Chapter 18: Drummer Boys ReOrder Their Objectives

Ok, after rereading some scenes from Tantric, I realized that perhaps I need to refresh you readers on the state of Bodie's situation within Soundcrush and with the label, so this is a set/up transition chapter before we meet Darius.  Bodie and Darius will be the next chapter.

@mariaboboti  , I hope I did your bad-assery justice....the song is for you too...and Ronna...and Marley...and Row...and Mac

Bodie, Four Hours Ago

As I make my way out of customs at Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta, I'm experiencing separation anxiety.

I just parted ways with Varrick and Bells. They are catching a flight on to Nashville.

This jittery feeling ain't just being separated from Varrick's stash, with only one tiny baggie carefully concealed in my carry-on, because that's all he would give me.

This will get you through your second move, he said. Your third move—detox—needs to start tomorrow.

This feeling of anxiety...it's more than being practically smack-less.

Surprisingly, it was hard to say good-bye to Arabella.

I'm not in love with the girl, but I've been with her every single day for more than four months, managing life for both of us, fighting with her sometimes, but mostly just taking care of her, because she's not used to looking after herself.

She is a Disney Princess, after all.

It worries the fuck out of me, how she's going to manage for herself at whatever rehab her uncle forces her into.

Note to self: lay off the shit I give Trace about his fake-marriage to Ashlynn.

I get it now.

Before I can explore that thought further, a hottie with glossy dark hair, great cheekbones and the kind of lips that look like they don't give much away except kisses strides toward me as fast as her pencil skirt and ankle boots will allow.

She doesn't look crazy, but she has a real determined look in her eye.  I brace for the fangirl-latch-on.

To be honest, it doesn't happen a lot except on tour--at concert venues and sometimes if the city's fan club gets wind of where we are staying. It's rare that we do get "attacked" by an lone ecstatic fan on the street or in a public place. But it does happen. And as this chic speeds toward me, I'm sure it's going down for real.

I practically open my arms for her, because it's over quicker if you just go with it, but to my surprise, Ms. All- Business relieves me of my carry-on, circles around me like a tornado-- slipping a hoodie on me, slapping a cap on my head, pulling the hoodie up over and handing me sunglasses and my bag back, all seemingly at once.

Only then, does she latch on—tucking her arm in mine and setting us off at a quick pace.

It all happened so fast that no one but me seemed to notice this woman just claimed me like a piece of luggage.

"You are not here," she says. " As far as the world knows, you are still in Thailand. No paparazzi outside, so that's good. But don't take off the hat or sunglasses. And for god's sake's do not flash that smile. Car is just through the doors..."

"Uhhh...who are you?"

"Ariadne," she says, like that should mean something to me. She picks up on my blank stare. "Ariadne Leventis," she elaborates. "I work for Riley, behind the scenes."

"Since when?"

"Since you've been away," she says vaguely with a toss of her rich brown hair.

"So you're like, his PA?" I ask curiously.

"I am whatever he needs me to be, doing whatever he needs me to do, hearing whatever he needs me to hear, seeing whatever he needs me to see, because he can't be everywhere at once anymore."

I stare down at this chic is who man-handling—woman-handling ?--me through the milling crowd.

"Where did Riley find you?" I ask in mild amusement. I'm thinking she came from the dark side—maybe working in A&R or promotions, but definitely from the business side of our world.

"Greece," she says, like that explains anything.

She pushes me into the chilly February night. I shiver in the hoodie. Fortunately, she directs us to a nearby waiting car.

With a bar.

"Thank you, Jesus," I moan in approval, skimming down the row of liquor bottles in their travel proof holders. Ariadne rolls her eyes and hands me a coffee.

My usual— a flat white.

Huh, Riley's got her nearly up to speed, I see.

"Thank you, this is great," I tell her, lifting my coffee. "Just so you know, this is my typical morning coffee order." I tell her. "After three, I usually take a double espresso. It cuts nicer with a shot of whiskey," I tell her. I nod to the basic bar selection. "Not too much here that goes good with steamed milk."

"Yes, I'm aware," she says coolly as she organizes a stack of things she's pulling from her tote.

