One More Bad Boy

by Nora Flite

  “Neat,” I said.

  “Yeah, neat.” He gestured out at the party. “Quite a crowd, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “Not used to these things?”

  “God, no. Can't someone become a singer without having to do so much socializing?”

  His laugh was too loud, like he was trying to impress me. “I get it. You prefer spending time more... intimately.” He grinned wolfishly, drawing attention to how we were alone in our corner, and my retreat was a one-way ticket to splat on the street below. “You haven't been here long, right?”

  How did he know that? Maybe it was obvious. “Nope.”

  “There's a perfect little Southwest restaurant down in El Segundo. Fuses chili and tacos, amazing.”

  Shit. He was asking me on a date. “I'm not really into spicy food.”

  “No problem. What about sushi?”

  I looked off to the side. “I like it, but I doubt anywhere here is as good as my favorite place, and I hate to be disappointed, so...”

  Roshio cocked his head, his smile becoming gentler. “Oh. I get it. You can tell me to back off, I won't be offended.”

  Feeling relieved, I tipped my glass towards him. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “Not a prob, not a prob.” He scanned the crowd. “Sooo... you sleeping with Bach?”

  I nearly dropped my glass. “What? I—what? Who said that?”

  “Chill out! Nobody said anything, I'm just good at putting clues together.” He studied my face carefully. “You blush super cute. Shame he's claimed you. What sealed the deal, money? Fame?”

  “No! Would you be less loud?” I was burning up from humiliation.

  “Sure, I'll quiet down. I'm just itching for some info.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose didn't help my new headache. “It's not about money. I just like him.”

  “He must like you, too. Every time I tried to get in touch with the guy, Farrah told me he was busy working in his studio. How many songs on your album, seven? That's a lot of hours to spend together.”

  “I guess,” I whispered.

  “Well, I for one can't wait to hear it properly. Violet showed me a snippet after I begged her on my knees. Real good stuff.” He dropped his elbows on to the ledge next to me, reclining comfortably. “I remembered, by the way.”

  “Remembered what?”

  “Where I know you from.”

  Furrowing my eyebrows, I took a small sip from my drink. “From the gala.”

  “Nah. Does the name Pickadillie Records ring a bell?”

  All of the acid in my stomach bubbled up at once. I couldn’t respond, I just stared at him.

  Roshio smiled wider, keeping his attention on my face, like he was trying to guess all of my reactions before they happened. “Eight years is a long time. I don’t blame you for not remembering me, I hadn’t really grasped my whole image yet. My agent at the time wasn’t one of the best, and he loved to remind me how lucky I was that Pickadillie Records was giving me the time of day. That label sucked. That’s why you left them, right?”

  Wetness touched my wrist; my drink it was spilling from how hard I was trembling. “You’re mistaken,” I whispered.

  He blinked a few times. “No, I never forget a pretty face. Your hair was longer back then. I dig this short thing you have going.”

  “Whoever you’re thinking of, that wasn’t me. Beats and Blast is the first label I’ve ever worked with.”

  Something dark and disturbing crossed his face. He was looking at me like I was a tasty snack he wanted to devour in one bite. “That’s interesting,” he said softly.

  I scanned the room desperately, speaking as I started to move. “I have to go now, sorry.” I half-ran, like I thought he was going to chase after me. He didn’t, he just stayed there by the ledge. I shot him a final look as I merged into the crowd.

  Roshio was still watching me.

  Smiling.

  “There you are,” Bach said, catching my wrist. I’d nearly blown past him. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Bach!” I went limp in relief. Crumbling in his arms, I welcomed his tight grip around my middle.

  “Whoa, what’s wrong?”

  Unable to answer... unsure if I even could... I buried my face into his chest. He hugged me until the noise of the party was overruled by the rumble of his heartbeat. Gently, he tilted my chin, so I had to look at him. “Sorry, everything is fine.”

  “Everything isn’t fine,” Bach said seriously.

