by Ginger Scott
Because I’m a selfish prick, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Chapter 12
Casey
She texted me that she’d be at the studio by eight, so I arrived at seven. She showed up at seven-thirty. Somehow, I knew she would.
“So the paperwork…is it…I don’t know…a lot?”
She’s polished off an entire pitcher of water in the conference room. I refilled it, and she’s pouring her second glass from this round. When she finishes that one, I slide the pitcher away from her, moving it to the far end of the table, and her eyes flash up to me.
“You’re going to drown,” I smirk.
She smiles with tight lips and pushes her glass away, falling back in her seat.
“I’m nervous,” she admits.
“I know. Don’t be,” I smile.
I’ve purposely remained two seats away from her, careful not to be too close. I don’t want her to have a reason not to trust me, or for her to get some crazy notion that I’m going to swoop in and take this from her, too. I don’t want to mess this up, but I also know she doesn’t want to be left to do it alone.
I’m not naïve enough to think that John will involve me to a large extent in any projects with her. But when I spoke with him yesterday, he mentioned several times how much he liked the mix and what I’d done. A few weeks ago I would have seized that opportunity and come in guns blazing with ideas for other things I can do. But now I don’t want to make this so much about me as much as I want to make it about her.
“All right, let’s get this deal done. Murphy Sullivan, yeah?” John says, stepping in and looking at the papers that his assistant just placed in front of him rather than the girl the papers are about.
Murphy stands and moves her hand toward him to shake, but I hold my hand up and wave her off. As much as she doesn’t like to be hugged, John Maxwell does not like to be touched. He’s a brilliant producer and an enormous name in the business—but it’s not because of warm fuzzies. He’s cutthroat when it comes to getting his artists the airtime they deserve. Murphy—she needs cutthroat in her corner, but I’m not sure she’ll realize that.
She looks at me confused, but I shake my head and smile, winking, my signal for her not to worry.
“I really like your sound, Murphy,” John says, flipping through the standard boilerplate contract, checking with a pen next to the places that already have his name signed. I’m sure he has a person that does that.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. I can hear her struggle.
John isn’t easy. Most of his artists are men—the kind in the news for hopping through celebrity girlfriends they swoon with their guitars. So, assholes. Yeah, I fit right in.
“Murphy…look…” he says, finally dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head with his winning smile atop his perfect, crisp, white shirt collar. The man is success in a suit, and this is the move he makes when he wants something. I’ve seen it. It’s how he got me. He wants her on his label. He wants her bad.
“I’m not going to kid you or waste your time. You have something…” he stops, leaning forward with an arm on the table as his mouth ticks up. “Unique. You’re unique. And I…” his eyes squint, “don’t come across unique very often in this business.”
“Okay,” she says, barely audible. Her eyes are terrified, and her hands are now tucked under her legs. She wore the gray dress from the night at the club, but she also wore tall black boots and a black business jacket that slims at the waist. Somehow, she’s made that fucking dress even hotter, and I think John likes that too. Sex sells—it sells records.
“If we can agree on this,” he says, waving his hand over the contract spread out in front of her, “I’d like to get you in the studio today.”
Her eyes grow wide, and I see the anxiety coloring her skin.
I jump in.
“Is this just for the song we demo’d? Or is this for the full contract?” I ask, and John’s jaw flexes. I move my eyes to her, gesturing that I’m only trying to put her at ease, not act as her agent, though I know that’s her fear—she’d prefer her dad get a shot at looking these papers over.
“For now, yes. We’re looking at a single,” John says, his mouth a hard line, and my shot at working on her mix down the toilet. “What you gave me—it’s a hit, Murphy. If we give it the right push, the right touch. But I’m a businessman, so I’d really like to test the waters with it.”
Disappointment crawls into her expression.
“But I have a feeling,” John pipes in quickly. He saw it too. Disappointed artists don’t sing with passion, they sing with reservation, and he can’t have that. “I think we’ll be sitting down here and talking about some bigger plans very soon.”
He pushes the papers forward, turning them to her view and sliding the pen next to them. You can take as long as you need. My secretary, Cara, can take your signed copy and make sure everything is squared up. And if you’re able, just head to the main studio on the end; I’d like to hook you up with Gomez.
Her frightened eyes find mine. I shake my head lightly, so she swallows her question down and thanks John again as he stands to leave the room. Her hand out again, John smirks at it and takes it into his own. Only I notice him wipe his fingers with a towelette on his way out of the room. I’m glad Murphy didn’t see it. It isn’t personal—he does it constantly.
“What do you think?” she says the moment the door closes and we’re alone.
I remain two seats away, but turn my chair to face her, scratching at my chin and dragging the paperwork closer to me to review. I recognize the language instantly—it’s the same exact thing I signed. It gives John control over her song—the one about me—but it’s open ended after that, giving them both an out. It’s the biggest shot she’s ever going to get. And if John wants it now, it means there’s a slim opening somewhere that he thinks it fits. Waiting a day—I don’t think she can wait a day.
“I think…” I pause, returning the contract to her and letting go before our fingers have a chance to graze. “I think it’s an amazing opportunity that you deserve,” I say.