I shoot her a resentful look and take my shot of whiskey before the coffee, not in.

I'm half expecting her to protest, but she only holds out the stack of shit so that I'm forced to abandon either the liquor bottle or the coffee to accept it.

I give up the former and keep the latter. I'm freezing in the winter weathern and I need the actual heated coffee, not alcohol heat.

"That's your new Amex,already activated—I canceled your lost one, of course—and your new phone, your backup already completed, and two thousand dollars pocket money, and an appropriate new wardrobe is already waiting on you, of course."

I squint. I know she's expecting me to say "Waiting where?" but I'm not playing her game. I might be fucked up on drugs, but they ain't made me stupid. "Clothes at the band house, you mean. Appropriate for rehab, you mean."

"You got it," she says flatly. "Riley has pulled some very silent strings. Tomorrow morning you have an appointment at a small rehab facility in the North Georgia Mountains where we can keep you under wraps."

I grunt, pushing back the hoodie and the hat and while I sip the coffee. "Okay, detox is on my to-do list, but it might have to wait a day or two. We're gonna have to make a stop down here in the city before the band house." I press the button and give the driver Marley's address.

Ariadne presses the button. "Disregard that, please. We're going to the band residence as planned."

"Okay, your bossypants thing is cute, but you've got it wrong if you think Riley really tells us what to do. We do what we want, and he works around it. And right now, I want to make a stop to see a member of SCIC. So that's where we are going."

Ariadne sits back and crosses her legs.

"This is your hometown, Bodie. You can't be seen all over Atlanta. We have arranged new reservations and expenses in Thailand to make it seem as though you are still there. You need to stay in a controlled environment."

"What's with all the cloak and dagger shit?" I take a swallow of the coffee.

"You're a wanted man."

"Achhhhaaa!" I choke and snort the coffee. It comes right back out spewing it everywhere.

And I mean everywhere. All over Ariadne.

"Shit. Sorry. Too hot," I say but I can barely hear my own muttered apology over my pounding heart.

Wanted?

Fuck.

I can't believe Priestly's body has been uncovered already. Or did Daemon rat me out?

Shit, I vaguely remember some promises about a business proposal—in reality he meant hush money. Yeah I blew that off when I went to Thailand. Maybe he followed through on his implied threats.

Okay, I gotta be cool and figure out what the hell I'm looking at. This chic seems to know, so I return my focus to her and give her a sheepish grin of apology.

"Really. Very. Sorry." I repeat, pulling the bar rag from tiny sink and offering it to her.

Ariadne wipes my coffee from her face and gives me a look that would kill a lesser man.

"Knew you would be a messy job," she mutters as she wipes her face. "It's why I wore all black."

"Isn't that the standard color for spymasters and Dominatrices?" Yeah, I know the joke is lame, but I don't have much energy for my usual level of humor. I'm trying not to freak out about whatever warrant is out on me.

"Yes," she says, cool as fuck.

I can't help but laugh. I think I'm gonna have a love-hate working relationship with Ariadne. Like, she's gonna hate me, and I'm gonna love giving her shit.

"What do you mean I'm wanted? Wanted for what?" I force as much casual as I can. "If there's a warrant out for me, somebody dropped the ball on paying my speeding tickets. Penelope should be taking care of that, probably."

"Not wanted by law enforcement," she says mildly, typing efficiently on her Ipad. "Wanted by the label. Colossus has issued an all points bulletin for your catch-and-release."

"Catch and release? What the fuck does that mean?"

It means you've pissed off Angelo Moran, Riley's voice says dryly.

"Jesus," I jump, looking behind me, expecting to see him in the up front with the driver. He's not.

Not quite but thanks for the vote of confidence, he smirks at me from Ariadne's Ipad.

He's on Facetime, but his voice is coming through the car speakers.

"Ha-ha," I say dryly. "Me? Piss Moran off? Not possible," I protest. "I've been out of the fucking country for three months--doing my job. Being Mr. Arabella Burns. I'm golden, Dude."

"Not exactly. You've encouraged all the wrong habits in Arabella. They think you are a bad horse—a temperamental stallion in their stable, leading their prize philly astray. Moran's getting pressure from above to break you. Fit you with a harder bit."

