by Lee Piper
I don’t reply. To be honest, I don’t want my pitiful excuses to slap me in the face twice as hard. It’s bad enough hearing them in my head.
“I’ll be right back.” Mikhail reaches into his pocket for his cell phone as he leaves.
“Where’s he going?” My eyes dart between the closed door and Drake as though one of them holds the answer.
“No idea.” He closes the distance until he’s standing directly in front of me. “What’s going on? You’re pale as fuck.”
“I’ve been testing the speaker in my van.”
“Right.”
“My van, Drake.”
“Heard you the first time. What’s the big deal?”
Tucking some hair behind my ear, I begin pacing. “What if my sound quality is rubbish? Like, really fucking rubbish? What if I’ve been way off with the design, thinking it’s awesome when really, it’s not?” Pausing, I stare at the whitewashed brick. “I’ve been playing recorded music in a shitbox on wheels, for Christ’s sake. There are cracks in the walls and the sink leaks.” I rake my hands through my hair. “What kind of amateur uses a place like that to test their equipment, huh?” Spinning on my heel, I face Drake again. There’s a tremor in my voice I don’t appreciate. However, even after clearing my throat, it’s still there. Like the echo chamber, I can’t escape it. I have to put up with it rebounding off the walls around me.
“I didn’t even think about how the place I tested the speaker would affect the sound quality.” I resume pacing. My arms flail about me, the gestures growing larger, more dramatic by the second. “I simply made a speaker, listened to it a few times and thought, Hmm, not bad.”
Tugging on my hair, I groan. “Not bad? Fucking hell, Drake. I’m going to look like an idiot. Mikhail’s mocking laughter will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
I pause, my frantic gaze taking in our surroundings. “Look at this place.” I point to the curved bench seat. The one my things aren’t on because I didn’t bring anything with me except my speaker.
Was I meant to bring stuff? What do people normally have with them? Apart from a fighting chance, of course.
Choking back a sob, I continue. “This isn’t me. I’m not meant to be here. I’m a roadie, not a sound engineer. I’m just a girl who tinkers with equipment in her piece-of-shit van to help pass the time.” Breaking off, I swallow back the tears threatening to crawl up my throat. It’s getting harder and harder to do. “I never finished high school, did you know that?”
Drake watches me.
“Didn’t graduate middle school, if I’m being honest. I’ve got no education, no money, no real family.” Striding to the wall, I smack my palm against it, the sharp slap ringing in my ears. “And I’m about to embarrass the hell out of myself in a goddamn echo chamber.”
My hand slides down the cool surface until it drops to my thigh. Dejected, I glance over my shoulder. “Mikhail had this room specially designed to weed out imposters like me.” Dipping my head, I shake it, muttering, “Should’ve stayed in the gutter where I belong.”
Silence.
Then, “Are you done?”
Snapping my head up, I turn in the direction of Drake’s thinly veiled impatience. “Excuse me?”
“Is your pity party finished? Because I’m bored as fuck.”
I narrow my gaze.
Strong hands clamp down on my shoulders, cementing me in place. “I want you to listen to me carefully.” He tips his head to the side, and a lock of his hair flops forward onto his forehead. “You listening?”
I grit my teeth.
“Get over yourself.”
Then gasp.
“I mean it. Enough of the woe-is-me bullshit. It’s getting old.” A strong hand slides up my neck, collaring it. A dexterous thumb tips my head back, encouraging me to look in Drake’s eyes. Belligerent, I glower past him, drilling holes into the far wall.
Drake ducks, then weaves in front of me until I’m forced to meet his hardened expression. “Don’t,” I warn. “I’m serious, Drake. I don’t need your shit right now.”
“Too bad, because you’re gonna hear what I’ve got to say.”
I might talk a good game, but I’m seconds away from bursting into hysterical sobs. There’s something about impending humiliation that will do that to a girl. Especially when it’s at the expense of her dreams. “Please.” My broken whisper does nothing to ease the tension around his mouth or the furrows between his eyebrows. If anything, it intensifies them. “Get your hands off me.” It’s futile trying to break free from his hold, but I give it a red-hot go regardless. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“No.”
