Chapter 57: Drummer Boys Negotiate

Bodie

The third through fifth floors of the Colossal building are leased to industry peripherals—including press and talent agents. I push through the frosted glass door lettered with Emsworth Agency and come face to face with my nemesis.

In a pencil skirt and four inch heels.

"Ariadne!" I grin, holding my arms out wide. "What? No hug?"

She stares at my dreadless head then looks me up and down. Her lips part. She barely stops herself from biting them. "Wow. What happened to you?"

Ah. I guess I've finally faded my junkie physique and crossed the line back into the stud range, if I've even got Ariadne's lips lickin'. I toss an arm around her.

"Love has made me a new man, baby. Now, don't get jealous. You had your shot. But instead of being sweet to me, all you wanted to do was boss me around. So I had to go the other way—and find sweet comfort with your coworker."

"God help Dr. Watkins," Ariadne intones dryly, but she does pat me on the back. "You look good. I'm glad to see you doing so well. But tell me, do you guys schedule your spirals?"

As if on cue, I hear a crash behind the reception wall facade and a familiar, slurry, "Shit! Sorry! Y'all really need a sturdier bar cart! Don't worry—I saved the tequila."

As the glug into glass starts, Ariadne shoots around the mustard wall and I follow.

Leed is still wearing his club clothes from last night—ripped up jeans, a pink corduroy jacket that looks like it came from the thrift shop but probably costs three large—Tom Ford, I would bet—and a vintage pastel Phish T shirt. Only a redhead sex god looks that pretty in crumpled pink.

"It's 10am, you maniac." Ariadne tries to swoop the tequila from him, but Leed laughs and holds the bottle over his head—and well out of her reach, even in those Jimmy Choo's.

"Bodes! Brother!" He grins at me and points at her. "I like this one. You like this one?"

"Yep. Careful though. She might knee you in the balls to relieve you of your liquor."

His knee automatically comes up and then he swivels, sidestepping her, taking a two-shot swig and putting the bottle firmly on the low table in the midst of the green couches, giving her the warning finger. "Don't touch that, Addy-rod-nay."

I can't help laughing at my drunk bastard of a best friend as we clap it out.

"That bad, man?"

"That fucking bad, Bodes."

"You'll get her back."

"Working on it."

"All you're working on is a liver transplant," Ariadne snaps, picking up the fallen lowballs, swiping the tequila and removing the entire bar cart.

"Naw. I gotta plan," he tells her. He looks at me. "Shit. I wasn't gonna tell you that. The plan I got involves illegal activity."

I nod. "You gonna kill Varrick Von?"

Leed's eye go wide. "How the fuck did you know that?"

"Hmmmm. Word travels. But I'm not he's what you think he is."

"He's a fucking psychopath. He hurt Ashlynn. Bad."

"He is messed up, maybe. That's why you need to be careful, Leed. Don't fuck with him."

"He's what standing in my way of being with Ashlynn. I'm not gonna fuck with him. I'm going to obliterate him."

I rub my head. The man that hurt Ashlynn is sitting sixteen floors above us and he's Varrick Von's brother. But I can't tell Leed that. This building we are standing in? It's like a house of cards and this recklessness could bring it all down on us. Maybe it's better he fucks with Varrick. At least it will keep him occupied and I can keep Varrick warned.

"Okay, Leed. You're my boy. I gotchyou. Tell me the plan."

He shakes his head. "Naw. You can't be involved. It's...illegal and you gotta a record already. I ain't putting you at risk like that."

It takes everything in me not to laugh in Leed's face.

I'm the fucking Soundcrush Thug King. Whatever Leed is planning is probably child's play to the felonies I'm frontin'.

"Besides, I got Dev on it."

Awww, fuck me. I take all that back. If that British bandit is running the shitshow, ain't no telling what dereliction might go down. Dev might seem civilized—his slightly exotic looks help in that handsome prince department—but he has the soul of a Viking Berserker.

If it weren't for the need to be a stand-up dude just like his dear old dad—that he claims he hates so much—Dev could easily be a Big Mike. Or a Varrick Von.

A killer in the name of his own version justice.

Still, Dev ain't got the look of a guy whose hands have killed. Yet. But...put the right wronged girl in front of him? Yeah, he would kill for her honor. Easy.

I grab Leed by his pink lapels.

"Listen to me you, drunk bastard. You don't want to kill anybody. You're too good for that. Even if Dev pulls the trigger...it would be on you. Varrick Von would fucking haunt you for the rest of your life."

Leed's murky eyes widen, going green as they bore into my soul. I can almost see that third one, up there on his forehead.