  I gawked at him as my pulse began to race. Could he read my mind? Did he know what had me so worried?

  “Everything,” he went on, scooping my hands in his, “Is fucking fantastic.”

  “What?”

  “Amina, take a second to enjoy yourself. You’ve done what uncountable people have dreamed of. Leaving your friends, your home, everything behind to strike it out in Hollywood? Working yourself to the bone to create a debut album that will blow the charts into pieces? And being lucky enough to get the attention of a catch like me?”

  His playfulness calmed me down. “You’re right. Everything is amazing.” Remembering the bartender, then Roshio, I asked, “What if no one cares about my music? What if everything still manages to fall apart?”

  His lips searched for mine, sealing them with a long kiss. When he spoke again, his vowels and syllables and everything in between went down my throat. “Can you honestly say that right now, with me here, you believe anything could ruin this?”

  He was positive nothing could tear down the new, bright future we’d built. I didn’t trust my heart enough to believe the same. So instead, I took a leap... and I trusted him.

  It was too bad he was wrong.

  - Chapter Twenty-Three -

  Bach

  “I think you're crazy.”

  I opened the door to Beats and Blast for Violet. “Insults like that are better than a cup of coffee, thanks,” I said.

  She stabbed me in the chest with her nail as she passed. “It wasn't an insult. Just an observation. I mean, how can you sit on Amina's debut CD for another two days?”

  “Because I've sat on it for a week already. Plus, dropping it the day after she blows everyone's' minds at the SoCal Artist Awards is going to give us more attention than we'll know what to do with.”

  “You'll figure out how to suffer through all that money, I'm sure,” she teased.

  Farrah was standing in front of the doorway to the waiting area outside my conference room. If that wasn't concerning enough, the way she was wringing her hands was. “Mr. Devine...”

  “What's wrong?” I asked.

  Her eyes shot over her shoulder. “There's someone—some people—here to see you.”

  Tightening my mouth, I looked through the glass. There were two older women standing by Farrah's desk. One wore a slate-gray suit, the other was dressed in a bright purple and yellow blouse that was buttoned to the point of strangling her pencil-thin neck.

  Violet followed my stare. “Who are they?” she asked softly.

  “One of them is a lawyer,” Farrah winced as she said the last word.

  “It's fine,” I said, ignoring the paranoia starting to scream in my head. “We deal with lawyers for all sorts of things. Get a grip, both of you.” Clinging to my false bravado, I entered the waiting area. Both women turned to face me—neither was smiling. “Hello there. I'm Bach Devine, how can I help you two?”

  The woman in the suit extended her hand; her grip was strong, no nonsense. “I'm Dana Marks, the lawyer representing Ms. Summer,” she gestured at the other person, “in her case against Amina Richards.”

  “Case? What case?” I asked, drawing myself up.

  That woman—Aya Summer—came closer. She looked at me like I was a roach she'd found in her coffee cup. “I was Amina's guardian when her parents passed away. She and I signed a contract with Pickadillie Records when she was fifteen.”

  Sweat blossomed along my spine. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?” />
  Violet cleared her throat as she stood beside me. “Could we see some proof of this?” Dana fished out a packet of papers from a binder under her arm. Violet's sharp eyes scanned it cover to cover, and though she was done in under a minute, I watched her expression shift wildly. From doubt... to distress... to defeat. “This kind of contract is disgusting. And Amina was only a kid when she signed!”

  “Yes,” agreed Dana. “Hence why Ms. Summer also signed, assuming the risk. It was supposed to be for Amina's benefit, but—”

  “But instead, she ran off, leaving ME with all this debt from the way she broke the terms!” Aya snapped. “I thought I'd never hear of her again, until I saw her on the news, singing at some Hollywood party.” Her eyes fixed on me. “You're trying to make a mint off of her.”

