Brett looked at Amanda. Her new position obviously came with a bigger paycheck, as she was now sporting some pretty expensive jewelry. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her smile seemed tight, and he noticed fine lines radiating from her bright red painted lips. Why hadn’t he noticed this hard edge about her before? Because he wasn’t paying attention. He’d lost his reason for living, for trying. He realized suddenly that he hadn’t noticed she wasn’t the kind of woman he should have been with because he didn’t care anymore.
She was the kind of woman his mother called a chameleon. She would change herself to match her surroundings, her survival depending on her ability to blend in and be just like everyone else.
Brett felt all the anger leaving him as he looked at her through his new revelations. She wasn’t evil. She was just immature. A child. Her wants and needs took precedence over what was decent and right. She was no better or worse than a spoiled teenager.
He slid his glance from her to the rest of the people in the room. None of them would meet his eyes. They knew. They knew what she’d done and didn’t care. All that mattered to them was the bottom line, and he was just one more signature among the hundreds of signatures they had on paperwork they collected like a devil collected souls. They owned him.
He realized then that he wasn’t going to get them to right the situation just by asking for it. The decent thing didn’t exist in this room. There was nothing he could say or do that would make them stop this merry-go-round and let him off.
He would have to make a decision about how much he wanted to air his dirty laundry in public to get them to tear up this fraudulent contract. They were counting on him being too embarrassed to admit he’d been drunk, or on drugs, or whatever she’d done to him to get him to sign that paper, making him a slave to their bottom line.
He could do it. He could take them all down—maybe not the president, but at least Amanda and the two suits who were always with her—but he wasn’t sure what he would gain by it. It wasn’t just him he would be destroying. It would also be the band. And Pink Melon was more than just him, it was all of them. This was not a decision he could make without the others’ permission. They would be dragged into it, too.
He hesitated to sit as indicated while he considered the ramifications of his decision if he chose to go forward. Weighing the pros and cons, he could see the smug smile on the president’s face, the fear in Amanda’s eyes, and the bored, unconcerned look on the faces of her two henchmen. He could bring the company down, but he would also damage the reputation of a band he loved and the people, he realized, he loved just as much.
Did Cooly deserve that? Or Harry? Or Peter? Or any of their families? How far did he need to take this?
All this went through his mind in the seconds it took him to sit and study his opponents.
He stood. Decision made.
Without a word, he walked from the room toward the elevator. Before the doors closed behind him, he thought he saw respect in the eyes of Amanda. And regret.
But he wasn’t going to live his life with regrets anymore.
He was just going to live his life.
Message
(Brett Rhys-Falwyck solo album: Oceans)
Written and sung by Brett Rhys-Falwyck
I saw a white owl the other day
swooping gracefully on
wings spread wide as it floated on thermals
and I thought of you
A lonesome call
echoed across the snow
mirroring my own as
I cried out for you
Overhead an ocean of gray
sandwiched the white sand
I walked to the edge of forever
wishing for you
and I found a bottle with a message inside
Uncurling the paper, I saw a single heart
I smiled, knowing you’d smile too, as the wind
took the message to you
Chapter 9
Ding! Brett heard the sound of the alert on the computer in the other room as it signaled a message had just come in. He stiffened, trying to ignore it. How had that message gotten through? He was sure he’d turned his computer off, loathing the hate he saw in the messages from fans who thought he’d sold out his friends when the news broke of his deal and the demise of Pink Melon. If they only knew their hatred of him was nothing compared to his own feelings of disgust.
The machine dinged again. He must have turned it on without realizing it.
Setting his coffee down on the kitchen counter, he sighed. Why avoid the inevitable? It was probably from the lawyer, needing his signature on a document or wanting to share news about the fraud case against the management company that he’d filed last week.
So far, things had not gone well. They’d filed a countersuit claiming he was in violation of the very agreement he was arguing he hadn’t signed. The case was destined to be tied up in court for years, with accusations flying back and forth faster than the Concorde, but meanwhile, he was unable to do anything until it was settled. Brett was prepared to wage the battle for as long as necessary, but didn’t want to drag it out so long that it became pointless or that he became broke.
When he reached the computer, he was surprised to see the email was from the management company.
“Well, well, maybe they are ready to do the right thing,” Brett mumbled as he opened the email.
But it wasn’t about the lawsuit. It was from a secretary he’d never heard of before. “Brad Longstreet,” he read the name out loud, rolling the name on his tongue.
Dear Mr. Rhys-Falwyck:
This email came for you the other day from someone I assume is a fan, regarding a music camp for teens that is in the works at a small town in Colorado called Havenwood Falls. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, and as both Amanda Harrison and Greg Granite are out of the office, I figured I would just forward it to you and let you decide what you want to do about it. I hope you don’t mind. Attached is the information regarding the music camp. It sounds pretty cool.
Have a wonderful day and if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.