"That's a really nice horse metaphor, Riley, but can you just quit the poetry and get to the point?"

"You absconded with Arabella Burns who was supposed to be busy writing and recording her debut album with Adam during the Soundcrush hiatus. Arabella's album was projected as a summer launch worth millions. Colossus views that as another revenue loss, courtesy of Soundcrush. This one, they are putting directly on you. Basically, they are framing the narrative like you personally robbed the pop division of millions. They have invoked the drug testing clause in your personal conduct contract."

I almost sigh in relief. "Oh, is that all? That sounds like a slap on the wrist. Has any artist ever passed one of those random drug tests?"

"No, because they aren't random. They are administered when they are building a case for firing you."

I laugh. "They can't fire me. I'm in a band  who has a recording contract. I'm not a fucking Colossal employee."

"That's where you are wrong, Bodie. Moran just sent me a scan of your contractual agreements with Colossus. They can exclude any one of the Soundcrush members from recording, performing and receiving royalties on label releases, if you fail to adhere to your professional conduct riders."

"No fucking way," I splutter. "We didn't sign that shit."

Ariadne taps the screen. Riley disappears. A scanned contract with a highlighted section appears. I'm pretty good with contracts—I did several pre-law courses—and it only takes one serious perusal and me scrolling to see the signatures at the end for me to realize two things.

Riley is right, this contract definitely includes a section that gives the label rights to withhold royalties contingent upon release of band members who do not fulfill obligations.

And that section of the contract was definitely not in the version our lawyers reviewed with us in the hour before we signed.

I return to Riley's call.

"That ain't right." I tell him.

He rubs behind his glasses. "Right or wrong doesn't figure in. You all were very young and naive. You didn't know what you were agreeing to, but you did agree to the terms when you signed."

Shit, he's not hearing me. Let me rephrase in my whiteboy voice.

"No, you misunderstand me. This is not the contract that was presented to us as the final draft. I have never seen this particular subsection of our contract before.

"Ask Trace, he will say the same thing. He and I went through every section with the lawyers. Note how there is no individualized initialing for the conditions in this section, and how it is formatted to fill one full page. It's because we didn't agree to this. This section was slipped in somehow during or after we signed. Someone perpetrated contract fraud," I say.

Riley stops rubbing his eyes and stares at me through the screen. His eyes fire. "That bloody fucking—"

"Bastard," I finish for him.

"Who, now?" Ariadne says mildly, her pen poised in a small notebook like she's taking notes.

"Dawes," Riley and I say together.

"Oh, him." She flips to a page in what must be her own personal Soundcrush bible. "I'll add it to his list of sins."

"Fuck," I mutter.

Riley is quiet. "I'll look into our options from all angles. But, Bodie, it doesn't change your personal conduct agreement. You are contractually obligated to test or you will be in breach of contract. They will definitely sue you, and even if we have a leg to stand on with a contract fraud lawsuit, it could tie Soundcrush's next release up in litigation..."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. I've got to play the game and drug test. When I officially get back from Thailand, right? So how long can we string that lie? How long do I have to detox?"

"I don't know. I don't know what kind of test they will administer. A standard 5 panel screen or more detailed screenings to look for various, specific drugs. I don't know if they will sample blood, urine, hair...I don't know. I can make discreet inquiries, but they keep this sort of thing under wraps, because they use it as a weapon when they need to. It would help me if I knew what they might expect to see."

After a long moment of hesitation, I sigh. "Opiates."

"Oxy? Vikes? Codeine?"

"No, I don't think so. Been a good while since I've had any of those in my system...I'm...a bit beyond that."

Riley nods stoically. "Right, then." He searches my face. "How bad?"

"Bad." I realize I'm picking at my skin. I stop and look over at the girl Ariadne. She's politely focused on her notebook.

"How bad?" he repeats.

"Pretty much...breakfast, lunch and dinner. A midnight snack."

"Christ, Bodie." He looks angry.

Yeah, well, so am I. Does he think I planned to be a fucking junkie? Does he think I like this feeling of my body weak and betraying me? Does he think I deliberately gave smack control of my life?