It's funny how he named me Bodie, but I ain't the saint. He is. The enlightened one—the bodhisattva that resides in him—arises from the lake of alcohol that soaks his soul.

He puts a calm hand on the back of my head, and another on my heart.

"Sometimes people do what they have to do, Bodie. They don't have a choice. The choice comes later. They decide to live in torment or they make peace with their sins. There's no shame in givin' up the ghosts and choosing a path of light."

The way he looks at me? So intensely sure of what he says? It gives me a moment of peace.

He dips his head, and just like that his lucid moment is gone.

He laughs and pulls a flask from his jacket pocket. "Shhhh. Don't tell Addy-rod-nay." He takes a swig, offers it to me, remembers, screws it shut quickly, and tucks it back in his jacket. "Shit. Sorry. You don't want that. You want that good life. That family life..."

"Leed—"

He slaps sloppily at my chest. "Relax, man. I ain't killin' nobody. I mean, not unless I absolutely have to."

The atmosphere changes as the front door opens and the sounds of conflict follow.

Adam's voice carries. "Don't act like a little bitch. I barely touched you. You're alright, but you ain't gonna be if you ever lay hands on my wife again, you douchebag."

A voice I can't quite place yells, "That's assault. I'm calling the fucking cops, Heartley!"

"You assaulted my wife by touching her without her consent. So call the cops, Puckett. Your ass will be in the squad car with me. Anyway, we both know you would much rather call your lawyer and sue me. Punching you? Worth it. How much is gonna cost me? Wanna fucking double it, cause I don't feel done. My fist wants more of your face."

The sounds of dudes thumping against a wall and Mac yelling, "Adam! He's not worth it!" have Leed and I around the floating wall in a second, in case our boy needs back up.

He doesn't. He's got a forearm pressed against Grayson Pucket's tattooed throat.

"Apologize to MacKenna," Adam growls, gesturing at Mac.

One look at Mac and it's easy to see what happened here.

Mac is killin' it today, in a pair of skin tight leather paints and heels, a white bikini top with a tie that criss crosses down her abs, and a child-sized black satin jacket that covers virtually none of her hard-reclaimed post baby assets.

Mac is putting on a performance in case she runs into any label execs wondering about her post baby image,and that fucking pig Puckett couldn't keep his hands to himself.

"Sorry, Sweetheart. Sorry you are selling and I have the balls and the bank to buy," Pucket says to her with a grin.

She laughs, but the rest of us groan. Adam lets Puckett go—only so that he can step back and get a good swing. The crack of Adam's fist on Puckett's jaw is enough to make me worry about Adam's playing ability. Puckett staggers—right into Trace, who is exiting the elevator, like Mac, dressed to Colossal-exec-impress in a mix of tight-fitting rock star finery.

There's leather and studs and lots of hair gel strutting out of that elevator.

They are making me feel absolutely tame in my standard LA business--jeans, v neck sweater shirt and slim cut gray blazer. At least I can always count on Adam to underdress me. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and a denim overshirt. Still, the way he fills it out—and with bracelets and white Vans—he manages an understated cool.

Always a quick study when it comes to band dynamics, Trace keeps his hold on Pucket, takes one sharp look around, winks at Mac, rolls his eyes at Adam, and tosses the douchebag into the elevator.

"See ya when at the Grammy's, motherfucker. PS—you're gonna lose to Dev and Mac for Best Music Video," he says coolly as the doors close before Puckett can recover himself.

He hooks an arm around Mac and kisses her temple. "Looking gorgeous and causing a ruckus like usual, Priestess." He releases her and draws Adam in, hanging on him while he slaps him once on the chest.

"Feel sexy, Brah?"

"Nothing like a fist fight to get your rock star on," Adam grins, turning up his collar and working his hand.

The elevator opens again with Riley aboard. He's pulling off his leather satchel while he talks into his airpods. "Absolutely. I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think she had the chops. She's whip-smart, tough as nails, and frankly, she's chosen the wrong career, she just doesn't know it. She was born to run rock stars."

He listens. It sounds like someone is protesting. "Look. Just meet her. You'll see. She's a Marianne del Marco, and if you don't think Marianne could do your job, oversee her philanthropy and still bring the sexy to blow Matt in the green room..." Laughter comes through loud and clear, then a tone of capitulation.

Riley smirks. "Excellent. Just wanted your greenlight first, Boss. If all parties agree, she'll be at rehearsals next week at the latest."

He pulls out his airpods, never stopping as he breezes in the door as says, "Ari, please get some ice for Adam's hand. And warn legal Puckett might make a ruckus. He gave me an earful in the elevator."

