Broken Records

by Cassie Mae

  But, almost as if she knows my mind isn’t quite into doing this anymore, Marcia’s eyes close, and her head falls to the side, her breathing deepening into an alcohol-induced slumber.

  “Marcia?” I whisper, my breath waving the strands of her hair. She is completely unresponsive, and I let out a humorless laugh, pushing myself off of her.

  Her half-naked body is sprawled across the bed, her exposed breasts frigid, most likely from the sudden cold our separated bodies created, not from a response to passion. I myself am quickly turning flaccid, too much whiskey taking its effect alongside a thick substance of guilt that I can’t explain without incriminating myself. I clear my throat and search for the comforter we wadded somewhere on the floor. Once I cover her, tuck her into it, I locate my jeans and t-shirt, the effort of which to get off my body much more excessive than we assumed it would be. Getting the clothing back on is also a chore.

  I snag up my keys, jamming them into my pocket before quietly exiting the room. A soft light still emanates from the small living area, and instinct stops me in my tracks. What is worse—facing Marcia in the morning or facing Paige right now?

  A voice quickly saves me from my conundrum. “I know you’re in the hall, Mr. Davis. May as well come out and face the music.”

  It’s a few long silent seconds before Mr. Fancy Tie appears from the hallway… except, he’s not wearing a tie. He’s not even wearing a suit. His jeans fit like they were made with him specifically in mind. His black t-shirt pulls tight across his chest, giving him a relaxed and approachable look. He reaches up and scratches his head, the short sleeve straining against his bicep.

  I bite on my lip ring and force myself to remember why he’s in my apartment in the first place. He totally picked Marcia up at a bar and came back here for a one-night stand, which is so dirty and typical. I don’t know why I’m even surprised. According to the tabloids, that’s his MO. A different woman on his arm every night of the week. With all the money, the privileged girls line up for him, and all he has to do is take his pick.

  Not that his personal life is any of my business, but it’s hard to ignore all those stories and photographs.

  Crimson spreads through his neck up his face and into the tips of his ears, but he tries to cover it by running a hand over his face. It’s too late to be modest now, I want to say, but I bite back the urge. I’m actually shocked that he even cares what I think. The Ethan Davis from the papers doesn’t care about anyone.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he mutters, as if standing in front of me, completely disheveled doesn’t speak volumes in itself.

  “So that wasn’t your hand up my roommate’s shirt?” I lean back on the couch and watch as he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I’m enjoying this moment far more than I should.

  At work, he’s the one with the power, but right now I’m the one in control. He’s in my territory, and it may be small and it may not be much, but this couch is mine. Though, I appreciate his bashfulness. If anything it’s a nice contrast to the hardass he is at the office.

  His top lip lifts in a smirk, showing a tiny sliver of white. “Okay, so it’s exactly what it looks like, but—”

  I hold my hand up, cutting him off. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” The last thing I want to hear about is his sexcapades, especially with my roommate. I’m more concerned about those tickets he gave me. He should have been there to listen to Corrosive Bouquet. He should’ve been setting up a meeting with them and calling everyone he knew to tell them about this new amazing band he discovered. Instead, he sent me to do his dirty work while he stuck his dick into my roommate. It’s bullshit.

  I glance up, catching those eyes, ready to tell him exactly how I feel about the situation, but my mind goes blank. The intensity that is always so present in those gray irises has softened. It’s probably the alcohol, but I feel like a layer has been stripped away, revealing a little more of himself to me.

  He plops down beside me on the couch—the one thing in this apartment that’s mine, and I freeze at his proximity. I can feel the heat radiating off of his body and mixing with my own. Can see the rise and fall of his chest as he relaxes into the cushions. I can smell the faint scent of his cologne, fresh and crisp, a delicious combination of cedar and the ocean air.

  I bring my legs to my chest and push to the other side, allowing enough space between us. The blend of his scent and warmth is intoxicating, and I don’t trust myself to be so close to him.

  I run a hand along the sheet and wonder if he realizes that he’s not just sitting on a couch, but on my bed. L.A. isn’t exactly the cheapest place to live, and on such short notice I took what I could get. I pay four hundred dollars a month for a couch to sleep on and use of the facilities. It’s actually a quarter of what I was paying for my apartment in New York. I don’t mind just having a couch. It’s part of my journey, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to succeed, but it doesn’t mean I’m not embarrassed about my situation.

  If Kevin and Rebecca ever found out, I would die of embarrassment right on the spot. I hate myself for that, too, because I shouldn’t care what they think. They didn’t care about me when they stumbled into each other’s arms and mouths. And I bet my favorite pair of Doc Marten’s that they don’t give two shits about me now, which hurts.

  Once upon a time, it was three of us against the world. We had so many plans and so many ideas of what our futures would be. I never thought in a million years that I’d be here, living on a couch while they lived those dreams together. Somewhere along the way I was cut out of the equation, and I’m not really sure why. I’ve gone over it in my head a million times, torturing myself with all the good times trying to remember where it all went so very wrong.

  I trusted them with my life, and they destroyed it with no warning. Maybe I was naïve to think that friendship is supposed to mean something because I never saw it coming.