The word booms off the brickwork and bellows back, hitting me square in the chest. It’s as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. I swear, I’m doubled over, trying to breathe. Only, all I can manage are gasping heaves.
I’m going to pass out.
“You’re here because you deserve to be. End of story.”
“Drake—”
Silver flecks blur my vision.
“I said, end of fucking story.”
My legs forget their purpose in life.
“Drake, I think I’m going to—”
He slams me against the frigid whitewash. The shock is enough for a gust of air to be wrenched from my lungs. Jerking my arms above my head, Drake thrusts a knee between my thighs, pinning me in place. “Listen up, because I’m only going to say this one more time.” He drops his head, then nips my parted lips. The sharp sting is enough to rouse me from my stupor. “You. Deserve. To. Be. Here.”
“I don’t. I really, really don’t.”
“You do. You just need to believe it.” His ripped torso heaves against my sensitive breasts, while piercing blue eyes dare me to refute him. He’s not letting me get away with cowardice.
I hate him for it. Yet a small part of me loves him for it, too.
“You told me,” he rumbles in a low, deadly voice. “You fucking looked me in the eye and said you were capable of more than I give you credit for. Remember?”
I do. But I don’t want to. It’s easier pretending the conversation never happened. That way, I don’t have to live the meaning behind the words.
Shaking my head, I look away. “You don’t get it. I’m just me. I’m just a girl who’s so far out of her league right now. It’ll all go to hell, Drake. I know it.”
“You don’t know shit.” He rocks his hips against my lower stomach.
Swallowing, I dart my tongue out to lick my bruised lips. Drake’s gaze tracks the movement, his jaw tight.
“Look around you,” I murmur. “Even you’ve got to admit, I don’t belong here.”
“Swear to God, woman. If you don’t grow a fucking spine in the next ten seconds, I’m not gonna be held responsible for my actions.”
I blink, taking in the harsh lines of Drake’s face. There’s a ferocity in his expression I’ve only seen once before. It was when his hand was wrapped around Ray’s neck and he was squeezing the life from him.
I gulp. It echoes. Of course it does. Story of my freaking life.
“You wanted a chance to prove what you can do,” Drake growls. “This is it. You wanted to make something of yourself. Now is the time. Opportunities like this won’t happen again. So, the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. Either walk out of here and give yourself up to The Collector or stay where you are and prove you deserve this chance.”
I’m so caught up in Drake’s body pressed against mine, his eyes burning holes in me, and his ultimatum swirling in my mind, that I barely register the sliding door whooshing open.
“Harper?”
Drake doesn’t look in the direction of the sound. I don’t either.
“Harper, are you okay?” Mikhail repeats, his footsteps growing louder as he moves further into the room.
Drake quirks a sardonic brow, challenging me to say something.
I don’t. Instead, I grit my teeth and wrench out of Drake’s hold. “Don’t
look so pleased with yourself,” I mutter. “Just because you’ve got confidence for days doesn’t mean we all do.”
He winks.
I glower.
Drake’s deep chuckle follows me as I approach Mikhail. “Sorry about….” I gesture over my shoulder at the mountain of testosterone who’s still chuckling at my expense. “Anyway, it won’t happen again.”
Another snort.
I’m going to kill him.
Mikhail’s gaze darts from me to the amused lead singer and back again. He doesn’t say a word. However, there’s a tightness to his movements as he passes a wad of paperwork to Drake that belies his silence. He’s annoyed. “Here.” Hazel eyes narrow. “You need to sign the confidentiality agreement.” Then, indicating the typed information, continues. “As you can see, I have already signed it. So has Zeke; he emailed me a copy this morning. We need Harper’s signature.” He glares. “And now yours.”
