by Jesse Jordan
“That's because the house isn't in my name, I did all the paperwork in Mama's name to take care of her if something crazy happened to me on the road and she needed to have control of the property,” I reply, shaking my head. Yesterday? He must have really blasted James to have that hurting so much still today. Wait... that name. “Chad? As in....?”
“As in Andrea Coates' former boyfriend Chad, son of one of the named partners in a downtown law firm, Bronson. I was in here yesterday just trying to catch up on some paperwork to get you guys some fresh cheddar for the holidays when the asshole storms in, screaming his fucking head off. 'Where's Joey Rivera? Where's that stealing fuck?' and a bunch of other stuff. I step out of the conference room where I was working. The company had a girl in the booths doing some commercial voiceover work and I didn't want him fucking people up,” James says, crossing his arms. “When I told him you weren't here, he starts yelling that I needed to give him your home address. I promptly told him to fuck off and get out, which is when he hit me. The lump is actually from me hitting my head on the corner of the desk, not the punch. Thankfully a few other folks came out to make sure shit didn't escalate.”
“I hope you called the cops on his ass,” I comment, and James shakes his head. “What? Why?”
“For one, because I know the name. You might not, but I do. That law firm, Joey. They're connected. And his father's golf buddies with both Darren Coates and with a few other movers and shakers around this town. Chad Bronson isn't one of those guys you can just call the cops on, not if you want something to actually stick. So, I did the next best thing.”
“Which is?” I ask as I open the door to the sound booth. This is crazy, and the booth at least lets me start to feel like I'm somewhere I can think straight about all this.
“I promised to swear out a restraining order if he comes anywhere near Gashouse again. Bronson knows that the main thing he wants to avoid is bad publicity. Him beating up a dwarf and getting arrested, coming off as a psycho boy is not what he wants. And remember, I do know publicity. While the Coates empire might not let a word of it slip, I know a bunch of other people. Let's just say a lot of these media conglomerates, they like to war with each other,” James says. When I give him a confused look, he sighs and pulls a chair over, sitting down. “Let me give you a primer on the Art of War, Hollywood public relations style. You know about the Big Six, right?”
“The six media conglomerates that run a lot of business around town,” I reply, opening my guitar case. “I know that much at least. What about them?”
“Well, throw Sony in there, although they're pretty fucking clueless sometimes once they filter shit through the Japanese home office. But still, let's call it seven. Seven major corporate conglomerates that control over ninety percent of the media that gets distributed around this country, and through that a huge percentage of popular culture around the entire planet. Therefore, a little PR in this town doesn’t stay little. Especially if it is salacious. You following me?”
I pull my guitar on, nodding. “Okay, I think so. Go on.”
James nods. “Chad Bronson, he's a small fry, but he’s still worth ink. He's fucking tabloid fodder if you can get anything hard on him. Anything soft his Daddy can squash, but anything hard? Hell, that boy's already got problems, he's facing a rape charge. He's got his Daddy's law firm on it, he'll probably beat it the low life fuck, but he's got to keep his nose clean. He knows a restraining order violation would look bad for him. It worked... for now.”
I plug in my guitar and flip the power switch, trying to think. “Okay. Listen, man, I'm sorry about that shit yesterday, I didn't mean to bring down heat on you. I just gotta think a little, play some chords and try to digest it all. No offense.”
“None taken,” James says. “I know I look pissed, but it ain't at you, Joey. That asshole Chad, he called me some shit that I thought I was okay with, but I guess it still pisses me off. Sucks not being six feet and built like a badass like you are, you know?”
I give a little laugh, “Thanks, James. Seriously. Just let me think a little.”
James leaves the studio and I start playing, just some stuff from memory to warm up my hands and to let me think. Guitar playing has always been my form of meditation, after all. Mama goes to Mass, prays her rosary every night, I strum my way through Black Magic Woman and Unforgiven. It works either way, in my opinion.
But the questions in my mind trouble me. Chad coming here and starting a fight with James? James is a man in his forties with an alimony payment, a midlife crisis that has him dressing like a roadie still, and a sarcastic, pessimistic view on media corporations, but not a violent bone in his four-foot body.
