37. Zak
Zak had given years of thought to what she would do if she ever saw her father again. She wanted to scream every resentful word she’d collected for him since he left. She wanted to walk away from him like he’d walked away from her.
Now that he was in front of her, all she could do was stare, unblinking, into his green eyes. Mirrors of her own. And the longer she stared, she noticed she wasn’t angry.
Anger wasn’t enough to encapsulate the devastation he’d caused. Her life, and every horrible thing that had happened in it, was a byproduct of the catalyst that was Scott Lee, but he had always been an outside force. An existence she was aware of, but never attached to.
Scott Lee stood before her like an apparition. He looked weathered, but not like a victim of karma. He looked like a man who had experienced and soaked the joy out of every second of life. A man who had earned every wrinkle and scar. He looked healthy. He looked well. Anyone would after escaping Jaclyn, provided they weren’t sixteen without a penny to their name.
“You.” She meant to finish that with something. You bastard. You asshole. You… are here? Why? But none of the words came out.
Chase’s hand went from her back to her waist. The only thing holding her steady in the storm.
“Starstruck? If your fame ever matches your arrogance, you can sit in that chair.” Sergio pointed to the padded office loungers in front of his desk like they were thrones for royalty. In this world, Scott Lee was royalty. “Then we’ll talk, little girl.”
He kept speaking after that, but Zak heard none of it. She blacked out.
One second, she was standing there. Rigid. The next, she was holding her throbbing fist and Sergio was holding his nose and screaming at her while Chase pulled her in one direction and Scott pulled Sergio in the other.
She’d gotten into a few physical altercations with people before. Dumped drinks down their shirts, shoved them away from her, and stomped on some toes, but she’d never punched anyone full force. It wasn’t anything like she expected. It hurt, and she suspected that most of the damage to Sergio’s face had been dealt by her rings and not her fist.
“Zak…” Scott said. She could barely hear his voice over the sound of Sergio shouting for security and threatening to have her thrown off the show.
She shook her head. “Don’t fucking talk to me.”
Two security guards arrived to escort her and Chase out of the building. Not that they needed to, because she wanted to be anywhere else but there.
During Amped’s massive live shows, earpieces did hardly anything to dampen the noise of the amplifiers and the crowd. Whenever Zak got backstage and pulled hers off, a muffled ringing flooded her peripheral hearing for the next hour or so.
That same ringing filled her ears as they walked back.
Chase said something about the fresh air helping her cool off, and to some extent he was right. Walking gave her a chance to focus on left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, crosswalk, stop, instead of the wild ride she’d been on over the past twenty-four hours.
“That was a disaster,” she said eventually.
“Really? I thought it went well.”
She caught Chase trying not to smile out of the corner of her eye. “I punched him. I punched our EP in the face.”
“And it was an impressive swing, at that.”
“It sucked.” She looked down at her knuckles, bright pink and on the fast track to bruising. “And I probably just got us disqualified.”
“Maybe you did,” he conceded calmly. “Or maybe not. That was in line with your TV persona.”
“I can’t believe I did that.”
“He deserved it.”
“He called me a little girl.”
With little feelings, sweetheart.
“Well, he found out you don’t hit like one.”
Zak blanked out again for a moment. The streetlights turned off as the darkness faded.
“Why did he show up? Why now?”
Chase stopped and wrapped her in a hug, not missing a beat when she wasn’t thinking about Sergio anymore.
Nothing could make her problems vanish, but his arms felt like strength around her. His hands, stroking her hair, were tranquilizing. His body, pressed against hers, was something more than sex. It was comfort.
He held her in his arms as the sun rose over the city. It was the first time she had ever gotten knocked down and believed things would get better when she stood back up.
“That was a terrible idea, and I wish you would have run it by me first because I’m starting to feel like the only voice of reason around here,” Edge said to Zak as they stood outside the studio primed for their two p.m. private meeting with Sergio. “But whatever happens in there, we have your back.”