We all follow him in. Our individual coffee orders and bagels have replaced the liquor. I have no idea how that happened, because Ari was in the hall during Adam's altercation. There must be an intern here...

Trace grabs a coffee and throws himself down beside Leed, bumping Leed's leg. "You alright?"

Leed's head is thrown back and his gazing at the ceiling. "I will be when the room stops spinning."

Trace hands him the coffee. Leed tears off the top and pours a dollap from the flask into the cup.

"Jesus, Leed!" Mac snaps. "You have to stop drinking for the room to stop spinning!"

"Who told you that, Baby Sister? I think if I keep drinking, I'll start spinnin, too. Then it will seem like it's stopped."

"Jesus," Trace mutters but he turns his attention to Riley. "Riley, first of all...please tell me you weren't actually talking to THE Boss about my bonus mom giving my biodad blow jobs. I've never heard Moran joke about shit like that. Second of all...never say that shit again. I get enough horrific visuals of their sex life from Matt's constant jokes."

Riley grins. "Noted. And no, not Moran. That was Boss Hawkins."

"Oh that makes sense," Adam says. "Speak to your audience..."

"Right." Riley says. "More on that conversation later. So let's get down to business, shall we." He takes out a stack of files and lines them carefully in front of him on the coffee table. Then he looks at me. "First order. What.The.Fuck.Bodie?"

All eyes turn to me, and that's when I realize...it's the first time any of them but Leed have actually acknowledged me. Since the entire band assembled...I've been nothing more than...a bystander.

But now, they are ready to hear from me. When they expect me to defend myself and my recent actions.

I take a seat on the chair at the opposite end of the table from Riley and I reach for my coffee, taking a long swallow. It pisses him off that I make him wait.

Yeah, well, he pisses me off, too. They all do.

Finally, I sit my coffee down.

"Let's be honest. Drumming in a band is not an intellectually challenging pursuit. I love you guys, I love the music, I love the beat, but you," I point at Riley, "and you" I point at Trace "aren't the only brains in the band. There doesn't seem to be room or need for any more chiefs running this show. So I'm diversifying. B-Side is business, that's all. An opportunity to put some of my money to work and start my own vanity label. In my view, it's a completely separate endeavor from this. I'm still all in with Soundcrush and our contract here at Colossal. I just want a...separate something to flex on."

Trace visibly relaxes, but Riley does not. "So you went into business with the man I hate most in the world."

"Riley, I swear to you, I didn't know that..."

"Then you're not half as smart as you think you are because you didn't do your due diligence," he snaps.

"I did, man. I knew Thompson was a musician with a promising band called Pub Panic that broke up. I knew it broke up over a tragedy. I asked him about it. He talked about the girl, her overdose. He said nothing about you. Riley, there is no performance footage or media shots out there of Pub Panic. Not even on the internet. And the guitarist listed—Rye Westrohm? How the fuck was I supposed to know that was you? You never talk about Pub Panic.You've sure as shit never said you used a stage name—an anagram of your last name."

"He did mention the band, Bodie. One time. Way back at the beginning. I knew his band called Pub Panic," Mac concedes.

"So did I," Trace says at once. "If you had just fucking clued us in to what you were thinking..."

"I didn't know the band name. I just heard about his girl recently, after all these years." Leed says at once.

"And Bodie's got a right to his own business," Adam says. "I don't discuss my farm business with you guys, or even the couple of country songs I've produced on hiatus. How Bodie invests his money is not subject to band approval."

"This is not about money," Trace says at once.

"Fuck that. It's about my money. I'm in six million with B-side, Trace."

Technically that's a lie. I'm in for three with B-side, but Thompson is as dirty as they come, so he helped me reverse-wash the other three that went to Connor Ryan by overinflating the worth of my shares of his business. He doesn't know or want to know what I did with the other three million and that worked for me. At the time. Now, with this Riley complication...maybe it doesn't work so well.

"Riley," I say to him. "This shit sucks. Do you think I like knowing that I went into business with a complete and utter asshole? Fuck no. But I'm in for a fifth of my net worth. I have play ball, or lose a fortune."

He puts a finger on the table and makes eye contact with every single one of us. "Frankly Bodie? I don't give a fuck about your fortune."

He opens a file, tossing it down on the table. There is a picture of a beautiful young girl—the girl he must have loved—singing into the microphone with a younger, punk version of Riley, singing into the mic with her.

"All I give a fuck about these days? Is her memory. I can't do it. I can't work with you if you work with Thompson. I won't just...forgive and forget. Priscilla deserves more than that."