No. It's been a slope I've been slipping down since before we got to LA. Drinking led to weed. Weed led to ecstasy. Then pills.

Then I shut it down. I climbed back up the mountain.

But I stumbled again, and this time I tumbled straight down into hell.

"Look, I know. I don't want to live like this. I don't want to put this on the band or...anyone. I'm gonna get a handle on it."

"You need to be in a detox unit tomorrow," he say emphatically. "Ariadne."

She takes the Ipad back. "Yes, he will be there. We're going to the band house now."

"No, we're not," I slide the privacy window. "Hey man, this is your exit. I gotta make a stop. Marley's" I call out toward the Ipad.

Ariadne looks to Riley for confirmation.

"He should have told you, Ariadne—I have a real problem with authority," I sneer at her.

"He did. I told him I give zero fucks about rock star attitudes."

"That's not really a way to keep your job, girl..."

"She doesn't work for Soundcrush. She works for me... for The Emsworth Agency, my management firm."

"I see alot's changed since I've been gone."

"Not really. I'm still only managing Soundcrush and Strut. Ariadne is my first official hire. So unless the band votes to dissolve our management agreement..."

"We get Ari, here, as our proxy manager, whenever you feel the need to be deep in Strut p—hey!"

Ariadne just the through the damp coffee cloth in my face to shut me up.

"I was going to say Strut's pockets, girl." I grin at her.

"Right." She says as Riley tuts his own disapproval.

"Soundcrush will always be my first and foremost priority. Every member of the band but you voted to support this transition from singular management to a more...professional relationship with me. It changes nothing, really. It just allows me to cover more ground with some trustworthy support staff."

I press my lips together. There's no point in giving my opinion since I missed the band vote. But I would have argued against this. We just got rid of a manager who doesn't have our interests at heart. And Riley can say whatever about his priorities, but when a dude falls in love, that woman becomes his priority.

Trace is just too damn stubborn and too damn loyal to his image of Riley—whom he looks up to—to see that Riley has it that bad for his sister.

Maybe Riley doesn't even realize it yet, but Row is his top priority now.

"Man, where are you?" I ask him. "At the band house?"

"No, in LA. At Strut's album package shoot. There's no one at the band house, except the housekeeper. You'll have privacy."

"Well, good, if there's no welcome party, there's no problem with me taking a detour to see Marley." I raise my eyebrows in challenge.

"Except that Marley isn't home," Riley says quietly. "She's out of town."

I grab the Ipad back from Ariadne. "You keeping tabs on her? Like Ashlynn?"

"No. Trace mentioned it, that's how I know. Do you want me to keep tabs on her?"

Riley and I give each other a long stare, in which it's communicated that he now knows I know and in which he knows I know he knows, too.

"That's not necessary. I want to build some trust there, so stalking her doesn't seem like the way to go about that."

"Good plan," he says mildly.

"Do you know if...her son...is with her, out of town?" I ask Riley suddenly.

"He would be at his grandmother's," Riley says guardedly. Seeing my scowl, he holds up a finger. "No, that's a bad idea, Bodie. Just...go on to the band house. You can talk to Marley and follow through with your other...objectives...after detox, yeah?"

"Naw, I'm gonna be cool, I'm just gonna swing by there for a minute..." I turn to give the driver instructions but Ariadne whips beside me on the seat and redirects the driver to the band house, snapping the window shut.

I grip the Ipad, wanting throw it against the window of the car. These two are really pissing me off, tryna run me.

I've had enough of "handlers" telling me where to go and what to do. First Connor and now Riley and his new sidekick?

I sigh. I remember Varrick's advice.

There are always complications.Your ordered objectives constantly change. Things might not go like you anticipate, but you have to keep your eye on the long goal.

The long goal is making my son... well, my son.

Riley and this commanding little Greek Fury are a complication right now.

So I reorder my objectives.

"Fine. You're right," I say wearily. "I'm in no shape for ...that." I give Ariadne a sideways glance, wondering if Riley told her.

Riley, reading minds and anticipating shit like always, "Ariadne isn't fully briefed on the SCIC. But is she aware that Marley Watkins is Trace's counselor, and that she extends informal...sessions... to you and Adam sometimes."