“Who’s Gomez?” she asks, knowing, but not wanting to say it out loud.
“He’ll do great things with you,” I say through a soft smile, my heart breaking at the thought of someone else being trusted with her voice. This isn’t about me; it’s about someone else knowing what to do. I meet her gaze and try to force down the lump in my throat.
“But if I’m working with him…” She knows.
I nod.
“I’m new here. I’m…I’m not even fulltime yet. Gomez—he’s…well…here, let me show you something,” I say, urging her to stand and walk to the far wall with me, where gold records hang along with dozens of plaques and Billboard Awards. I point to the first one, and say his name. I point to the next and do the same. I credit him with at least sixty percent of the hardware hung on the studio wall.
“So that all…that means he’s good?” she asks.
Does it?
I don’t answer, instead letting out a long breath tainted with indecision. But I know the drill here—I know how easy this kind of deal is to blow.
“Murph, John isn’t going to gamble on both of us. He already owns what he wants out of me, and he sees something special in you,” I say.
Her eyes fall to the table—to the duplicate copies and legal jargon that always encases the best of hopes and desires. She steps closer, pulling the pen into her hand as she sits down and begins to read.
“But what if…what if I like the song the way you made it?” she asks, not looking at me, breaking me, and making my chest expand with pride and my heart rip with regret.
“I didn’t make that song, Murph,” I say, as her eyes flit to mine. “You did.”
She chews at her lip, her eyes eventually falling back to the decision on the glossed maple planks in front of her. I wait for more questions that never come. I stand in the r
oom, perfectly still and silent while she reads. I wait just in case her belief in herself wavers and I need to tell her she’s good enough without me.
I will be her swagger.
When her pen begins to scratch along the paper, I step out of the room and let her revel in the strength she’s found on her own.
* * *
I busied myself with tapes and phones for the rest of the day—mostly phones. I’ve been at the studio for just under two weeks, and I’m starting to realize that my role here is not necessary…or really wanted. No, that’s not true—it’s wanted, it just isn’t very glamorous. I feel kind of foolish for going in with my big expectations.
My father’s voice is in my head.
John’s team and I have different ideas of what my scope is. John wanted me for his club; that much is clear. He wants my local buzz to put Max’s on the map. He wants my allure to bring in local talent. In the few years I’ve been working this circuit, I’ve cultivated a nice little list of friends. They give me beats, make riffs for me to use in my mixes. I heard him throw my name around with a few other guys he was trying to work on this morning, something about building the Maxwell brand to include more than just folk bands and reformed-country-stars turned pop stars. I’ve been tasked with scouting YouTube and putting my signature on things to show artists how their sound can transform, be relevant.
Relevant. That’s John’s favorite word. It’s how he hooked me. He said I was relevant and my eyes bugged out like Tweety Bird caught in a trap. An exciting trap—laced with sexy women and expensive cars and dollar signs. So far, all I’ve gotten in return is a key to use the studio equipment after hours and a used vehicle that loses about a can of oil every two days.
Murphy is relevant—John said it when he called me after hearing her demo, and I know she really is. It kills me that I wasn’t in that room with her today, that Gomez is going to get to mold her sound. But that’s my ego thinking that I’m the only ear that understands, that my hands are the only ones capable of building the right levels—that my taste rules. This isn’t about me, so I block all things Murphy and her record deal out of my head as I pull up outside Houston’s house, my belly hungry and my heart craving that feeling of home.
Christina hasn’t messaged me again; our siblings have taken over the dirty work. Hourly updates laced with just enough guilt to repeatedly make me feel like shit. My father is getting thinner. He’s refusing to work with the nurses. He doesn’t want to take pain meds. He’s questioning what’s covered by insurance. He hid this from us all for months. Now it’s too late. Mom is crying. Mom is constantly crying. And all she wants is me to come to the house.
It’s that last one that stabs. This rift has never been between my mom and me. It was never meant to be, but I can’t fathom how my presence in that house can possibly be good for anyone. I would be like shredded paper thrown on a candle. The flames would come fast and indiscriminant.
“Well, if it isn’t my boyfriend’s other child,” says a familiar voice. I smile hearing it, but I hide it from her because fuck if she knew I actually liked her. Paige leans halfway out the backdoor, her arms crossed over her chest and her hip slung against the frame. I forgot that she would be here tonight—one more piece of evidence of how self-absorbed I am. I think the date has been circled on the calendar hung in Houston’s kitchen for weeks. This date was important to him.
“Well, it’s nice to see that your little stint in California hasn’t made you go all soft,” I say, stepping up toe to toe with her. “You know there’s still time…”
“Time for what?” she asks, her mouth tugged up in that irritated face she makes—that I get out of her. Maybe I should send her in to deal with my sisters—she can handle herself.
“Time to tell Houston the truth—that you were just using him to get to me. Come on Paige, I mean…all this? You know you want a taste of Mighty Casey,” I smirk.
Paige doesn’t hate me…anymore. She doesn’t necessarily like me, either. She tolerates me because she’s in love with my best friend. That fact makes her all right with me. And picking on her is a wonderful distraction. She couldn’t have come back to Oklahoma at a better time.