Trace leans forward, rubbing his face. He cracks his neck.

"I get it man. I'm sorry for your loss, Riley. And I understand rage warring with love. I really fucking do. But Riley," he knocks on the table, "I thought you loved my sister. You can't hold onto grief over a ghost and move forward with her."

Riley's stare is colder than I have ever seen. "There is no moving forward with Row. She's made her choice. She's values Strut and fame, and my ability to get them there, more than she values my love."

"That's not true, Riley. She loves you, but she's young and she's trying to act like a grown up for the first time in her life. She's trying to be a professional. She's afraid to lead Strut away from the best manager they could have, in favor of her own selfish reasons. Just give it some time. There are more bands than not that mix business and personal lives," he nods at Madam. "Matt is just an over protective dad is all."

"No. I can't take Row's hot and cold anymore." Riley grunts. "Maybe your sister is just my Sophie." He looks at me. "Or my Arabella."

I shake my head at his bitterness, Leed groans at the mention of Sophie, and Trace loses all reason as Riley compares his sister to two women he despises.

In the service of his love for his sister, the leader of our band loses his shit.

He kicks all of Riley's files off the table. "Fuck you, Riley. Did you call us here to force an agenda? Is that what you want? Then let's do it. I built this band long before you came into the picture. You think you are irreplaceable? I think not. Let's call a fucking vote. All in favor to dissolve our management contract with Emsworth Agency?"

He looks around for a second to the vote. He doesn't get it.

"Trace, I'm all for management that works for us and not the other way around, but you're pissed right now. Let's table this vote for more discussion," Mac says mildly.

A round of aye's confirms Mac's suggestion. Trace doesn't like the lack of support. He goes from anger to fury.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Mac? You were the one that said you were with me." he stabs a finger at her.

"I am with you. But this is too far. Way the fuck too far. You and Riley both, you need to calm down, before things get said that we can't work around."

Trace rounds on Riley. "It hasn't been a fucking year since we gave you the shot at the big time, Riley. And you're fucking fantastic, I'll admit it, you're better at this business than I could ever hope to be, but if you don't have loyalty—" Trace shakes his head, his face an angry scowl. "You don't have shit to offer me."

"I have loyalty. I've been working my arse off for Soundcrush to make this tour with Skid Marcs happen, and I've been driving Strut's album across the finish line as well— despite my personal feelings. I was working for your interests right up until the moment we took this meeting. But what about your loyalty to me?" Riley retorts, his face a mask of stone—completely opposite from Trace's. "What about Avery Thompson?"

He looks at me. They all look at me.

Because my shit is tearing this band apart.

"Everybody take five," I say rising.

Trace shakes his head..."Naw, we're in this now—"

"Take fucking five!" I yell at him.

"Second," Leed says, sipping his spiked coffee.

"Aye," Adam says.

"Take a beat, TG," Mac nods at Trace.

Trace blows out of the office and punches a hole in corridor wall before he kicks down the stairs.

Riley looks to Ariadne. She consults her Ipad. "He's got a conference call with the tour promoters in ten that should not be moved. Then a meeting about Strut's IHeartRadio studio promotion. Reconvene after lunch?"

"That sounds great. Let's go get some tex-mex and some margaritas, Bodes," Leed says with his eyes closed.

"Goddammit Leed, will you sober the fuck up!" Mac screams at him, picking up the bagel tray and firing one after the other at him. He mumbles offended, "hey's" and "chill out's" and falls off the couch, spilling his coffee.

In the middle of the bagel bombing, Riley takes off his glasses, walks into his office, and closes the door.

"Mac...come on, let's go find Trace," Adam says, grabbing her last weapon and tearing a frustrated bite from it. "Actually, I could use a Bloody Mary, what about you?"

"No I do not want a Bloody fucking Mary!Sober my dumbass brother the fuck up, Butters!" she shouts at me and storms out. Adam grins at us, picking up coffee. "Don't worry, I'll have a word a prayer with those two hotheads. I'll lead them back to the table with more willing spirits. But Bodes, you gotta help me out man. You gotta come back to this table with something more for Riley than I'll lose a fortune. The girl he loved died."

I squeeze my head. "I know."

I do know. There is no way reason applies to this situation. Riley is not Daemon. I can't appeal to his stone cold business sense. Riley has a heart and it was damn near destroyed when his girl died. Now, it was just starting to beat again and Row del Marco is giving it a good shit-kicking that could finish the poor bastard off completely.

"Ok. Ok. I'm gonna make this right Adam. I swear."

"How?"