Though the other finalist bands had been hard at work on their setlists, Saint of Spades had been keeping a low profile ever since Zak showed up to breakfast, unable to wrap her hand around a fork, and filled them in on how she lost her cool.
“In spirit, yes. But I’m not fighting anyone,” Alex said. “I’m five-ten, one-sixty. Sergio could snap me in half.”
“Five-nine, one-forty ain’t any better. I say we let Zak handle it on her own again. She did a bang-up job last time.” Dallas tucked his hands into his pockets.
“You’re five-seven,” Edge pointed out.
“And a half.”
“Half a brain cell, maybe.” Alex ran his eyes over the distance separating them like a measuring tape.
“Quality over quantity,” Dallas tossed back.
“Is that what you tell the ladies, too?” Alex asked.
“Alright, funny guy. I know I said some awful shit last night that I don’t remember, and I’m sorry. Is that what you needed to hear? ‘Cause it’s starting to feel like you’re gonna whip out the fists on me like Rocky over there.” He jutted a thumb to Zak.
That was one nickname she could live without, but the back and forth between him and Alex was nice to see. It gave her hope that even if her blunder lost them this opportunity, it at least gave them something to bond over again. Not redemption, but a common enemy. “I think my boxing days are over.”
“See, that’s exactly what Rocky said,” Dallas argued. “But they still made four more movies, so we all know where this goes.”
“Go for the throat or the stomach next time,” Chase suggested. “Less bony than the face.”
She glanced down at her swollen knuckles, which he’d bandaged for her earlier. “And here I thought your previous job experience wouldn’t translate.”
The pain was all worth it, though, when she walked into the room to find that Sergio’s nose looked worse than her hand. He remained seated at the head of the ovular board table as they filled the chairs on either side.
Scott sat at the other end, sipping a bourbon on the rocks. Zak couldn’t tell if he was there just to torment her, or because he wanted to enjoy the show. Hell, she still didn’t know why he was here in New York instead of at the ranch he owned in rural Tennessee, which she had heard him rave about during the post-retirement interviews he occasionally humored.
As nice as it would be to put the past and her absentee father out of mind, there was no putting him out of sight when his voice was part of every rock, classics, and alternative radio station rotation. She couldn’t even stop by the music store for picks or strings without coming face to face with one of the signature guitars from Scott Lee’s many brand deals, with the name of one of his songs spelled out on the fretboard or some airbrushed cover art on the body.
“Where’s the hospitality?” Dallas asked, gesturing to his own absence of a cocktail glass.
Sergio’s hardened expression did not crack. “This won’t take long.”
“You didn’t need to call a meeting to fire us from the show, Serg,” Zak said. The nickname she tossed out—like one of his friends on a golf course, or wherever else rich people hung out—made him bite down on the inside of his cheek. “You could have just called my hotel room.”
“You’re staying on the show.”
Now that it sounded like a command, she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay after all. But she wanted even less to be sued by a behemoth entertainment corporation, so she kept her mouth shut.
Alex did no such thing. “How generous of you.”
Sergio, glossing over the sarcasm, said, “Don’t thank me. Thank our guest judge, here. I was ready to send you packing and press charges before he reminded me of our obligation to the audience.”
AKA, your obligation to my bottom line.
Zak felt her father’s eyes on the side of her face like a burn, but didn’t want to acknowledge his presence in the room without knowing if she would be able to keep her emotions in check. It only made sense for a musician of his caliber to serve as the final guest judge on Amped, but she wondered whether that decision had been made before or after he realized his child was competing in it. If he was here to toss her a handout, she wasn’t interested.
“So, you’re still pressing charges then?” she asked.
“No.” Sergio, in his apparent effort to stay civil, had been straining his neck to the side. When he straightened, she realized his glasses were deformed at the bridge of his nose. Right where she had hit him. “But if you try anything like that again, I’ll destroy you. Without the help of a lawyer. Do I make myself clear?”
Translation: he was embarrassed to have been hit by a “little girl.”
Zak smirked. “Crystal.”
“Now get out of here.”