And Chad's connected, too. Andrea said something about that, but I kind of dismissed it. I figured that he had enough trouble on his hands, but to be crazy enough to show up here? This guy's a danger, not just to Andrea, but to the rest of my friends and family. What if he shows up here when it's just Cora? She likes to get here early a lot of the time to make sure the recording equipment is ready to go. I only came in this early today to let me enjoy the peace and quiet of solo playing and think about Andrea. I wanted to tell the guys about her more, to say that maybe... well, maybe I'm falling for her. Ian would most likely laugh, but I know Rocky and Cora wouldn't.
And then there's her father. Just thinking about him perving on his daughter and grabbing her ass as a teenager is disgusting enough. But if he's one of these big players, and it is a battle like James says, is there any way that I can maintain a relationship with Andrea and keep my family and my friends safe? And what about Andrea herself? If I keep seeing her, am I putting her in more danger?
There's a knock on the studio door, and I see Ian with, surprisingly, Rocky and Cora behind him. “Hey dude, you're looking like you're in thought,” Ian says. “Guess who I found in the parking lot?”
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, pleasantly surprised. “I thought this was just a practice session for Ian and me.”
“Bella's spending some time with her grandparents, and I thought that even though I don't have any lyrics... if you want, I can still play backup guitar for you,” Rocky says. I give him a bro-hug in thanks and look at Cora. “And you?”
“James gave me a call last night, told me about what went down. I figured that you could use some female intuition and besides, I love listening when you guys just jam,” Cora says, smiling softly. She admits she's a fan as much as she is our producer, and she's still head over heels for Rocky and likes helping us with music as much as she can. “I might be a few months pregnant, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy my guys doing what they do best.”
“Thanks, I guess. Just after that, and the other day listening to Andrea tell me that her father's clingy, kind of creepy really... I don't know if I can make it work with her. I want to, but...”
“Stop right there,” Ian says, cutting me off. I look over at him, and see a red line that goes around his nose and mouth, pretty faint but clearly there. Ian notices my look and rubs at it for a moment before he shrugs. “Doc's got me trying a CPAP machine. I'm going in to have it operated on right after the lovebirds get hitched, and by the time they get back and we go back on tour, I'll be fine. In the meantime, I get to look like a damn fool. But, that wasn't what I meant. You say you want to make it work with this girl?”
I nod. “Yeah. I mean, I feel bad that I haven't introduced her to you guys, but I thought maybe you guys wanted your personal time. No offense, Ian, but after spending three months on the road, I kinda enjoyed not having to share breakfast with you three.”
Cora chuckles, sitting in Rocky's lap after he finds a chair and humming as she wiggles herself into a comfortable position. “Feeling is mutual, Joey. But you're still family, right? So, spill it.”
I shrug and sit down, thinking how to tell them without spilling any details that maybe Andrea isn't comfortable me sharing with them. “Okay. Saturday, I invited Andrea to my house to meet Mama and Maria and Ang
el. We had a barbecue, and my family really enjoyed meeting Andrea. The feeling was the same from her, too. Things went great, and when I took her back to her place, well, I didn't leave until Sunday morning. When I got home, I thought Mama was going to be angry, but she wasn't. If anything, she was supportive. But between what Andrea told me about Darren Coates and then what Chad pulled, this could get the band in hot water. I don't want that, and the risk to my family...”
“I don't know about your mother, but I remember a guy who was willing to go to the floor to support me when I was having problems with the tabloids. I remember you stuck by me, and you said that you'd support me no matter what. And I also remember as soon as I pulled my head from my ass and loved the woman I love, you were one hundred percent behind me, even as I suddenly fired our manager,” Rocky says, wrapping his arms around Cora and hugging her. “Don't be stupid like I was Joey and have your head up your ass like I did. If you like this girl, don't let anything get in the way of that.”