I nod. That's Riley's way of letting me know Ariadne isn't on the my most personal secret, but I can't help but chuckle at the thought of a "session" with Marley.

Yeah, we had a session all right.

When I was fifteen.

A life-changing-virginity-losing-baby-making session.

My chuckle turns into a groan.  I am such a fucking after-school special.

"Alright. Band house, but first I'm stopping by my mama's."

Riley's sucks in his breath in mock fear. "It's been bloody marvelous knowing you, mate."

"You're just full of the jokes tonight. That's usually my job," I remind him.

"Yeah, you're not that funny on dope," he retorts acerbically.

"Fuck you," I sigh.

Suddenly I hear Row's husky voice calling for him to come look at the proofs from the shoot.

"Get in the queue, mate" he says flippantly as he smiles and nods at her. To me he says, "Good luck with your mum."

He's gone. I smirk triumphantly at Ariadne—like a child that just undercut mommy by getting permission from daddy.

She rolls her eyes at me and takes back her Ipad.

"You have a lot of tedious business to catch up on," she murmurs. "Lots of endorsements, some charity commitments you blew off that need to be made right, a few personal emails that were routed to your business account. I'll refresh them to the top of your inbox."

Notifications start flooding my new phone. Within a couple of minutes, I see the business proposal from Daemon.

Shit. He really did follow through.

I'm not about looking at his bullshit right now, but I pretend I'm perusing my email as I text Malik:

Who's working Buckhead tonight?

Malik replies:

Bodes. Dawg. Figured you were rottin' in a rice paddy.

Me:

Naw. I don't die easy.

Mal:

Yeah, I saw that about you.

The trapstar you want is Preston.

Whiteboy in a grey Nissan Leaf.

I laugh outloud.

As much as I hate to admit it, somebody in Sixmob is thinkin'. Ain't no beat cop in North Atlanta gonna profile a white boy named Preston in a Nissan Leaf. And if he did get made, he could probably just get lost in traffic. All the hipsters in North Atlanta drive those electric vehicles.

I snap a pic of my fat new cash roll and text Mal an address down the street from my mama's to forward to Preston. The Benji's appropriately express my urgency because a text from an unknown number arrives saying he will be there in ten.

Perfect.

When the driver pulls on my mama's street, I direct him to the wrong house.

"Don't pull up in the drive. Park behind that Leaf," I tell him.

Ariadne's gaze snaps to mine, then she looks suspiciously out the window. "No," she says automatically. "No way."

Damn, I can't get nothing by this one.

"Just to get through the night," I mutter as I hop from the car. "Be right back."

I ignore her protest as she climbs out after me.

What I do next, is a big risk.

Normally, only a man with a death wish surprises a drug dealer by jumping in his car. But I figure with a kid named Preston in an EV, I'll be alright.

He nearly jumps out of his pasty skin as I slam into the passenger seat, dump some cash in his lap, and calmly say, "Be cool man. I ain't jackin you up. I just a need a ride."

His eyes go round. "Holy shit. I know you! Fuck. I know you!" He grins and beats on the steering wheel. Then he spreads his hands toward me. "Hate to be that guy, but dude, I gotta get a selfie with you.."

Fuck.

A fanboy.

Now, don't get me wrong. I fuckin' love the fanboys. Really, we all do.

I don't mean it like that.

What I mean is...we appreciate the dudes that appreciate our music. That's not to say that our fangirls aren't music lovers, musicians, and hardcore rockers, too.

It's just that most of our male fans are way cool. Musical purists.

Well, there are quite a few fanboys that are hot for the Lawson sibs, but typically, they still got that way by listening to the music first.

Normally, I'll shoot the shit and snaps with a fanboy for a good minute.

But I can't be taking no selfie with Preston and have him posting to his Insta when I'm supposed to be chillin' in Thailand, right now.

I'll figure something else out for him. As soon as we get out of here.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll do the Soundcrush experience later. Right now this is more of a gang thang," I point at his own tat, clearly visible on his neck. I pull my shirt up, showing him my own Sixmob tat that is worked into my tribal tats. Most people have never seen it.It gets digitally altered in every official photo.

