Me: Good luck. Ttyl.

By the grace of God, in direct opposition to Landry’s driving, I make it to the airport alive.

The trip to LAX isn’t a terribly long flight, but it’s long enough for me to reorganize my thoughts. What do I do if Jarrett doesn’t change his mind? What am I willing to sacrifice in search of “what if?”

Ozzie greets me at LAX alone, which makes me as relieved as it does leery. Not one call or text from my father or Warrick the whole time I was gone, and no “welcome home” barrage this time?

“Sweetpea, missed you.” Oz sets my bag aside and hauls me into a burly hug. “So how was your trip?”

My shoulders slump. “Ugh. Confusing, rocky, wonderful, back to confusing.”

“Your calendar’s empty today. We’ll take the long-cut home, and you can tell me all about it.” He opens my door and ushers me into the backseat.

First thing I do is kick off my shoes then flop back on the long, plush leather seat. “Where are the jackals?” I ask when he’s in the car.

“Closed door meetings. Have been since you left. They smell trouble. Thought you’d marry Warrick, play wifey, and let him run the show, and now I think they’ve figured out that plan might not run as smooth as they’d hoped. What about you and the boy? How’d that go?”

I throw my arm over my eyes and groan. “He’s not a boy, Ozzie. He’s a twenty-six-year-old, gorgeous, intelligent, creative man. And I’m not sure yet. I think he wants to be on board, but his brother, not so much. They need time to sort it out.”

“What’s your gut tell you, sweetpea?”

That I’m a ninny who dreams too big. “To have faith. There’s something way down under the surface with him. Something deep there, Oz. I just… I just know it.”

“Okay, then what are you gonna do?”

“I’ll tell ya what I’m gonna do.” I sit up and lean over the back of the seat, closer to him. “I’m gonna let that faith steer.”

“That’s my girl. World wouldn’t run without some of it somewhere.” He chuckles, deep, and robust. My Oz knows me, so he knows that’s all I have to say for now, and he heads for my apartment.

Once I’m inside, I leave the unpacking for later and head to the kitchen for a glass of wine. But first, I stop by my idock and turn on some Civil Wars. It’s always warm enough to sit outside in L.A., so I take my glass of moscato out on the patio. With my feet propped up on the railing and music wafting through the open french doors, I realize it’s not a bad life. I’m only twenty-one, so there’s no hurry to figure it all out, right?

Then why do I feel so close to having it all figured out…my forever kind of happy brushing the ends of my fingertips yet just out of reach?

By Tuesday afternoon, still not a peep from Rhett. Landry’s clueless as to what’s going on there because she’s working nights and sleeping days, so I’m beyond impatient and in the foulest mood I can ever remember being in. I’ve typed out a text to him who knows how many times, but deleted it just as many. That damn Dane Cook is wrong by the way — texting is just as daunting for women. When I’ve got myself all geared up to ask—in all caps—how you go from “She’s an exception” to days of incommunicado, I chicken out and play Devil’s advocate. I don’t want to push too hard or make him feel as though he has to choose between me and Jarrett.

Considering all that, the ugly turn this board meeting’s taking probably doesn’t need saying.

“Darling, really, Warrick and I are happy to handle this if you have things you need to do. I’m sure your mother would love to take you shopping. For wedding items, perhaps?”

I blatantly roll my eyes at my father and scoff. “No wedding, no items, and quit trying to get me to leave. You and I both know I have more rights than ever to be here. Now what’s next on the agenda?”

Oh, pick your jaw up, Warrick. Yes, I have a brain, a backbone, and you by the balls. Spicy—that’s me.

“All right.” My father pins me with his glare and clears his throat. “I’m proposing we sign Little Bone T to a one album deal with our option to renew. His demos were something fresh for us, appealing to a younger market and also the hip-hop genre, in which we’re not very strong. Thoughts?”

“I have one,” I pipe up.

My father has the nerve to drop his forehead into his hand. “Yes, Reece?”

My name rolls off his tongue like acid, and… it hurts. I haven’t stirred up any real trouble yet, and I wouldn’t if he’d respect me. I’ve grown up in this business, do my research whether he realizes it or not and have some valid points and ideas. Not to mention I am the younger market he’s looking to target!

“Father, with avenues such as YouTube, Vine and Snapchat, undiscovered, talented, young people are much easier to find. I literally watch independent clips with more views than some of our signed acts have in album sales. These outlets help two-fold. With global accessibility, these new artists know all their competition are being seen too, so they work harder to come up with original, eye-catching, memorable samples. And, companies such as ours can be choosier. For example, the young man you’re proposing? His name is ‘Little Bone!’” I look into the sea of blank faces and have to stifle my laughter. They’re far from ready to help me mold innovation. “That name is generic hoopla that he got backward! He’s literally insinuating that his male appendage is lacking. Um, not savvy— stupid. Not to mention, am I the only one who recently read the article about him punching his last manager, in a bar, that he wasn’t old enough to be in any way? Is that someone we want in the Crescendo family?”

“Sir,” Asskiss Alan, aptly named by me, holds up his large-screen phone. “Those charges were dropped. And I’m sure T would work with us on a new, or improved, name.”

“But there were charges, so something happened. And there’s no improving that name. My point is, his mentality is set. I promise you, millions of people Mr. Bone’s age are out there and dying for a chance to prove their ability and passion for their craft. Let me ask you, Alan”—I do nothing to hide my curtness—“can Mr. Bone play an instrument?”

His face goes pasty before it drops to his phone. His fingers fly over the keys.

“And while you’re at it, ask about lyrics. Has he ever written any? That can actually be played on the radio as is?”

Ozzie stands guard at the door and flashes me a quick wink. Mr. Waterman, also team “Heads Not in Our Asses” smiles subtly.

“Here’s my counteroffer, young lady,” my father says. “You have one week, seven days, to bring us demos of soloists, bands, whoever, you’d like to present for consideration. We will all listen and discuss them then. Will that appease you?”

Not even close, but it’s a start. “Yes, thank you, Father.”

“Moving on to financial reports. Reece, do you need to stay for this?”

“No.” I stand, meeting Mr. Waterman dead in the eyes before glancing away. “I’m sure it’s covered. Pleasure all. See you next time.”

Ozzie holds the heavy mahogany-and-glass door open for me, and I saunter through with the dignity I’m gonna keep demanding. I just have to be faithfully patient that’s it’s all worth it.

By Tuesday evening, I’ve waited two days too long for Jarrett to pry his head out of his ass. Here I am, trying to have my brother’s back, and he’s unconcerned about forfeiting, again, what I thought were our dreams. The longer I’m left waiting, forced to make her do the same, the angrier I become.

Looks like she’s fed up too.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29