“You think you’d spend less time walking around in your boxers in front of me,” she says, and I narrow my gaze, waiting for the zing. It’s coming. “Because now we both know there is nothing mighty going on…well…”
My frenemy waves her hand about an inch away from my crotch, not intimidated or offended in the least. I look down and let out a chuckle as I step up and past her on my way into the house.
“Oh, I’ve missed you Paige,” I say. I mean it. I honestly think I have.
“That makes one of us.” She doesn’t miss a beat.
“Uncle Casey!” Leah shouts, running to me from the sofa where she’s playing with what looks like a pair of Paige’s shoes. Her feet fall out of the purple heels quickly and she scurries into my arms so I can lift her against my side.
“Hey, princess,” I say, twirling her once and walking her with her feet propped atop mine until we’re back to her spot on the sofa.
“Paige brought me a new pair of shoes. She said she doesn’t want these any more,” she says, putting her feet into them and scooting toward the coffee table and television. I chuckle and part my lips, but Paige puts her hands on my shoulders behind me, pinching with enough force to get my attention.
“Don’t you dare make a streetwalker joke about those shoes. She loves them,” she says.
I shake my head and smile, because she knows exactly where I was going.
“I think you have a little more growing to do, but they look nice,” I say instead, making both Paige and Leah’s faces glow.
“Are you joining us for dinner, Case?” Joyce asks, busy in the kitchen.
“I will never say no to you, Joyce. Not ever,” I smile, settling into the deep cushion and lying my head back with the weight of the day.
“Hey,” Houston says, taking the final steps down the stairs into the living room. The house is full, and everything here just smells different—like the way a home is supposed to smell. Murphy’s house smells like this. I’m thinking about her. I wasn’t supposed to do that, but I am.
“So, Houston says someone important actually hired you to come work for them,” Paige says, nestling next to Leah. Houston sits on the edge of the coffee table between us both not even phased by our banter.
“Yeah,” I say, and I know I don’t sound as cocky as Paige expects me to or as defensive and ready to spar as Houston anticipates. Paige quirks a brow, and Houston looks between us both.
His eyes settle on me, and before I can open my mouth to fill him in, my phone buzzes with a call. I pull it out to see my sister Annalissa’s name. I watch each ring until the fourth one falls short and she goes into voicemail. I push my phone into my pocket and look at my friend.
“Murphy came in to record,” I shrug.
Houston doesn’t react, instead lowering his brow and resting back on his hands, studying me.
“We have chairs, Houston. Get your rear end off my table,” his mom shouts from the kitchen.
“Yeah, don’t be such a Neanderthal,” I tease, not really wanting to talk about Murphy.
Houston frowns at me, but moves to the couch next to Leah and Paige.
“Murphy came in,” he gets back to it right away.
I nod.
“And you’re not boasting about the big score, beaming with your amazing greatness, bragging…”
I cut him off before his choice of verbs continues to disintegrate.
“She’s not working with me. John wanted her with Gomez. He’s…he’s probably the smart choice,” I say, careful not to sound as bitter and sad as I feel. I’m happy that my phone is ringing again so at least I don’t have to see the expression on Houston’s face. He knows landing Murphy was important to me, but I’m pretty sure he also has some semblance of an idea that I’m also a little into her.
A lot into her.
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And more than scoring professionally, I wanted to be there to see her fly.
I’m out of my comfort zone. I like a girl, and I don’t deserve her, and I’m going to end it at that. The buzz in my pocket comes again, interrupting. This time it’s my other sister calling, and I’m hit with that familiar clenching feeling in my stomach that I get when my sisters aren’t going to stop. This is how they wear me down. It’s effective—or at least it was, when I was a teenager, or when I was ten and I didn’t want to clean my room. This thing is much bigger, which means their attempts are probably going to be even more relentless. I push the power button to turn my phone off and step into the kitchen, grabbing a Coke from my surrogate family’s fridge.
“Who’s Murphy?” Paige asks, and my mind works fast to have a witty answer that will send her in the wrong direction. But I’m not on my game it seems, and Houston beats me to it.
“She’s this girl that dear Casey seems to be quite smitten with,” he says.
“Dude… seriously…smitten?” I say, pulling the tab on my Coke and moving it to my lips fast to catch the fizz bubbling along the top. “Why do you have to choose pussy words?”
Joyce’s hand finds the back of my head fast. I swear, that woman is a ninja.
“Sorry, Mrs. Orr,” I say, rubbing where she swatted me. I have a permanent bruise there from her church-loving violence.
“Ugh, is she some new conquest of yours?” Paige says, making all of the assumptions I figured she would.
“Yep,” I answer, just hoping to leave it at that.
Houston’s eyes narrow as he cocks his head and smirks, parting his lips about to blow my secret wide open for his vulture girlfriend to pick apart and make me feel like a sad, smitten, pathetic pussy when his phone rings out loud. He points at me with one hand while pulling his phone out with the other.
Lucky bastard. That’s what he’s saying with that grin.
“This is Houston,” he answers, and I mock him while he cups his ear, trying to listen to the other line.