was struggling to get past security. The man was scruffy, his hair long and stringy. He had a slight beard. He didn’t look like anyone Ben wanted to get close to. Ben made his steps bigger, so he could get inside the lobby faster. Paul was right on Ben’s heels, but then Ben heard the man calling out, saying, “It’s me, Paul! Paul! Let me through!”
Paul gently shoved Ben forward. Ben went inside the building’s vestibule and turned his head to look back at the crowd. Paul was still outside. He greeted the man with a handshake; Paul’s left hand was on the man’s other arm, real familiar like. Paul smiled. But Ben saw that this was Paul’s stage smile. His business smile. That meant that Paul wasn’t really that happy to be greeting this man.
One of Ben’s security guards nudged Ben forward into the lobby. “Let’s go on in,” he said.
That was fine with Ben. He didn’t need to wait for Paul. Although Ben was slightly curious ….
He reached the penthouse and collapsed onto the sofa. Lena came from across the room and greeted him, followed by, “Benjamin, you look so tired. My poor baby.”
She went behind the sofa and began rubbing his shoulders. But just briefly. Then she said, “Would you like me to bring in the masseuse?”
“Mmm,” Ben grunted. He wished that his mom had continued. It felt so good, so relaxing. He didn’t want to move from that spot for the rest of his stay in New York. “Maybe … after dinner,” he said.
Lena ran her fingernails through his hair, scratching his scalp. He groaned with pleasure. “Or you can just keep doing that for about an hour or so,” he mumbled.
She tugged affectionately on the lobe of his ear. “Paul would get jealous,” she said lightly.
“Why, because he has hardly any hair?” Ben teased. Okay, so it wasn’t so much of a tease. Really, why should Lena’s husband be an excuse for her hurried affections towards Ben? Not that she wasn’t doting, because she was. But it was unpredictable. She went through times where she withdrew from interactions all together. Not that this was one of those times—she didn’t get out of bed much during those times. But she was being slightly distant: she had been ever since the Brishell incident. Even though Lena had heard that Ben had refused Brishell. Lena hadn’t apologized or offered sympathy to Ben. Then again, she was a Wilder, so technically she couldn’t. It had taken her a few days after the incident to start speaking to him again, but she was still withdrawn for some reason. Almost like putting on this show of The-Wilders-Rule-The-World was too much for her as well. And Ben knew that if this publicity tour lasted much longer, that she’d crash. She’d collapse into herself. And nobody wanted that.
“My, you are grumpy,” Lena said as she walked away from the couch. “You have been about as pleasant as a crocodile ever since …” she hesitated, then in a rush said,
“ever since Katrina broke up with you.”
Lena headed out of the room, like she was worried about the fallout. Which maybe she should be. She hadn’t put it very delicately. It stung. He felt his heart rate increase. “Of course I’m grumpy. My heart got smashed. How else do you expect me to feel?”
She turned back to face him, her arm resting on the archway to the dining room. “I expect you to be a Wilder—to be unconquerable. If she is what makes you happy … if she is the one you want, then go get her back. Stop wallowing and making everyone else miserable.”
“But she won’t even listen …”
“If there is anyone who can get her back—anyone who can win her heart, it’s my son. There shouldn’t be a question in your mind.”
She left the room, leaving Ben muddled in his thoughts. Could he win back Katrina? Really? And did he want to? Shouldn’t she be the one to come crawling back to him? Argh. His head started to hurt again. He felt like he had a dark cloud growing in his head, threatening an electrical storm. He couldn’t think through this right now.
Then Lena rushed back into the room. Her face was pale. Her step was urgent. “We have a visitor,” she said. “Paul’s bringing him in now.”
Just then, Ben heard the front door open. He groaned. Not now. He was so done being affable today. But he stood when Paul entered the room, being ever so gentleman like.
Ben turned to greet the guest. It was the man from the crowd in front of the building. The grungy looking one.
Paul said, “Ben, this is Emmet Halgren. He’s a drummer. He used to play … with Dan.”
Chapter Twenty-three ……
Ben’s body went numb. Now? Seriously? He had to meet one of his dad’s old buddies? The timing couldn’t be worse. Ben didn’t know if he had the strength to act through this one. But he smiled and stepped forward anyway, ready to greet the unwelcomed guest. He prayed that this would go quickly.
“At least I used to play for your dad; until your mom came and stole him away.” Emmet Halgren looked past Ben. “Hello, Lena,” he said.
Lena stepped up and shook Emmet’s hand. “So good to see you again,” she said. She smiled, looking like the cordial hostess. But Ben could see the tense manner in which she held her body.
Emmet said something about her being as beautiful as ever. Lena shrugged off the compliment and turned to Ben. “This is my son, Benjamin.”
Ben shook Emmet’s hand. Emmet swore and said, “You look just like him. It’s surreal. Like seeing his ghost.”
Oh-ho. This was just fabulous. Not what Ben wanted to hear right now. At all. Ben glanced at Paul, trying to plead with his subconscious to get this guy out of here.
Paul spoke up. “Emmet has something he would like you to listen to.”
A wave of relief blew through Ben. Was that all this was? The guy had a demo tape? And he thought Ben could help him break though. Cake. “Sure. I’d love to. You want to leave it and I can get to it later?” And later meant never.
“We’re going to do it now,” Paul interjected. He gestured towards the conference room.
Okay. Now is good too. Jeez. How was this guy—this burned out old drummer—influencing Paul like this? It was insane. Emmet smiled this large, creepy smile. It gave Ben the chills.