Scott held up his glass and swirled it around. “Actually—”
The sound of his voice was haunting, not only because it was low and gruff from decades of smoking, but because it was the voice that used to shout, “Jaclyn, you’ve lost your goddamn mind, woman,” behind closed doors and dedicated Creedence Clearwater Revival covers to her at all the venues no kid should have been allowed to set foot in.
“—mind giving us a moment, buddy?”
Scott Lee said the word “buddy” like most people said the word “jackass.”
“Not at all.” Sergio got up and started dialing on his mobile before the door could shut behind him.
Zak assumed Sergio hadn’t pieced together their relation, or else he would have had something to say about it.
Scott looked exactly how she remembered him, which was nothing like her. A Southern transplant who could trick anyone into thinking he was a native with his full beard, plaid button-down, and lived-in jeans. His ash-brown hair, frizzy like hers, peeked out from beneath a Stetson hat, and his complexion was tan in an unnatural sort of way. Stained reddish brown by cloudless days in the sun.
Before Scott was ever a rocker, he had been a hobbyist surfer with an affinity for weed and women, or so her mother used to tell her. Most of what she knew of her father had been filtered through Jaclyn, which meant she probably knew very few truths.
If he was unsettled by the silence between them, he was doing a great job of hiding it. “Can we talk alone?”
“No. They stay.”
She took Chase’s hand in hers under the table.
It was a precaution for Scott’s sake as much as hers. She was doing her best not to rack up two assault charges before dinnertime, and not to break down into a teary-eyed pile of mush if he decided to confront her with an apology she wouldn’t accept. Those were the only two ways she could see this shaking out if left to her own devices, so someone sane needed to hold her accountable.
Dallas, upon confirmation that they would be here a while longer, made his way to the bar cart. He helped himself to the bourbon, and, to her surprise, handed her the glass he had poured instead of drinking it himself. She needed a stronger sedative than alcohol at this point, but she wasn’t about to turn down the offer.
“They know, then?” Scott ventured.
“That you donated some of my genetic material? Yes.” She lifted her glass for the barest taste. The amber liquor burned all the way down.
“That explains it.”
She wasn’t sure what he was referring to at first, but when she looked around the room at the four other sets of eyes glaring at her father, it was obvious. He must be used to a warmer reception than this. Something more along the lines of Sergio bending over backward to accommodate his wishes.
“Are you going to take me to court for telling them? Because I don’t remember signing the same agreement my mother did.”
“Nobody’s going to court.”
She didn’t respond.
“You play guitar now.”
The stilted way her father tried to strike up a conversation was her only indicator that he wasn’t as unbothered as he appeared. Too bad. This wasn’t a conversation to her. It was an attack.
“I’ve done a lot of things in the past sixteen years. You’re going to have to wait for someone to write a biography if you want a list.”
That number, sixteen, had him reaching for the glass again. She wanted to knock it out of his hand. This was all his fault. Why should he get to numb himself to face the consequences of his decisions?
“You’re good. Real good.”
“I’m better than good,” she said. “I’m better than you.”
Scott’s eyes lit up. The insult lost, all he heard was, “You’ve listened to my albums?”
Yes. On repeat, sometimes until she made herself sick wondering if any of his songs were about guilt, regret, or missing her. But those were her moments alone in her car, digging out his tapes from the back of her glovebox and crying the words between her fists on the steering wheel. He didn’t deserve to be a part of it. He didn’t deserve to be in any part of her life—then or now.
“If you’re expecting a thank you from me, you’re going to be disappointed,” she said.
“I don’t.” His jaw clenched. “I’m not here to help you win the show. I’m here to make sure you don’t.”
That got everyone’s attention. Edge and Chase struck up a hushed conversation on the side. Dallas cursed. Alex, who should be much more worried about what Scott could do to him if he thought that Sergio was capable of snapping him in half, looked ready to start a fight of his own.
Zak frowned. “Why? Screwing me over once wasn’t good enough for you?”
“Did you even read the contract you signed?”
“Why do you people keep asking me that? I’m not fucking illiterate. Teaching me how to read was one of the only things you ever did for me, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You remember.”