Whoa. The dude really isn’t happy about Drake being here. I seriously consider asking Drake to leave. After all, how am I going to impress Mikhail with live sound if the very person performing is the person he can’t stand? And his feelings are obvious. The locked jaw, pointed daggers, and jerky movements might as well be a warning signal screaming at the lead singer to piss the hell off.
“Fine.” Drake grins, holding his hand out. “Pen?” Either he’s ignoring the animosity thrown his way or he doesn’t care. Either way, I don’t think it’s going to bode well for my speaker.
Mikhail’s nostrils flare, but he passes a pen to Drake. Turning his back to the businessman, Drake flicks through the pages, skimming the contract with a practiced eye. “Seems fair,” he muses, tapping the pen against his teeth.
Mikhail’s fists clench by his sides, gaze fixed firmly on the pen in Drake’s mouth.
Mental note: don’t bite the end of it.
When he gets to the final page, Drake rests it against the wall and signs with a flourish. “Done.”
With a brisk nod, Mikhail retrieves the contract. Some of his tension eases as he too skims over the document. After double-checking Drake’s signature is where it’s meant to be, he nods again. Seeming satisfied, he hands it to me, minus the glare. “Once you have signed the contract, we can begin.”
With trembling fingers, I take it. The first thing I notice is it’s heavy. There must be at least ten pages here. The pages are thick too, giving the official document a gravitas that has my nerves free falling from my ribs to my stomach. I glance down.
Words.
So many words.
It’ll take me years to read the first page.
Frustrated, I grit my teeth, determined not to make a fool out of myself. So what if the letters jump all over the place? So what if the stark white paper is brighter than the sun reflecting off the ocean? So what if the legal bullshit no doubt littered throughout the paragraphs needs its own freaking dictionary? I’ll figure it out somehow.
Maybe.
One day.
Groaning, I turn from the two men. With hunched shoulders, I grip the pages with both hands and focus on the first line.
Impossible.
The letters are literally moving. It’s as though they’ve been thrown into a saucepan and the heat is turned up high. The d’s become b’s, the t’s become f’s, and the m’s morph into weird-ass n’s.
I drop my hand, the pages smacking against my thigh. “Goddammit.”
I sense him approach. He doesn’t say anything, but then again, he doesn’t have to. It’s the warmth hitting my back, sending heat radiating from my shoulders to the base of my spine that does it.
“Here.” Drake retrieves the document. In a tone so low even I can barely hear it, he murmurs, “Want me to read it for you?”
My body locks up. A quick exhale passes my lips, but apart from that, I’m immobile. No one’s ever noticed my learning difficulty before. I haven’t spoken about it other than with Ray and my aunt, and that was out of necessity more than anything. After all, how could a roadie with severe dyslexia read the detailed list of instructions left by a band? Spoiler alert: they can’t. So Ray was always in charge of the written stuff, while I was the workhorse. And our system worked until…. Well. Until it didn’t.
A hand caresses my side, snapping me from my reverie. “One of my sisters has dyslexia. I know the signs.”
I swallow.
“Want to know what’s on the first page? Prepare yourself, you’re gonna die of boredom.”
Despite not wanting to, the corner of my mouth quirks up in a half smile.
Drake shifts until he’s standing next to me. He unravels the now crinkled contract, smoothing it with his hands. Then he begins to read. With more patience than I’ve ever given him credit for, Drake goes through the entire document. It takes a long time and he has to stop more often than not when I ask him to repeat sections, but he doesn’t rush or make me feel like an idiot when I do. He pauses when my brows furrow and explains key terminology I’ve never heard before. He nods when I ask him to give me examples and even clarifies them in different ways until I understand.
I love this man.
So much.
He might be an egotistical ass, but when I need him to be, he’s as genuine as they come.
By the time we reach the last page, I’m no longer embarrassed about not being able to read. Drake and I talk openly about the headings and subheadings. Hell, we even go through the fine print. Since I trust him not to make shit up, and he’s signed it already, I have no issues about taking the pen he offers and signing my name on the dotted line. For the first time ever, I feel empowered despite not being able to read.