"I'll figure that out over Tex Mex and Margaritas," I mumble, giving Leed a hand-up. "We're gonna change your name from the Lion to the Lush, you know that?" I tell him, as I manhandle him toward the door.

Leed eats a shit ton of chips and salsa and thankfully he doesn't realize I told the bartender to make our margaritas with sparkling water instead of tequila. The sharp drink slinger added some bitters and you really can't tell the difference. I'll have to remember that trick for date night.

If I ever get another date night, that is. Marley is not exactly pleased with me. She slept in her old room after we got home from TJ's Saturday night, and she didn't fly to LA with me yesterday, because she told me she was more comfortable seeing her own doctor for an STI screening. She called her doctor's service and managed to get an appointment for today.

So yesterday when I got to LA, I called up Matt del Marco and begged him for the favor of an emergency house call with his boutique doctor to the stars. I figure if anybody would have sympathy for my situation, it would be an old school rockstar that used to travel with a tour bus of groupies.

He told me to come over to his place right away. I should have known from his urgency, that helping me out was vying with his strong desire to have a laugh at my expense.

His whole goddamn band was there, and they wouldn't shut up until I told them the whole story of what I think I have and how I think I got it. After a long and torturous reminiscence of all the "junk funk" Skid Marcs acquired in the last century apparently before they were aware condoms existed, the doc finally arrived. He was very efficient and now I'm waiting on my test results.

I did manage to extract promises from Skid Marcs not to mention this to SCIC. The last thing I want is for Marley to be mortified all over again, when she gets to LA.

And she is coming to LA. She promised me she'd catch a flight tomorrow morning. I canceled the appearance I was supposed to make with Bells tomorrow night. Bells wasn't even upset, which of course she shouldn't be, considering this is all her fucking fault anyway.

Not the STI, but the way she told Marley instead of letting me get ahead of it. But what's done is done. Hopefully, a clean bill of health for both of us and a little alone time in LA will be exactly what Marley and I need to get right.

Speaking of right, I check-in with Leed, who is eating a burrito, and he informs me that the room is only leanin' now, not spinning.

"These margaritas are not strong enough, man."

"Make his next one a double," I tell the bartender. He winks at me.

"I love you, Bodie," Leed says. "You are the only one that doesn't judge me. That understands...I can't fucking live without her. Not sober, anyway. If you lost Marley, you'd be right here with me."

"You are probably right about that, Leed. But let's think positive. The Sunshine will rise again for you. Eat some more chips while you wait," I say.

I'm hoping all the corn will absorb the alcohol. The new drinks arrive and after a sip, Leed shakes his head. "He forgot to make it a double." He pours the rest of his flask in the glass.

Jesus Christ. I have a new respect for Marley. Being a sober companion is a giant pain in the ass. I let him have about three sips, then I accidentally knock over his glass and call for the check.

On the way back to the Colossal building, Leed forgets himself and tells me all about his plan to hack into Varrick's home tech. He's hoping to find out the truth about Megan Davis and also eradicate any compromising videos he has of Ashlynn.

I decide that sounds like a pretty good fucking plan to me. I don't think Varrick killed his college girlfriend, but I wouldn't mind being assured of that. I'd also like to make sure he doesn't have the same kind of disturbing fetishes he accuses his brother of having.

I know. I promised Varrick to keep him up to date on Leed's plans to fuck with him, but once you start double-agent duty, it's pretty easy to flip back and forth.

Besides, I don't think Leed and Dev will really be able to create any problems that a dude like Varrick can't handle on his own. Thinking of him helps me to find the right perspective for the rest of this meeting with Riley. I remember how Varrick told me that objectives always change and how sometimes your plan takes turns you didn't see.

I realize now, meeting Avery Thompson was fate. He's not a tool to help me accomplish my ends. He's just a tool, and I am a Big Mike. A DevBlu. A Varrick Von.

A bringer of justice.

Leed and I are the last ones to arrive back at Riley's office. Mac is visibly relaxed. In fact she looks practically fuck drunk, and Adam looks smug as shit. I think Adam got the Bloody Mary and Mac probably got a quickie in the car.

Trace did not find as much relief. All that poor bastard probably got was a quick calm-down call.

I have to laugh, wondering if he made that call to my woman or his. I'll never know, because Marley still takes Trace's confidentiality extremely seriously. And she should, because he is a very serious and very private guy. He looks grim, but in control now.

Riley joins us, sitting carefully, with a rigid spine.

He sighs. "I want to apologize for my...aggression. Two very difficult personal circumstances—the memory of Priscilla and the...agony...of this situation with Row—have collided suddenly in my life. I'll admit, right now...I...I don't feel much like the Riley Emsworth you've come to rely upon. For that, I am sorry. But I am loyal."