Sincerely,
Brad Longstreet
Forthright Management Company
666 Diablo Street
Los Angeles, CA
The cursor hovered over the attachment. Brett wasn’t sure he wanted to know anything about this. A music camp? What was that all about? And what were the odds it was in the exact same ski town on that flyer he’d received some time ago? He googled Havenwood Falls, but found no information.
He clicked the attachment anyway, curiosity piqued.
Reading quickly, he was surprised at the sender’s detailed description of the camp and what its goals were, along with instructions on how to contact her (send back his agreement or declination of the invitation).
“Oh, what the hell,” he muttered as he pressed the keys and sent off a response.
Going back to the kitchen for his now lukewarm coffee, he had barely taken a sip when his computer dinged again.
Cecelia, owner of a small music shop in town, had responded, wanting to know what he would charge, and he took a moment to consider his answer. Never having done this before, he was not sure what to charge.
Finally he sent a response and let her know he would do it for free if she would make a donation to his favorite charity—one that benefited disabled musicians—in an amount she deemed appropriate.
He sipped again, waiting for her response.
The ding was very quick, causing him to smile. She had attached three files. One had the name and phone number of a Melissa Richter, who rented cabins, with instructions he was to call her and have the charges for the cabin sent to Cecilia Amundson at Havenwood Falls Music & More. He clicked open the second attachment after writing down information from the first one.
The second file contained information about where to meet the bus that would take him to Havenwood Falls with a firm command, for its tone was nothing but a comman
d, on where to leave his car, as he wouldn’t need it in town.
The third attachment was a copy of the flyer announcing the camp and asking him to attach any corrections to the email and return with his approval, whether changes were to be made or not, within twenty-four hours.
He glanced over it quickly, and made a suggestion to limit the class to just six students to allow for a more one-on-one feel. He suggested also that the camp agenda be included so the students would know what they were going to learn. He added a few lines of suggestions for the agenda to include learning to write lyrics, add music to it, how to perform, and then asked if they could do a small concert featuring the students’ songs on the last night of the camp.
He closed his email by suggesting they continue to correspond via email to confirm details. After hitting send, he waited to see what her response would be.
He was suddenly antsy as his computer remained silent. Eerily silent. He didn’t realize just how quiet his world had become lately until the computer stopped dinging.
Taking his phone with him, he went out on the deck and seated himself. Ignoring the shakes that came on with a sudden chill breeze, he closed his eyes. He wanted a drink.
He needed a drink.
Cecelia contained her excitement, barely, when she got the email back. At first she thought it might be a prank, but no one was watching her, and she knew if Glenn had perpetuated this email as a joke, he’d be waiting for her reaction.
“Excuse me,” said a male voice.
Cecelia looked up from the computer screen and stopped typing. In front of her was the young man she’d seen Meghan talking to once or twice when Glenn wasn’t around. He had an aura of danger and malevolence around him. Narrowing her eyes, she studied him. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He didn’t have a feeling of magic around him, and his bearing wasn’t arrogant, just petulant. She didn’t sense evil, but there was a strangeness in his eyes that bothered her. Here was someone who could become evil, the kind of kid who might grow up to do terrible things. She reached for his hand, then pulled back when his eyes widened at her movement and he flinched back slightly, moving just out of reach.
Why don’t you want me to touch you? she wondered. Something about him felt like a contained explosion, although she couldn’t really explain why.
“May I help you?’ She smiled, the smile not quite reaching her eyes, but not unfriendly.
“I’m supposed to meet someone here,” he said. He pointed to the list for the recording studio that sat on the counter next to the cash register. “I’m due to go into the recording studio. Do I need a key?”
Cecelia nodded, handing him a key on a large wooden dowel, purposely attached to it with a chain so that no one would accidentally take the key.
“Whom are you meeting? I only see your name on the list . . .”
“There you are.”
Cecelia looked up as Meghan joined the boy and took him by the arm.
“Come on,” the girl continued. She tossed Cecelia a glance that begged her silence. “We don’t have much time. Did you bring it?”
“Yeah,” the boy said with an annoyed expression. “I’m not sure about this . . .”
Meghan bent her head closer to the boy’s and whispered something in his ear that made him relax and grin. When he smiled like this, his aura changed. Cecelia felt an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. With a sudden realization that shocked her, she got a strong feeling of love and possessiveness emanating from the boy.
Cecelia wondered if Meghan knew that he liked her, not just liked her, but really liked her. Cecelia closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, she saw Meghan pulling the boy to the back of the store and enter the recording studio. The lights went on in the room. The boy set his gig bag against the chair and pulled his guitar from it. As she watched the two of them fiddling with dials and him tuning his guitar, she looked around for Glenn, before remembering he’d left to go to a dentist appointment and wouldn’t be back for another hour at least.
In a minute, Meghan was at the microphone and the boy was playing the guitar. He couldn’t take his eyes off Meghan, but she was all about whatever she was singing. Periodically she stopped, fiddling with dials again and starting over. She was smiling from ear to ear, and the boy with the guitar was, too. Cecelia was sure his smile had nothing to do with the song, but rather the singer.