  Something squeaked—my fingers crushing the back of the waiting room's couch. I was boiling up inside. Desperately ready to fight someone, to shed blood, if only I could find an excuse. But in business, the only thing that gets cut is your net-worth. And these two women were slicing mine apart the longer they spoke. “Get to it, what do you want?”

  “Legally, Amina can't sign a contract with your company,” Dana said. “Not until she's fulfilled her end of the one she signed first. That means no shows, no appearances, no music production of any kind. Understand?”

  Of course, I understood. Her debut CD... all that blood sweat and tears, and Amina can't legally let anyone hear it.

  “Just give us the number,” Violet whispered.

  Summer grinned until I could see her entire upper gum-line. “The damages amount to two million dollars.”

  “Two million?” I snarled, pounding my fist onto the couch's arm. Summer jumped, startled, but her lawyer just stared coolly. “How can that possibly be right?”

  It wasn't either of them that responded.

  It was Violet.

  “Bach,” she said, her head hanging low. “This contract is iron-clad. It lays it out cleanly. Even if it's draconian... the kind of contract we'd NEVER make someone sign, that your father fought so hard against... it's legal. Amina owes for failure to finish multiple albums, to appear at shows they'd arranged, then there's the signing bonuses, never mind the interest compounded over eight years...”

  “Plus, the damages to me,” Summer cut in. “That selfish girl caused a lot of trouble in my life.”

  Selfish?

  Amina was anything but that.

  “Come on,” Summer scoffed. “Don't waste your time acting miserable. I know your company can afford to pay this.”

  Violet shared a long look with me. No, we can't. Maybe a year ago it would have been no problem. Now? We'd spent what liquid capitol we had to sign our new musicians, plus create Amina's CD. I'd been leaking money like a wounded animal. This recent spending was intentional, because it had to be done to give us a chance at salvaging my company.

  If we couldn't use Amina's music, we were pretty much fucked. But paying her contract off was impossible.

  I turned towards Violet to get her advice. She was staring just past my ear. Someone knocked on the edge of the open door.

  Sherman.

  “Sorry I'm late,” he said.

  “It's fine,” Dana responded, “I was just going over the terms with Mr. Devine here. You didn't miss much.”

  The pressure in my skull was hitting its apex. I hadn't blinked since seeing Sherman, because I wasn't entirely confident this was real. It couldn't be. Life had thrown enough cruel jokes in my face, hadn't it?

  Sherman touched us one by one with his smile. I was last. “Bach, how are you?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I growled.

  Aya laughed into the back of her hand. “You weren't kidding, Sherman. He really doesn't like you.”

  “I'm here as a sort of mediator,” Sherman said. “Think of me as having your best interests in mind.”

  “Bullshit,” I spat.

  Violet took in a calming breath. “What are you trying to mediate, Sherman? This suit is between Beats and Blast and Ms. Summer.”

  “I'd like to talk about that with Bach in private,” he said. Dana lifted her eyebrows but didn't argue. Motioning for Aya to follow her, the pair exited the waiting area. Sherman tucked his thumbs in his pants before strolling towards the elevator. “I think your office will be fine for this chat.”

  Violet grabbed my wrist, then walked in front of me—her silent way of saying she wasn't going to be cut out of this. Sherman didn't seem to care that she climbed into the elevator with us. He smiled like a crocodile who'd cornered a swimmer the whole ride up.

  We reached my floor in tense silence. Sherman exited first, using every power move in the book to show he was in charge.

  “Here's the deal,” he said, shoving his way into my office. He looked around like he was seeing it for the first time. It wasn't any different than when my father used it, I hadn't had the heart to change anything. “I know you don't have the money to pay off this lawsuit.”

  “You don't know shit.”

  “I do. A little bird told me plenty of interesting things.” Sherman stood under a big painting of a sky full of stars. It was the first decoration Dad had hung in this space. “I know you signed a ton of new talent. I also know all about your special project with Amina Richards.”

  I was wrong before—this was the apex of pressure in my skull. My head was going to split apart. “What project?” I whispered.