Trace winces and reaches out, gripping his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm an asshole sometimes, Riley. I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

"Alright, no one is leaving this table until we figure this out," Adam says. "Bodie...start talking man. Tell us what you're thinking about this vanity label, and if there is any way we can make it work somewhere besides B-Side. Can we get into contract loopholes or something?"

"Well, to be honest, I do have one very viable solution but it's not the approach you are thinking."

Trace leans forward. "We are all ears, man."

I give Riley my only attention. "Thompson was your drummer. Your band's backbeat. The man that counted you in, the man that was supposed to take you all the way through."

"Yes."

"Riley, do you know what I hate worse than anything?"

Riley gives me a bleak smile."A drummer that drops the beat."

I smile at him, but my smile is not friendly. "That's right. I hate a drummer that drops the beat. A wolf in sheep's clothing. A brother you rely on that turns around and puts a gun in your fucking mouth and blows up your life. A bad guy that just keeps coming back. A motherfucker that won't die already."

Trace grunts in agreement.

I tap the table in front of Riley.

"Thompson stole your girl? He broke up your band? Then he stole her life? He took everything from you? And he courted my interest and won my investment in his company—knowing—goddamn knowing—how bad it would fuck you up?"

"Yes."

I nod. "Then let's fuck him up. Let me take everything from him. Let me steal his goddamn company right out from under him. And when I boot his ass out the door, I will tell him I did it all for you."

Riley is surprised by that. "You would do that? Risk your own reputation with a takeover?"

"Fuck yes, I would do that. For you. Your family," I shrug. I look around. "What the fuck do we have but family?"

Riley holds the smile that wants to come. "That won't be easy. Not with the minority share you bought and one artist on your sub-label."

"Then help me." I look around the table. "Every single one of you can help in some way. Mac, let go of the Bells hate and help Adam write some fucking pop hits for her. Adam, help me get Arabella's fucking album produced. Leed—give me Sawyer for Arabella's entourage, those two will make a fucking splash shinin' it up around town—it would be great exposure for them both. Trace, hook me up with some of the bands you are always scouting, saving in your back pocket for the someday label that I beat you to. Riley...be my strategic consultant and help me grow my label. We will grow like a weed and strangle B-side. Let's fucking destroy him."

Adam is nodding. "Let's put it to a vote."

"I don't get a vote and I don't need one," Riley says automatically, reaching across the table, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Bodie. I know...you're the bloke with the biggest bloody heart in this whole goddamn band."

"Second," Leed says.

The band votes unanimously to aid in the venture. That's when I realize that my vanity label actually needs a name.

"Leed—name my label for me right quick," I say.

"Oh that's easy. Call it Dharma. Dharma is the cosmic law and order of things. That's what you are trying to do with this label anyway—set shit right for Arabella and for Riley."

In that creepy way of things, Leed has no idea the shit I'm trying to set right, but he's hit the nail on the head anyway. "Cool. Dharma. I like that. You know, it also kind of reminds me of—"

"Darius," Mac says. "It's a like a companion name, for his. Which is completely fitting, because you're building this label for him, right? Trying it out on Bells, but your eye is on a bigger prize?"

I grin. I can't keep anything by these damn Lawson sibs. "Do me a favor? Don't tell Darius I'm building him a label. He needs to struggle like every musician. But yeah, if he gets knocked around too bad in this industry, I figure I should have a back up plan for him."

Trace sighs. "Definitely let him struggle. Nobody ever needs to feel like Street—like your daddy would build you a career with a finger snap. That's why he completely rejected music even though he loved it. That's why he's not that happy, even painting in Florence..."

"Dude, I think that's enough problem solving for today," Adam says. "If we have to make life right for Street del Marco, we'll be here all night. Let's party instead. Who's hosting?"

"My place," I offer and Leed chimes in. "Fuck yes." He picks up his phone. "Sawyer! Party at Bodie's tonight! Make it happen!" He pauses. "All your key codes still the same, Bodes?"

I nod.

"Budget?" Leed scowls into the phone. "You never ask me for a spending cap, asshole."

Adam says, "Make it twenty and we'll all throw in, yeah? Tell him we'll Venmo now..."

We all get busy with our phones but Riley clears his throat. "Before the debauchery ensues, and since I am apparently still in the business of managing you...there's one more item. I would like to add to staff with a permanent and full-time publicity and touring manager for Soundcrush. This allows me to focus on the strategics of your career not the logistics."