  So the thought of them knowing I’m teetering on the edge of failure rips through me like salt on an old raw wound.

  Ethan scratches at the stubble on his jaw, and I try not to fixate on the strong curves of his face or the way those gray eyes twinkle whenever he parts his lips to speak. “Could we keep this between us?” he pleads. “I don’t like my personal life… interfering around the office.”

  “Afraid I’ll tell people you’re a minute man?”

  His eyebrows knit together tightly, a smile teasing in the corner of his mouth. “What?”

  “For the record, I don’t exactly want to think about my boss and his sex life, but I have to say if I did, I would’ve given you a little more credit.” I tilt my head, and my gaze falls to his crotch. It is inappropriate, and I almost can’t believe I’m doing it, but he’s the one who came in all horned up and ready to sleep with my roommate, so I’m pretty sure all professionalism was left at the door.

  His smile spreads across his lips, and he chuckles softly to himself. “For the record, nothing happened. She’s out like a light.”

  “You put her to sleep?”

  “Me and Jameson.”

  I let out a laugh. “Yeah, he’s been known to do that.”

  “Cock-blocking bastard.”

  It’s good to know he’s not the type of guy to take advantage of a girl. I like to think that he could have easily woken Marcia up, but he decided to let her sleep because he’d rather be out here with me. It’s a ridiculous thought, silly really. What would he want with me when he can be in the other room with an up-and-coming actress?

  Suddenly the distance between us on the couch isn’t enough. His scent has drifted past the invisible divide I created, and those damn eyes keep glancing at me, making me think things I shouldn’t be. “It’s past my bedtime,” I say and look down at my blanket when his gaze moves to mine. “I should probably call it a night.”

  “Good idea.” He rests his hands on his thighs and pushes up. “I should be going anyway.”

  I should tell him how amazing Corrosive
Bouquet is and how he’d be a fool not to sign them, but with his glossy eyes and slight sway I doubt he’ll remember the conversation by the time tomorrow comes. I’ll wait until business hours to discuss business.

  He points to the blanket wrapped around me that my mom made out of my old band t-shirts. A smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Fledgestones,” he says.

  “You know them?”

  “Do I know them? I used to follow them around when I was in high school. They were the best underground punk band around.”

  “Wait a second.” I sit up, my eyes widening at this new revelation. “You listen to punk?” I pull the blanket off of me and shake it out to reveal more of the bands. “Do you know who this is?” I point to the green cotton that has a leprechaun and Celtic knots going through the name.

  “What self-respecting person doesn’t know who O’Grady My Baby is? When I was in high school, there was nothing like rolling down the windows on a beautiful day and blasting their album.”

  “Or while you’re barbequing and throwing back a few beers.”

  “Exactly.” He closes his eyes as if he’s remembering a time when he did that frequently. When he opens them, the joy mixes with a sadness that looks like it goes soul deep. The sorrow is palpable, and I want to reach out and take his hand, hoping my touch will help fight away whatever demons are in his mind.

  He clears his throat, and just like that the sadness is gone. As if he’s been pushing it away for so long he has it trained to disappear at will. He inches toward me, taking the bottom of the blanket in his hand.

  “Look at all these,” he says, running a hand across the shirts and sitting back down on the couch, bathing me in his scent again. My stomach flutters as he leans in closer to get a better look at the band names sitting just below my chest. The slow steady beat of my heart begins to increase as I watch the wondrous gleam in his irises. The joyous smile spreading wide and pulling not only at his lips but at the corner of his eyes.

  I try to keep my focus on the blanket and not on the fact that my boss is in bed with me. The irony of the situation is lost as his eyes travel from one band name to the next.

  “Are these old t-shirts?” he asks.

  I nod. “Every concert I go to, I buy a t-shirt. I wore them so much they either got stretched out, stained or torn, but I refused to throw them out. Drove my mother crazy. So one Christmas she gave me this. She took all those old t-shirts and made this blanket.”

  “That’s amazing,” he says.

  “I thought so. Best gift I ever got. Except for the handprint Christmas tree my niece painted for me.”

  “How old’s your niece?”

  “Three and a half going on eighteen.”

  His eyes meet mine, a smile plays across his lips before he diverts his attention back to the blanket. “So you’ve seen all of these bands?”

  “Every single one. There’s more of course, but these were the rattiest of the t-shirts.”

  “You have pretty impressive taste,” he says, and coming from him, it means something. Though, I wonder if he was here in his suit and tie if that compliment would carry as much weight. There’s something different about this cool, laid back version that makes me think he knows more about the industry than I originally thought. That music is more to him than just a means to growing his wallet.

  “I can say the same about you.” Half of the bands on here are underground, completely free of the restrictions of the industry. Most refusing to sell out to make it big. They are not the types of bands I would expect the CEO of a major label to know of, let alone have followed around.

  A slight laugh rumbles in his throat as his hand runs across the burgundy Lexington Avenue shirt. It’s as if I can see the memories flashing in his mind, and it makes me want to know the guy beneath the suit, beyond the boy I’ve seen in the media.