  “Her debut CD. I haven't heard it yet, but that wrap party you threw was serious business, so you must be invested in its success.” He stopped smiling. “Why did you wait so long to try and save Laurence's company? Did you realize your fun and games were over, that you'd have no more money to waste on partying and toys?”

  My mouth was too dry for me to respond. Violet spoke for me, her tone melting with scorn. “Did you come here to rub this in our faces?”

  “Give me some credit,” he said. “I told you, I'm offering mediation. You don't have the cash for this suit. But if you don't pay it off, you can't use anything Amina's created.”

  “So?” Violet asked, waving the contract like it was on fire. “Then we cut her loose. If you believe your 'little bird' then you know we can go forward with all of our new talent. Right, Bach?”

  I wondered if my stone mask was protecting me at all. “Violet is right.” I choked on every single word. “We don't need her. We've got other musicians.”

  None of them are like Amina, my inner voice cried.

  None of them are her!

  “I'm surprised,” Sherman mused. “My insider made it sound like you cared about that girl. Even if you're cold enough to cut her off, leaving her in debt and unable to perform music while Pickadillie continues its suit, it's a waste of energy.” He stopped looking at me and focused on my VP. “You of all people should know what has to happen, Violet. You worked with Laurence for years. If either of you care about this company, you'll hand it to someone who can still repair it. Someone who never stopped giving a shit.”

  I said nothing. I did nothing. I was watching this event from far away, their voices muffled as I sank lower into misery. Sherman was still talking to Violet—I hated how she was actually listening to him. Like he was making good points.

  Finally, he spared me a quick glance before walking to the door. “The SoCal Artist Awards are in two days. I saw Amina's name on the roster. If you want her to be able to perform, I expect I'll hear from you before then.”

  With him gone, Violet faced off with me. “Bach, I'm so sorry.”

  On heavy legs, I approached my expansive windows. The city below looked dirtier than usual. Gray and grim, nothing like a place full of angels.

  “Bach...”

  “Fuck,” I growled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I screamed the words, but no matter how hard I railed against them, the facts were still facts. I’d come so close to fixing everything; the answer had been right there in my grasp, and now it was gone. And with it would go... her.

>   “What are you doing?” Violet asked nervously.

  I stormed into my kitchen, ripping the refrigerator door open so roughly it popped a hinge. Violet shouted in surprise; I ignored her, yanking a bottle of half empty vodka from inside. I lifted it high, drinking so quickly that the liquid bubbled. It burned like hell but that still wasn’t enough.

  She took a step in my direction. “I know you’re upset, but we can figure this out. The answer isn’t at the bottom of that bottle.”

  Gasping for air, I said, “There is no answer.” I took another long swig of vodka. “Everything is over with.”

  “Just breathe, then talk to me.”

  “Get out,” I snarled.

  Her face went slack. “Let me—”

  “OUT!” I roared.

  Violet stood her ground. It reminded me of how many times she’d patiently explained what I needed to do—how many times she'd ignored my awful moods, so she could nudge me towards whatever next step had to be taken.

  My irrational anger couldn't be soothed away.

  Not this time.

  She must have realized that, because without another sound, she left me alone in my office. I finished the vodka, holding it high as the last drops filled my mouth. It’s gone just like she’s going to be gone. How could this be happening? How could my world fall apart so easily in just a few minutes?

  “It’s not fair,” I hissed. “I’m losing everything.” I shook myself, trying to gain control of my emotions. “How the fuck is this happening?” My voice rose in the empty room. “How... the... fuck!” The empty vodka bottle flew from my grip, obliterated against the far wall. The glass glistened in the sunlight on the carpet.

  Squaring my shoulders, I stormed to my broken fridge and grabbed the only other bottle inside—a chocolate brown container of Irish Cream. I used the stuff as a mixer or hid it in my coffee on miserable mornings. It tasted like sugary shit when drank straight, but I'd have chugged paint thinner to escape my torment.