Trace leans back on the sofa, and considers. "Well, I'm not all that hot on a stranger in charge of our media days and gig nights—"

"Rye in charge of our days and our nights. Rye in charge of our wrongs and our rights...see...we want Rye in charge of SCIC..." Leed sing-songs and we all bust up laughing.

When it dies down, Riley wipes tears from behind his glasses. "Thanks for the ripped-off theme song, Lawson. Maybe I should see about acquiring the rights for advertising."

"Naw man. Madam will right you a way better jingle than that," Leed assures him.

After some discussion on the pro's and con's of adding to the management team, I sum up the discussion by saying. "Bottom line, Riley is burning the candle at both ends. It's not sustainable. If we want him at his best, he needs a team and we need to be open to change."

The vote is unanimous to add to staff. Ariadne tosses three files out on the table. "Riley has a candidate of his choice but he asked me to find the best available in the field as well."

"I assume your Riley's choice?" Trace smiles, reaching for the first file. A well-known efficient but ruthless asshole. A Dawes wanna-be. Trace holds his head shot up and we all laugh in derision. He chucks that file in the trash.

"No," she says. "I'm going with Strut on their summer publicity tour."

"Our loss," Mac sighs. She reaches for the next file. She raises an eyebrow. "Tucker Reynolds. I heard he made Velvet Dragons first tour the success it was."

"Yeah," Leed says. "I know him. He and Sawyer are friends. He's good at his job, but he's young, hungry and hard core single. First, second tours with VD went great, but they parted ways with him because he kept running things like a bachelor tour. Didn't really warm to mama-baby entourages those guys have now. If we go with Tuck you'd best leave Len and the nannies at home Macaroni..." Leed teases her.

"Next," Adam says, tossing his file.

I pick up the third file, confident—especially after hearing Riley's conversation with Boss Hawkins earlier, who it will be.

"How about we look a little closer to home?" I say, holding up Marley's photo.

"Huh." Trace says looking over her resume. "No question she's good at wrangling us, but she has no industry experience."

"Which is why this tour is the perfect opportunity to break her into our business," Riley says. He looks around at all of us. "Marley is an extremely smart woman. She's absorbed the bones of the business, working behind the scenes with us. Marcy said she needed virtually no media training when they sat down. She's even more pitch perfect than Ashlynn or Kat after all the LA polish they've acquired. Trace, you like loyal. You can't get more loyal than her."

"That's true. She's a real good girl."

"She's more than a real good girl," I correct. "She's a ride-or-die. She takes whatever life throws at her and deals."

Trace gives me the chin tip. "Yeah, I can see that." He looks at Riley. "An arena tour is no small gig, man. That's a fucking trial by fire."

"It would be if you were out there headlining, but despite the billing we all know who is in charge."

"Boss Hawkins," Trace sighs.

"Yep," I snort. "He's gonna run Skid Marcs and our show...hell he'd run the damn country if he could elected."

"That's why they call him the Boss," Adam laughs.

"Boss Hawkins is the best stage manager in the business. Between him and Andy, Marley could learn the technicals in this one short tour with you. There's no question in my mind that she can get up to speed on setting the show. And I'll come out for the first couple of weeks and guide her in the publicity end."

Leed is looking at me. "Has anybody talked to her? Would she want to switch careers like this?"

I nod slowly. "She's aware of the burdens of this life. She's already told me, living this life with me and trying to keep what stability we can for Darius doesn't sync with a patient load. She liked her old job, but to be honest...I think she likes counseling us more," I grin.

Adam nods. "We like her, but have you thought this through, Bodes? How's it gonna be for you, Marley literally running our show?"

I snort. "I figure it's a win-win. If she's side-stage at every show, she's center-stage in my hotel suite every night..."

Everyone, including Riley, laughs.

"I'm serious, man," Adam presses. "Y'all are new. So much to figure out. It's a lot of pressure, working together and living together and loving all at once," he smiles at Mac

She reaches for his hand. "God knows, we've put this band through hell figuring out how to make it work. It's not easy, Bodie..."

I think about Daemon and the drugs sting and B-side and Cain Priestly.

"I think Marley and I are pretty good at compartmentalizing. I think she needs real work. I think I want her with me, every day, and I'm willing to make a work relationship a part of that. She's my choice, in every way," I grin.

"Second," Leed says for the third time today.

"Marley for tour manager," Adam knocks on the table.

"I can not believe I'm saying this, but I vote yes. Yay Marley," she rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. Adam giggles her roughly and steals a kiss.

"Awww, you've come such a long way since you almost clawed her eyes on Labor Day," I grin at her.

We all look at Trace. Hiring decisions have to be unanimous, that' one of our rules. He bites his lip.