“What’s that all about?” she muttered before turning her attention to a customer.
The store was busy enough that for the next hour Cecelia forgot about Meghan and the boy in the recording studio. She sent the information to Brett, responding to his questions with answers as best she could. She asked him, with her final email, to confirm when he’d made his arrangements to come so that she could put in place his other arrangements to get him to town.
Printing off the flyers now that his participation was confirmed, she set a few on the counter and put one up on the entrance door so people would see it when they came into the store, and one on the other side so they’d see it when they left. She took his advice and made the camp small, limiting it to six, as it was her first event.
She called the Havenwood Falls Arts Council and asked if she could use the Annex for a final concert where each student would showcase their original songs. Since the event was for charity, the Council was thrilled to allow access. The Annex was an old warehouse south of town square that had been transformed into an industrial-chic multipurpose building. It included an art gallery, space for a market, and a theater used for both live and cinematic performances. Its acoustics were perfect for their mini-concert.
Heart thumping with joy, Cecelia greeted customers and made her way to the back of the store. As she reached the recording studio, Meghan and the boy emerged. Meghan was skipping slightly, holding the boy’s elbow as they made their way to the front of the store.
Meghan was so excited, she didn’t notice the door opening. Glenn entered just as Meghan hugged the boy with the guitar. Cecelia, still in the back of the store, watched as Glenn stopped, face pale, as he noticed Meghan hugging the other boy.
The other boy hugged her back, a little tighter than necessary.
“Meghan?” Glenn said in a small, tight voice. He looked gray. His eyes looked hurt and confused.
Cecelia hurried toward the front of the store as Meghan turned and tried to get out of the boy’s embrace. The boy moved slightly in front of Meghan as she moved toward Glenn, blocking her passage.
He’d set his guitar down and looked ready to do battle. He looked more than ready; he looked like he’d like nothing better than to fight Glenn. Judging by the way Glenn’s hands were balled into fists, he was ready for it, too.
Meghan slipped around the boy and smiled at Glenn. “Hey, Glenn . . . ummm, this is Laine Greenhill. He’s . . .”
“I know who he is.” Glenn’s tone was flat and angry. He stared at Laine as if he could will the other boy to leave. Glenn crossed his arms and puffed out his chest in a parody of a male mating ritual, and Cece wasn’t sure what to do. Right now, the two boys were pretty civil, but if things looked to be going down the other path, she would step in.
Cece had learned long ago not to get in the middle of a turf war, and this was shaping up into that very thing. She hadn’t smelled magic or supernatural capabilities on Laine, and she knew Glenn was a human, so she figured the worst she might expect were a few fists flying, but both boys just continued to stare at each other as if waiting for the other to move first. Meghan fluttered between the two, not quite sure whom to placate first.
Finally, Laine stepped forward with his hand extended and said, “Nice to meet you.”
His eyes were as flat and cold as Glenn’s. It was obvious neither boy was happy to see the other, but neither wanted to be the first to show it in front of Meghan. They were still just sizing each other up.
To give her credit, Meghan didn’t give anyone preference, keeping her distance from both when it became apparent the
y weren’t going to fight.
Cecelia, deciding bloodshed in her store wasn’t the best way to get more customers, stepped between them and said, “Hey, Glenn, glad you’re back. I need your help at the front.”
She didn’t give him a chance to object. Taking him firmly by the elbow, she steered him behind the counter where the flyers rested.
Meghan left with the boy, tossing an apologetic glance Glenn’s way, which he purposely ignored. The hurt look on her face at Glenn’s rejection broke Cece’s heart.
“What do you need me to do?” he asked.
Cecelia heard the defeat in his voice and squeezed his arm in sympathy. He shrugged her hand away.
“I heard from him,” Cecelia said as a distraction. She pointed to the computer and the email she had pulled up.
Glenn jerked his head toward her, his jaw open in shock.
“You mean you heard from that Pink Melon guy?” He sounded like he didn’t believe her.
Cecelia nodded and couldn’t keep from grinning. “He agreed to do it. And he’s doing it for free. Just asked me to make a donation to a foundation that helps disabled musicians.”
“Wow! Oh, wow! So when is it going to be?”
Cecelia pointed to the flyer, and he read the dates. Brow wrinkling as he thought, he said, “Why so few participants?”
“A couple of reasons. First, it is the first one I am doing, and I want it to be awesome. Second, he wants to be able to work closely with everyone. Third, since we are doing some of it here in the recording studio, and some of it at the Annex, we wanted to make sure everyone got equal time and attention and that we can coordinate it well. The logistics of getting between here and the Annex would be harder with more students. And, I already have interest from a few kids—someone named Zoey, Elliot Martin, William Kasun, and I’m hoping you and Meghan will want to attend, too. ”
Rock Me Gently_A Havenwood Falls Novel Page 8