He sighed, and the guy rocked back in the white wooden dining chair and studied me where I was carving out a path in the floor.
Unable to sit still.
Unable to settle.
Children’s laughter seeped through the walls. His children, Kallie and Connor, were playing upstairs, their carefree voices echoing down into the house.
Shea’s voice was drifting down, the melody she sang mixing with the tenor of her daughter’s.
Torment pulsed.
God.
This was too much.
“Royce, man, you’ve got to know what Mylton Records is worth.” Baz gestured to the contract, dragging my attention away from his family.
I looked out the window over the side yard of the historic house, voice firm. “The artists represented under the label are worth more than any dollar amount.”
He sighed. “Yeah. You’re right. They are. Have to be a hundred companies who would gladly make you a very rich man in order to get their hands on this company.”
I shifted around to meet his eye. “And that would mean they wouldn’t have you to represent them.”
He nodded slow, hand rubbing his chin, contemplation in his eyes. “Then let’s do it together. Merge. You can work alongside me to make sure these bands are given the best chance. You and I know this business better than anyone else.”
Resting my hand on the wall, I dropped my head, appreciating his belief. His support. Friendship he’d given me since the day A Riot of Roses had opened for a Sunder show in a seedy dive bar in Hollywood more than ten years before.
I glanced over at him. “Not the life I want, man.”
Producing.
It’d never been in my blood.
It’d been nothing but an angle.
A way to infiltrate Mylton Records.
A frown pulled across Baz’s brow. “And what life is it that you want?”
Regret pulsed out on a slow breath.
Emily.
Anna.
Emily.
Anna.
Their names ran through me on a downward spiral.
“Don’t know.”
Only I did. Knew it better than anything. Problem was, six months ago, before Emily had stumbled into my life, that picture had looked completely different.
Taking my family back.
Baz nudged the contract my direction. “You’ve got to at least take more money for this. Take a cut. A fucking percentage. Something.”
Pursing my lips, I shook my head. “Don’t want the money, Baz. You know what to do with it.”
He scrubbed both palms over his face before he dropped them, the smirk on his face turning wry. “Then what? You don’t want the money? At least tell me you want the goddamn band.”* * *It was close to midnight when my driver pulled up to the circular drive in front of Karl Fitzgerald’s mansion.
Pretension oozed from the white stone walls, all the windows lit up like the estate was some kind of beacon hovering over the city, a guiding light, though there was something about it tonight that appeared sad and pathetic.
I opened the door. “I won’t be long.”
He offered a curt nod, and I climbed out, striding up the walkway and bounding up the ten steps that led to the grand entry.
I didn’t bother to knock or ring.
I let myself in.
My mother stumbled to a stop at the end of the hall when she saw me enter, wearing a silk nightgown and matching robe, clutching an empty wine glass, eyes red and blotchy.
“What did you do?” she demanded.
“What should have been done years ago,” I tossed out, not even slowing as I headed for the set of curved stairs that led to the second floor.
“Royce . . . how could you? You’ve destroyed this family,” she shouted behind me.
I ignored her and continued to climb, heading down to the end of the hall on the right. Quietly, I rapped at the door.
Maggie immediately opened it, like she’d been waiting for my return. Watching out the window for my arrival. She threw herself at me, hugging my waist, burying her face in my chest.
I wrapped my arms around her.
Hugged her tight.
“You’re back,” she whispered, clinging to me. “You’re back.”
My heart clenched. So fiercely I couldn’t make sense of what it was that I felt anymore. “I’m here. I’m here. Not going anywhere, Mag-Pie.”
Edging back, she stared up at me like she was almost scared to hope. “Is it done?”
I gripped her by the outside of the shoulders, rubbing my thumbs over her arms. “It’s done.”
Relief gusted out on a small cry that she tried to bury in my chest. I held her, rocked her and whispered, “I’ve got you. It’s going to be alright. No one is going to hurt you.”
She was nodding frantically at my words, trying to latch onto them, to take them on as truth.
“You still want to leave?” I asked quietly to the top of her head.
“Yes. More than anything.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
She didn’t hesitate. She stepped back, swiped a hand across her bleary face, and moved to the double doors of her closet. She grabbed a giant duffle bag that was already packed from the floor.