"I...I don't know..." he looks at me. "It's not that I don't think she's up to the job. It's just...I...kinda...fucking need her, man. As my counselor. I'm scared to mess that up, okay? What if she hates me after a week on tour? You know how I get..."

I grab Trace by the shoulder. "She's not going to hate you, Trace. She really likes you as a person. And look...if I'm okay with my woman bossing us around all day and night, I think you can wrap your brain around her having two roles in your life."

"Okay. Let's offer her a one year contract." Trace says.

"Let's do it for eighteen months. That should bring you through the fall's album and next year's tour." Riley says, making some notes on her file. He passes around the salary offer. I take a pass at looking, "I'm not going to negotiate her salary. That's her business," I say and everyone laughs.

Adam makes a note, probably something about benefits I would imagine, the file goes around again, and everyone agrees.

"Excellent. I'll make the offer," Riley stands. "By the way, why isn't she here?" He looks around indignantly. "She already bloody well works for me."

"She's taking a personal day," I say. "She'll be here tomorrow."

Leed snickers. "She had to go the who-ha doc. Arabella gave her the clap. By way of Bodie's dick, of course."

I growl, "Where the fuck did you hear that?" At the same time Mac yells, "Goddammit Leed! You can never keep a fucking secret!"

A scan of the room tells me that Trace is shocked, so Matt did not out me, but Adam is looking particularly guilty.

"Marley talked to you about it? Are you fucking kidding me?" I yell at him.

He puts up his hands and gives me a pained look. "No! No, no, no!" He hooks a thumb at his wife. "I heard it from her."

Mac pushes back her strawberry blonde lacquered locks. "Don't blame me for this. It's your own fault for fighting in front of your kid. Darius told Gwennie and Gwennie asked her mother what the clap was and Alex told me...and well...okay...I was wrong for telling Adam and Leed, but Bodes...it's just too funny!"

Suddenly I'm being tagged in the shoulder. "You gave Marley gonorrhea? What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Trace growls at me. Then he looks at Mac. "And you left me out of the gossip? What the fuck is up with that?"

Mac slings a hand between Trace and I. "I knew you would react just like you are reacting—heaping blame on Bodie. It's not his fault. It's Arabella's fault, she gave it to him..."

I stand up slapping Mac in the head with Marley's file. "First of all, it's no one's fault. Especially not Bell's...we were probably both infected at the same time...during a threesome in Thailand."

More laughter.

"Second of all get your fucking gossip straight—we do not have gonorrhea. It's...trich. More common. More treatable."

"He's right, I had that in college. If you're gonna get VD, trich's the way to go!" Leed says cheerfully. I slap him on the head with the file, too. Then I try to slap Mac again, but Adam fends off the attack and jerks the file from me, showing Marley's picture around the room. "I can't believe this classy woman puts up with you, Bodes."

"I can't believe I put up with any of you," Riley moans. "Ariadne, get Bodie a doctor's appointment—"

"Already taken care of, man. In fact, I got the results back at lunch—I'm clean except for trich, thank god—and my prescription has already been delivered to my house by courier."

"Good," Riley nods. "Then Ariadne, please call legal and tell them to flag any lawsuits against Bodie with claims of STI infection transmitted in Thailand for immediate settlement. With the inclusion of NDA's of course."

"I'm not gonna settle with some chic if she gave me an STI," I say indignantly.

"It's just like punching a pap, man. They lure you in, but you gotta pay for the pleasure of poppin' em," Leed laughs. They all laugh.

"Don't you fucking say a goddamn word about this to Marley. It will embarrass her. And don't give Bells shit either..."

"Our lips are sealed, man," Leed crosses his heart. On the wrong damn side of his chest.

"Two hundred bucks says Leed is the first one to say something to Marley," Mac says.

"I'll take that bet. I figure it will be Trace," Adam says. "He'll want to make sure she's okay...he can't resist a damsel in distress."

"Fuck you," Trace says. "Five hundred says Mac calls Bells out for giving Bodie the clap within five minutes of being in her face again..."

Adam give him the chin tip. "I'll take that bet, too." He tugs Mac's hair. "You can keep your mouth off Bells for five minutes, can't you Shortcake?"

"Hmmmm," Mac looks heavenward. "I'll pray for strength when I see her...but only God knows..."

"I hate you. I hate you all," I say, grabbing my phone and preparing to leave in a huff.

"See ya around eight?" Adam calls as I stalk away.

"Every one of you better bring me a six pack of something non-alcoholic and expensive as fuck to make up for your bullshit!" I yell as I hit the door.