Wordlessly, I hand the contract and pen to Mikhail, who puts his phone away. He nods, eyes flicking briefly to Drake. There’s no animosity in them anymore. It’s as though the compassion Drake showed me thawed any reserve he felt toward him. Not that I think it’ll be the start of an epic bromance or anything. I’m just thinking they’ll keep their fists to themselves.
I turn to Drake, hoping my gaze tells him what my words don’t. “Thank you.”
He tucks some hair behind my ear and shrugs. “All good.”
We watch each other for a long moment, each drowning in the silly smile projected back. It must get freaking awkward, because Mikhail clears his throat and then claps his hands, declaring, “Let’s begin.”
Blinking, I glance at him. He gestures to my speaker, pointed eyebrow raised.
“Oh. Right. Of course.” My hurried footsteps are amplified as I rush to the case still resting where I left it on the ground. Crouching low, I unclasp the metal hinges and open the lid. There, nestled in the faux velvet, is my ticket to freedom.
With a deep breath, I lift the speaker from the box, carefully checking the exterior to make sure nothing was damaged during transportation. It’s perfect. My shoulders relax, not enough to delude me into thinking the rest of my time here will go smoothly, but enough not to cramp up.
With the smallest of tremors, I connect my speaker to a power outlet and switch it on. A green light illuminates the small screen at the rear, proving the hardware is operational. So far, so good. Next, I retrieve the microphone I may or may not have stolen from a music venue a couple of months ago and switch it on. Three succinct repetitions of my forefinger rap against the interweaved metal. However, the volume setting is ridiculously loud, so I’m almost deafened when the sound booms off the walls.
“Sorry.” With a grimace and internal throat punch for my rookie error, I adjust the volume. No need for Mikhail’s eardrums to bleed. I’ll save level ten for when the speaker is being used in a packed venue. Possibly a stadium.
Standing, I give Drake the mic. “Don’t start yet. Give me a minute to adjust the levels.” Glancing around the echo chamber before looking back at him, I mutter, “I’m going to need to make some adjustments.”
He nods, winks, and tingles erupt in my lower stomach.
“Focus,” I mutter to myself as I turn from the sexy-as-fuc
k lead singer. “Concentrate on what’s important here.”
With a shake of my head, I return to my speaker and crouch beside it. “I need a vocal check,” I throw over my shoulder, still not looking at Drake.
“You’re the boss.”
It’s a good thing my gaze is averted, because I don’t want Mikhail to see my epic eye roll.
Drake then goes through a series of warmups, testing pitch, range, volume, and clarity. With eyes closed, I tip my head to the side, listening. It takes a couple of tries, but soon enough I manage to block out the pounding of my heart, the blood hammering in my pulse, and my quick inhalations. Silence calms the internal chaos, enabling me to focus. “Finally.”
Drake and I progress quickly through the vocal tests. Every so often, I make minor adjustments to the settings on the back of the speaker—a small rotation here, a slight alteration there. Before long, I’m nodding along with the sound, happy with the quality. “It’s good.”
Drake gives an appreciative nod. “Damn straight, it is. Haven’t heard a better one.” He glances in Mikhail’s direction. “And I’ve heard hundreds.”
Subtle.
Ducking my head, I throw a quick prayer to whoever might be listening to get me through this unscathed, then straighten to my full height. After rolling my shoulders back, I face the tall Russian. He’s watching me with an enigmatic look on his face. Yep, there’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to decipher that expression. Might as well take up pole dancing for all the good it’ll do me.
Tipping my chin, I pretend like I’m in control of the wasps swarming my stomach. They’re creating the mother of all cyclones, their wings flapping faster and faster as they whirl in frantic loops. Relax, Har. Pretend you test speakers in echo chambers every day. This is a frolic in the goddamn park, so chill the fuck out.
Mikhail blinks.
My insides clench. Churn. Roll.
“Well?”
I lick parched lips, needing something to distract me from the voice in my head screaming for me to make a run for it. My gulp is huge. “Ready.”
Mikhail stares. Crosses his arms. Waits.