I keep it to remember my fuck-ups, in the hopes that one day I'm gonna quit fucking up.

"Fuck,I thought them OG's at the trap were just fucking with me, telling me you used to be a Sixer back in the day. You know, messing with me cause I like rock music."

His voice changes, more gangster. " I mean...shit...I'm down with that Atlanta scene, too...but..." he fanboys again, "I really fucking love you guys. Your beat is so fucking dope. Holy shit, I can't believe you're in my whip, man!" He tags me on the chest hard, then he looks anxious. "Shit. Sorry. You probably don't like people touching you, do you?"

"It's cool, Dawg," I laugh and I shake my head. I can't believe it. Preston is an actual Sixer. I figured he was just a runner.

Damn, Daemon did change in prison. He's more entrepreneurial. He's seeing growth opportunities, breaking down barriers, and managing the changing culture.

By ruining one poor white boy at a time.

"Man, you gotta help a brother. I gotta lose my handler." I jerk a thumb at Ariadne, who is striding toward Preston's side of the car.

She bangs on the window. Polite Preston moves to press the button to roll it down.

I grab his arm. "Da fuck is wrong with you? I just told you, we gotta dip out on this chic! Don't look her in the eyes! Don't listen to her voice," I yell at him. "I don't know what kind of hot Greek mess she is, but don't take chances!"

"Whaaaaat?" he practically squeals. I throw the car in drive and yell, "Go, motherfucker, go!"

He peals out.

I raise up through the open sunroof and grin at the thwarted beauty clenching her fists in the street.

"Peace out, Ariadne!" I yell into the wind. I blow her a two fingered kiss.

"I'm going to find you, you know!" she yells as Preston's silent little electric vehicle races past my mama's house.

She ain't gonna have to track me down and capture me. I'll come home with my tail between my legs soon enough.  I'm not tryna cut out on detox. I just want to meet my son and maybe take a couple of days to figure some stuff out with Marley before I feel like death for a week.

Preston is changing his music app to play our second album. "Naw," I say grabbing his phone and advancing the songs. "Skip to track six. That's a good getaway song."

"Where we goin'?" he grins, boosting the bass.

Damn, Adam's grungy lick sounds dope in this whip.

"Where you think, Dawg? Take me to the hood. I gotta lay low and think for a minute. We might need to run by the trap first, though...I just got off an international flight so I'm busted, if you know what I mean."

Especially since I left my precious bag of dope behind with Ariadne just now.

"I got you, Dawg," he says and reaches under the seat, pulling out a storage container.

I rifle through it. These pills don't look right. My pills in LA come from high end sources and they are real prescriptions. All this shit does not look like what it's supposed to look like.

What the hell is Daemon even pushin'?

"This shit counterfeit?" I say.

"Naw, just...generics. They look different from the name brands..."

His voice is smooth now. He's been coached to say that shit.

Fuck. He's just a petty dealer. He don't ask no questions. He does what he's told.

"This is all you got?" I ask, lighting up a joint. "Cause I ain't about dyin' from some counterfeit pills that weren't dosed right. I'd honestly rather have the pure powder...then I know what I'm dealing with."

He gives me a long look. "Yeah, no market for that in these neighborhoods, but there's some at the stash house." Then he reaches over in the glove box and gives me a real prescription bottle. "Look, these are mine. Legit, just under my cousin's name. You can have those."

Ah. So Prez is pretty smart. He at least suspects the shit he's pushing is sketch, and he ain't tryna die, either.

I swallow a couple and put his pills back in the box. I lean back on the seat as I draw on the joint, waiting for the rush that doesn't come.

Ok, so Bodie is in serious trouble within the band and the label, and that's going to be a big problem for him going forward. Plus he's also got that little matter of Daemon's attempted shakedown that he's been ignoring. And now he's gonna have Riley, Marley and Ariadne nipping at this heels!

Do we love our beautiful, competent and fierce Ariadne or what? She's a scary woman, but Bodie is thinkin' like Varrick now, so he was able to outmaneuver Riley and his new sidekick, haha!

Now, onto Bodie and Darius...coming soon!