“Exactly,” Ian rumbles, sitting down behind the drums. “Besides, your ass isn't big enough to fit your head up it. Trust me, you've pissed me off enough over the years I've thought of trying to see if it'd fit more than once. You don't have the hips for it.”
Ian's wisecrack makes us all laugh, and I feel my tension ease up a bit. “You guys don't mind that I'm falling for a girl whose father is a media mogul, who might be racist, is definitely an asshole, and who has an ex who's on the loco train?”
“Falling for her, huh?” Cora teases. I blush, and Cora smiles. “No way in the world am I letting you give up on her that easy then.”
I nod, taking a deep breath. “Okay, okay, point taken. Well, I guess then I'll just have to keep my eyes open. Still, I worry about the danger that Darren and Chad represent.”
“You know what Darren and Chad are?” Ian asks. I shake my head, and he picks up his drumsticks, twirling his wrists to loosen them up. “They're spoiled rich boy bullies. They've been born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and they think that by throwing around their country club money and the connections that they've got, they can get what they want. You break it off with Andrea, you're just giving those two assholes what they want. Let me ask you, is that the sort of life Andrea wants?”
“No, she hates having to live on her father's money. She's told me so many times, and she admitted to me, she feels like a hypocrite hating it and taking it at the same time. I told her not to worry about it, but still, she hates it.”
“Then don't let her stay in that situation,” Ian says. “Be the Joey Rivera that helped us all put together Bella's swings, the Joey that takes care of your sister and mother and nephew. Right now, though, I'd like the other Joey to get ready to go to work. Think we can get the guitar ass kicker to make an appearance?”
I grin, nodding. “Damn right. Cora, Rocky, you guys staying in here or going to the booth?”
“I think we'll go in the booth. That way Cora can sit down in my lap and keep wiggling and nobody's going to object,” Rocky jokes, but I can see that Cora's doing a pretty good job of getting him worked up early in the morning. I chuckle, she is his perfect partner, and as they go into the booth, I give Ian a shrug. He smirks and shrugs back.
“What are we working on?”
I think, then decide. “Here, I don't have a name for it, but listen and give me what you think will be a good drum beat for it.”
Things go great, after a little while Cora even throws the recording light on, and it feels awesome, there's nothing better than laying down fresh tracks knowing that you're making good music. By the time we're finished in the middle of the afternoon, I feel better, and I send Andrea a text message, just saying that when she gets off work, I'd like to talk. Nothing bad... I just wanted to hear your voice.
“Hey lover boy, if you've got the time... my garage says you're too soft to do a leg workout with me,” Rocky jokes. “They say women weaken the legs, and I know you gotta stop by at least once a week until you find a place for yourself in TO. Have you done that yet?”
I shake my head, grinning. “Nope, not yet. But I will. I can't let you go all soft on me if I go soft too. You're on, I don't need to be home until seven tonight. Hey, Ian, you want in on this action?”
Ian thinks about it, then nods. “Sure, why not? Doc said that some exercise could help too, and it gets damn lonely in that fucking Huntington apartment by myself nowadays. Let's see what Simi Valley has to offer.”
Andrea
I feel refreshed and happy as I get off the I-10 and make my way through the maze of downtown streets towards the Coates Media building. Yesterday I was able to write up not just the assignment I had for Sunday, but also got nearly two thousand words done on the more in-depth story on Joey. I might be able to get it done today, and then vet it past James and Joey before submitting it to my editors. It's not normally something I'd do, even on an expose piece that's meant to give the sunny side and not dig up dirt, but with Joey and me... well, dating, I want to make sure that they get a chance to look it over.
Getting off the elevator, I'm shocked to see Dad standing at my desk, his arms crossed over his chest and a look of death on his face. Even before I can say anything or get my bag off my shoulder, he points. “Conference room. Now.”
“Okay, chill, just let me drop my bag,” I start, but Dad grabs me by the arm, literally dragging me towards the room despite my protests. “Dad! Dad! Let go!”