Those were some of her clearest memories of him. She had fought her parents on going to bed every night, and the only thing that could get her under the covers was her dad bribing her with a story. He used to make up different voices, accents, and personalities for every character and ad-lib new sentences and storylines along the way.
Toward the end, he taught her to read music, too, with little doodles and figures. She still associated the treble clef with a rattlesnake, curling around the lines, and a bass clef with a hermit crab, peeking out of its shell.
“Unfortunately.” The syllables came out in a stutter. “So yeah, I read the contract.”
“Then you’re aware of how predatory the terms are for the winners. Three albums and three tours in five years. You would be signing away master ownership, all your publishing control, and exclusive rights to your names, likenesses, and work. They want marketable faces, not real musicians.”
“That’s what every label wants,” Edge chimed in. “But not all of them are the size of Tribute Records.”
“I don’t like the copyright conditions either, but there are some benefits to the longevity,” Chase added. “People in entertainment get dumped after their one-year contracts all the time. This way, Saint of Spades would get a guaranteed three albums, and a near-guarantee that Tribute will have to pull their weight for a successful five-year run.”
Alex traced the wood grain on the tabletop with his finger. “And the advance is extremely generous, which you would know, being in the industry. It would have been stupid not to take the deal.”
“No, it’s stupid to strike a deal you can’t negotiate.”
By agreeing to be on the show, they’d agreed to the outlined contract, which would go into effect upon the announcement of the winners. There was no negotiating.
“We didn’t have a choice,” she told him. “And just so you know, I learned how to do math, too. Owning royalties on something is better than owning one hundred percent of nothing.”
“You won’t have nothing at the end of this,” he stated.
A poisonous vine, planted in her chest, coiled around her heart. Her mind went straight to processing the insinuation that she would have him at the end of this, but that wasn’t what she wanted, and it wasn’t what he meant either, because he continued.
“You’ve built an audience out there, and they aren’t going anywhere. That’s what every label wants—more than good music, more than the image, more than anything. They want assurance that you’re going to make them money, and you have that now. Cut your losses and pool your stipends to buy time at a recording studio for a handful of songs. Send that demo along with a tape of the show and you’ll be in negotiations in no time. Where you can fight to retain your rights.” Scott leaned over the table. “I could help, you know. When I stopped touring, I went into scouting. Then management. I could teach you the ins and outs.”
How could he be so casual about this? Popping into her life after nearly two decades to sabotage her career wasn’t something he should be able to admit so callously. How dare he tell her she was doing the wrong thing, and in the same breath say that he could show her the way.
“What a joke.” She laughed, at first uncomfortably, but then hysterically. Enclosed in Chase’s hand still, her own began to tremble. “You know, I never used you to get into the industry. Never told the whole world that the famous Scott Lee had a daughter and that he was paying off his ex-wife to keep the whole thing under wraps.”
“That money wasn’t a payoff, it was for you,” he said. “Your mother and I never agreed on anything, except for wanting you to stay as far away from this life as possible.”
“Well congrats on finding a way to soothe your guilty conscience, but I never saw a penny of it. It’s currently recirculating from the liquor store off Jaciento Parkway.”
“Zak, I didn’t—”
“No. I’m done with you. I’ve never asked you for anything. I’ve stayed out of your way, and you don’t even have the decency to stay out of mine.” She vaulted out of her chair and went straight for the exit. “It’s funny that you care about saving me now when you never cared about putting me through hell in the first place.”
Scott was still trying to say something as she walked out on him, but she wasn’t listening.
Ever since she started this band, she had been determined to pave her own path. No attachment to the superstar who had no attachment to his own child.
With minimal effort, zero talent, and a copy of her birth certificate, Zak could’ve extorted her way to stardom, but Saint of Spades was hers. It was theirs, and she needed to know their music would thrive because people wanted to listen to it. Not because a team of ghostwriters had come up with a marketable song formula for them to regurgitate onto an album and lip-sync on stage.
All this time she had worried about her father clearing the way for her, and now he was here. Installing another barricade.