  “What was the first concert you ever went to?” he asks.

  “I plead the fifth,” I blurt, refusing to admit my poor adolescent taste.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  I snort. “Did you even have to go to concerts? Your dad probably just invited people like Paul McCartney and Bruce Springsteen over for dinner.”

  “True, but that doesn’t count. I’m talking first arena concert.”

  “You first,” I insist.

  “Aerosmith. I was eight years old, and I’ll never forget what it was like to be that close to a stage, being surrounded by people who were so immersed in the music that they were screaming for more every time he stopped.”

  He got it. I didn’t think a person like him could appreciate the music. I thought he was jaded because it’s all he’s ever known, but it’s obvious to me now that music is just as much a part of him as it is a part of me. Or at least it was for him at one time. I can’t forget the sadness that consumed him earlier. The way it made him look like he was physically hurting just talking about something he clearly once loved.

  Was that why he gave me the tickets tonight? Because listening to music made him hurt. But how is that possible? How can he do his job and do it successfully if he can’t even bear to listen to a single musician.

  “So who was your first concert?” he nudges, and I let all the unanswered questions go dormant in my mind.

  I think back, remembering exactly who it was. Mom bought the tickets for me and Mia as a surprise. I can still picture it so clearly. The screams of young girls and the complete and total exhilaration of seeing our idols in the flesh.

  I take a deep breath and let out a rush of air. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “You were a Boy Scout?”

  “I was involved in several community groups.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Came with the territory.”

  I cock an eyebrow and shake my head. “Fine. It was…” I mumble.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?’”

  “The Backstreet Boys.”

  His lips twitch, and little wrinkles form on the bridge of his nose. I point a finger at him. “You promised.”

  He holds his hand up as he tilts his head down like he’s trying to swallow the laugh brewing to the surface. His face turns redder than my hair, and he rubs a hand under his chin.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Just let it out already. It’s painful to watch you try to hold it in. You look like your heads going to explode.”

  His lips part, and the laughs roll out. “I’m sorry,” he manages. “Just looking at all these bands.” He waves a hand to my blanket. “All punk and metal and blues and jazz. I was not expecting a boy band.”

  “Now we’re even,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know my most embarrassing secret, and I know you’re a minute man. Neither of us can use the information against each other.”

  “I’m not a minute man.”

  “I told you I’m not judging.”

  “Sure, you’re not.” He looks at his watch, putting an end to our easy banter. “It’s really late. Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asks, and I find it funny that he’s now concerned about my sleeping health.

  “I was trying,” I say. “You kind of interrupted me.”

  His eyebrow arches in confusion, but then his gaze swipes across the pillow propped behind my back, the sheet laid across the cushions, and my t-shirt blanket tucked around me.

  He points to the couch and looks back at me. “You sleep on the couch?”

  I smile and nod. “Home sweet home.”

  “Marcia’s room is pretty big. Why can’t she share with you?”

  I don’t know why he cares to know, and I don’t know why I feel the need to offer him a response.

  I shrug. “She pays more rent than I do. Apparently condom commercials pay more than my internship.”

  A sadness crosses his features, and while I expect to find pity in his gaze, I don’t. The sadness doesn’t even look like it’s directed at me, which only piques my interest. Th
ough, I ignore it because as far as I’m concerned, he is my boss and nothing more. A few shared words over bands doesn’t mean anything has changed in our rapport.

  “Besides,” I say. “Not everybody can inherit a billion-dollar company.”

  “I never asked for it,” he says, and the sadness seeps into his tone, making it almost impossible for me to ignore.

  “No, but you got it anyway. So maybe when you go home and get into your nice warm, comfortable bed, you might be able to appreciate it a little more now.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Have a good night, Paige.”

  He called me Paige. It’s stupid and meaningless, but for some reason warmth spreads through my veins, swirling in my stomach then wrapping around my heart.

  I attempt to hide my smile as I meet his eyes. “You too, Mr. Davis.”

  His hand pulls on the doorknob, and he stops, turning back to me. “See you in the morning.” A grin touches the edges of his mouth, and his eyes twinkle. “Don’t be late,” he says and pulls the door shut, leaving me to wonder exactly how many layers he’s hiding beneath.

  A rusty nine-inch nail has made its home inside my temporal lobe. Even if I wasn’t experiencing one of the world’s worst migraines, the details of last night would still come up fuzzy.

  What I do remember twists my stomach up into a giant unsolvable knot. Just the thought of Paige has my mind reeling, my heart thumping to an up-tempo tune, and my throat drying like grapes left in the sun. I could’ve easily stayed the night as originally planned, only I’d be chatting up the quick-witted, beautiful girl with her quilt of t-shirts instead of forgetting Marcia’s name again.

  I clutch at my head, begging my brain to stop thinking and adding to the ache. Pursuing Paige is a horrible idea, what with my every move under a microscope. As if I didn’t have enough already on my heaping plate of mistakes.

  I reach for the intercom and take a couple shots at the button before getting a successful hit. “Move my one o’clock to three,” I tell Jerome. A long lunch is in order—one that involves catnapping until the Advil kicks in.