Shoving me into the conference room, Dad slams the door shut behind him, locking it before he turns to me, his face going even redder. “I was sitting at home yesterday, trying to enjoy some free time and a little bit of time off, when I find out that my daughter, who I've raised to be smarter than this, is out fucking some Puerto Rican rock singer? Who the fuck do you think you are, getting down in the mud with someone like that?”
Chad. That spoiled, psycho fuck. “First, Chad's got no right going to you about who I'm seeing. Second, I will not allow you to use that sort of language about Joey. I'm...”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Dad yells, his voice booming. “You dare tell me how to speak? You’re playing around with a ghetto, low-riding, bean eating...”
“You shut up!” I yell back, slamming my hands on the conference table, my bag luckily falling off my shoulder to plop on one of the conference chairs. “Joey is a good man! His father was a fucking Marine hero, and his son is just as honorable!”
Dad stops, shocked that I'd speak back to him. The last time I did was when I got my own place, threatening to move totally out of his life before he relented. At the time, he'd come back by offering me my current apartment, but I see that maybe I just encouraged him to try harder to keep his strings tied to me. I need to press my advantage. “Joey's worked hard, he's talented, and he's strong, Dad. Stronger than that fucking loser Chad, that's for sure. That creepy fuck's been stalking me for months, practically.”
“He's upset that you abandoned him when he needed help, but that's a conversation for another time,” Dad fumes. “I'll have a talk with his father later. But you, young lady, are my responsibility, and I will not let my daughter drag our family name through the mud!”
He's yelling again, and I am faced with the fact that, for my father, this goes beyond the casual disdain he's held for all people from the lower economic classes my entire life. I always thought that Dad made his jokes based on bank account size, not the color of skin, even though most of his taunts did have an ethnic slant to them. But Joey's climbed out of the bad neighborhoods, he's shown heart, guts, brains, and talent that's going to make him a legit millionaire within six months, a year at the outside. No, it's not Joey's bank account or even his old neighborhood that makes Dad this angry. Dad's laughed and hung out with people with poor backgrounds before. Pro athletes who came from places even poorer than Joey's background. No, I finally call it for what it is. It's racism, pure and simple.
“I have done nothing wrong, Dad. If you can't see it, that's your problem, not mine,” I repl
y, reaching for my bag. “Now, I have work to do.”
“You go out that door, and you won't have any work at all to do,” Dad hisses. “In case you've forgotten Andrea, I own your job. I own your car, I own your apartment, I practically own your sweet little ass. So sit down if you want any of those things tomorrow.”
I freeze, glaring in amazement as Dad points at the chair. “I said... sit. Down.”
I take a deep breath and pull the chair out, sitting down. It's not the Lexus or the apartment, but my job. I like writing for the Pulse, and I like doing what I do. Of all the things to threaten, he picked the one that works. “What do you want?”
“You're going to break up with the hoodlum, first,” Dad says, planting his hands on the table and giving me the power glare that he's semi-famous for. It's not as strong as it was a decade ago, Dad's booze habit's starting to make his eyes go a bit bloodshot and his comb-over's getting very evident, but it still carries a lot of weight. “You're going to find yourself a good boyfriend, from the right background and right places. You don't want to date Chad, I can understand that he's getting pretty tubby anyway. But you will stop this despicable behavior. Johnny Rivera!”
I take a deep breath, trying to keep calm in the face of this angry madness. “His name's Joey, Dad. Joey Rivera. You know, of the platinum-selling band where he's one of the best guitar players of the past decade?”
Dad shakes his head, his mood not improving. “I don't care if his name is Johnny, Joey, Juan, or Julio. He's not acceptable for me or for my daughter. You will find a boyfriend I approve of, and stop this barrio boffing. And don't tell me you haven't, I can see it on your face. My only daughter, fucking a Puerto Rican? Inconceivable!”
“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means,” I taunt him, losing my temper. Darren Coates might be able to throw around his money, and he might be able to use his tongue to cut people to ribbons, but steel sharpens steel, and I've had more than my fair share of chances to use my own words to wound. “And by approve of, I assume you mean the son of one of your lily-white friends from Bel Air or Beverly Hills?”