Paul must have signaled to Lena not to join them, because she said goodbye to Emmet and left in the direction of the kitchen. Paul, Ben, Emmet, and Paul’s number-one guy, Rogan, went into the small conference room located next to the office. Paul had used this room frequently during their stay, but Ben never had any need to go in here. He hoped the chairs weren’t too comfortable … and that Emmet’s music wasn’t too mellow. Or Ben might fall asleep.
The table was oblong. Ben and Paul sat across from each other; Emmet sat to Ben’s right. Rogan stood by the door. Ben felt better having Rogan there. No way would Ben want to be alone in a room with Emmet. Emmet had this crazy look about him. Not only was his appearance disheveled, he had this wild look in his eyes. Other than that, he looked like he may as well be dead. He was bone skinny. His skin was dull and wrinkled. He had lived a hard life, Ben could tell. The life of a washed-up rocker.
Emmet was all-out staring at Ben. Emmet swore again and said, “I can’t get over how much you look like him. You’re mannerisms and everything …”
“So, you brought us a recording?” Ben diverted.
Again, the creepy smile. Emmet pulled out a mini-recorder from the pocket of his leather jacket. It was loaded with a cassette tape. They still make those? Ben knew that the sound quality that Emmet was about to produce was going to be astounding. Or not.
“I like your new song,” Emmet said. “It has this … familiar feel to it. When I first heard it, I couldn’t shake the thought that I knew this song from somewhere.” Emmet ran his thumb across the recorder. He paused with his thumb over the play button. What did any of that have to do with Emmet’s recording? “So I began searching through some of my old recordings. Ones from the early days … with your dad. And I came across this ….”
His thumb hit play. A raw, tingy sounding song came out of the recording. It was a guitar, a bass, and drums. The tune was familiar. Very familiar. But the rhythm was different. A voice started singing. It sounded remarkably like Ben’s. It was Dan. The words were different—Ben hadn’t liked those lyrics. But that sound—those chords. Ben hadn’t been able to get them out of his head after he saw them in Dan’s notebook.
Emmet stopped the song. “It’s an amazing similarity, isn’t it? An odd coincidence … that your “Generations” song has the exact melody as that song. A song that was recorded ten years before your birth.”
“It is … purely coincidental,” Paul said.
The song started again. Emmet let it play for a few more measures. “That’s no coincidence.”
Oh Vlad. He knew. Emmet knew. That Ben was nothing more than a plagiarist. And that he had stolen from his own dad. Ben felt himself sinking—sinking into a dark abyss.
He looked across the table to Paul, who gave Ben a look of censor. Not that Paul needed to worry. Ben couldn’t speak right now if he wanted to.
“It’s not the same song, Emmet. Of course there are similar chords. But you could take any number of songs and find similarities between them.”
Emmet fast forwarded through the tape. “I knew you were going to say that. So I messed with the speed. Now listen.”
Crap. There it was. Dan’s version on speed. Now the two songs had the same rhythm. It sounded just like an acoustic version of “Generations.” There was no denying the origins of Ben’s song. Ben felt like this horrible reptilian monster had grabbed hold of his legs and was pulling him under. Underneath this black, murky water. It was getting hard to breathe.
“You stole Dan’s song. And you’re making a killing off it. It’s not right.” Emmet pulled out the cover art to Ben’s album. It was wrinkled up inside his other pocket. “And as far as I can see, you haven’t attributed the source of that song anywhere.” Emmet pretended to scan through the credits inside the album’s cover. “Can you point it out to me? Where does it say that “Generations” is a remake of Dan’s song “Pieces?” And aren’t you supposed to pay royalties for usage? I haven’t seen any of those royalty checks in my mailbox.”
“Is that was this is about, Emmet? Money? You feel cheated about a song that was never professionally recorded—a song that was never good enough to be put on an album?” Paul asked.
“No. This isn’t about money.” Emmet sounded offended. But Ben knew that it was an act. “This is about honesty. And integrity. Doing what’s right. Giving credit where credit’s due.”
“So—hypothetically speaking—all you want is for Ben to say that “Generations” was inspired by “Pieces.” You want him to announce that … and you’ll be happy?”
Ha. Paul was slick. He’d backed Emmet into a corner.
“Ya know: that’d be great and all. But I worked on that song too.” Emmet then stated something about the
contract that he had with Nye Records. How any song that was created during that particular period was property of Nye Records and thus entitled him to compensation.
“So you do want money?”
“I de … deserve it,” Emmet stammered. “It’s my song too.”
“That’s questionable. First, you would have to prove that Ben did in fact copy “Pieces.” Which would be hard to do. He’s never heard that recording before. Then you would have to prove that “Pieces” is the property of Nye Records—a now-defunct record company—and not Dan Wilder Enterprises. Do you realize the cost of litigation involved? Are you prepared for a battle that could take years—and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars?”
Emmet didn’t answer. So that’d be a no. Hopefully he regretted ever thinking that Ben was better than a winning lottery ticket.
Finally, Emmet said, “I don’t need to battle this in the courts. I can take it to the media. They’ll eat this up. And they’ll pay big money for that tape. It will crush you. Ben will lose all his credibility. And his fans.”
Oh crap. This was even worse than threatening a law suit. Ben would be destroyed. He could feel it already. He wouldn’t fall off his pedestal without breaking his neck. It would be devastating—to have it all end like this. He sank deeper and deeper into the unknown abyss, his legs completely ensnared by that relentless monster.
“What’s your price?” Paul asked.
Ben heard the answer. It was absurd. But he wanted to yell, “Pay it, Paul! Just pay it!”
Paul smirked. “I’ll give you half that.”
Emmet frowned. “That’s insulting.”
“How much have you made off of royalties this past decade, Emmet? Make that the past two decades?”