Chapter 29
ASSHOLES AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE
AURORA
"With an average of forty thousand new tracks added to streaming services daily, it's becoming more and more difficult for new voices to be discovered," Professor Ryan lectures from the front of the auditorium, indicating a graph on the smart board.
Maisie clears her throat next to me. "But with the prevalence of social media avenues like TikTok, isn't it also true that musicians who otherwise wouldn't have been discovered at all have now been given the opportunity to increase their odds of success by using such platforms?"
Professor Ryan hates TikTok. His mouth twists at its mention.
"Perhaps, but some prefer to let their music do the talking. Not everyone enjoys flaunting themselves on camera for views."
I scoff. "Isn't that the point of stardom?"
A few murmurs rise from the rest of the class, and I think I've struck a nerve, but I wasn't only trying to support what Maisie said. She's right. Those who refuse to use platforms like the video streaming app are missing out on the potential for exposure they may not get elsewhere.
"I mean, of course it's about the music," I say, trying to backtrack. "But—"
"Moving on," the professor interrupts, and I see Maisie wince in my peripheral vision. "Who can tell me how the rise of streaming services has affected the habits of listeners?"
The rest of the class is basically the antithesis of my entire fucking essay, and I know right away that I'll be failing that assignment.
Not because it lacks merit. No. It has merit and facts, but because I presented them in a way that favors streaming services and social media platforms as a means of marketing, my prof is totally going to fail me.
Great.
At least my whole reason for being here is a sham.
It shouldn't matter to me what grade I get.
So then, why am I contemplating payback for Professor Ryan in the form of bodily harm? What is wrong with me?
"Oh my god, that was so brutal," Maisie says as soon as we're out of the room. "Maybe we went the wrong way with your subject."
I shake my head, going straight for the vending machine down the hall. Needing a treat to quell the murderous thoughts. Nothing a little chocolate can't fix.
Digging around in my bag, I search for my card or my phone, but grumble wordlessly when I can't seem to locate either of them.
The machine in front of me chirps, and I look up to see that Bailey has tapped his phone to the reader. "Snickers, right?" he asks.
He doesn't wait for me to answer before he pushes the button combination for my favorite chocolate bar. "I take it you lost my number?"
"No."
Not unless throwing it in the trash counts as 'losing' it.
"Ouch." He retrieves the bar from the vending machine. "What's got you all worked up?"
"Oh, it's our prof," Maisie fills in for me while Bailey—tall, blond, jocky, annoying Bailey—dangles the Snickers overhead. "She did her paper on streaming services. Specifically, how the music industry generated record revenue thanks to them."
Bailey makes a face like he's sorry for my loss, and I snatch the chocolate bar from him without saying thank you.
It still bugs me that he basically went door to door to find out where I lived to return a binder. And his vibe is all off. Something in the way he speaks or carries himself…
I just…don't like him. And I know there isn't one iota of empathy in him for my situation.
"At least there's still time to recover before the end of term," he quips, and I tear open the bar with my teeth and take a big bite as I continue toward the side exit.
"Awe, don't be so bitter. It's one essay."
Is he really following us?
"Tell you what, I know what would make you feel better. Alpha Sigma Phi is hosting its annual Monster Smash on Halloween. Say you'll come."
Fuck no.
"Oh!" Maisie claps her hands. "We're totally in."
I give her a sharp look, and she pouts.
"You promised me you would come to the next party with me," she reminds me, and I roll my eyes.
Taking another oversized bite of my chocolate bar, I speak around the mouthful to Bailey, not caring that my teeth are probably stained brown. "Fine. We'll go. Happy?"
He grins smugly.
"Elated," he says with a flicker of excitement passing over his face that I really don't like the look of. Then he indicates the last bite of my chocolate bar. "You're welcome, by the way."
"Thanks," I say with a deadpan stare, and he laughs it off as he walks away.
"I think he's into you," Maisie says in a high-pitched tone when he's out of earshot. "You should ask him out."
I almost choke on my chocolate. No fucking way. That guy has Jesse vibes. I shudder.
"I'd rather be shot."
Maisie laughs, swatting my arm. "You're so funny, Aurora."
She has no idea how serious I am.
The grade from my essay landed in my email inbox with an accompanying note from Professor Ryan right after Ellie's evening walk.
And just like I thought, he gave me an absolutely abysmal grade. The condescending note is the cherry on the pie.
For someone who portends a desire to work in this industry, you certainly seem to have little respect for its roots.
"Okay, you fucking dinosaur." I close the email before I write a reply that will absolutely get me kicked from the class, and feel only moderately better when I see that it's two minutes to seven o'clock. My second scheduled call of the day with the guys.
Still steaming with rage, I grab the burner phone and set up the silencing device in the bathroom like Atticus showed me, turning on the shower instead of the tap as the added precautionary measure because I do actually need a shower.
I strip off all my clothes in record time and prop my phone on the soap ledge, setting up the call before I get my hands too wet.
Atticus picks up on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Oh, it's you."
They left Sunday morning, and all three times I've called since, it's been Elijah or Seven who picked up.
"Sorry, the others are busy."
I bite the inside of my cheek, still not sure how I feel about him trying to give me the space I fucking asked for. "Tell me you guys are having a better day than I am."
"Everything is in place," Atticus says, his voice deep and gravelly. "We move in tonight, and once we have it, we'll head straight for the airstrip. The plan is to fly out by dawn and be back on American soil before lunchtime Wednesday."
I violently shake my shampoo bottle, squeezing out the last few drops onto my palm before chucking the bottle out of the shower. "How do you know Ambrose won't get to it first?"
"Are you in the shower?"
"Well, I have to turn the fucking thing on, so I might as well get some use out of it."
He clears his throat.
"Ambrose can't crack a safe like Sev can, he'll wait until it's being moved, which won't happen until tomorrow, at which point he'll be too late."
"So you've got it all figured out."
I use my nails to scrub my scalp and curse when a bit of shampoo gets into my eye.
"Aurora?"
"What?"
"Are you okay?"
I rinse my eyes under the stream of water and sigh. "It's this one professor. I think he has it out for me. He gave me a failing grade on a perfectly good essay and basically fucking attacked me for half of the day's lecture. Actually, I think you and he would get along."
"Real funny. Which prof?"
"Professor Ryan," I say, and realize I sound like a whining toddler. "But whatever. It's not like it matters."
"It doesn't," Atticus confirms, and for some reason, that pisses me off more.
"Do you need anything else?"
"Do you have anything to report?"
"Nope. Same shit. Two unmarked SUVs. One still trails me to campus, but they've stopped trailing me when I walk Ellie, so that's progress."
"Noted. Also, what were you doing at the laundromat last night?"
I'm glad he can't see my face as I give myself a few seconds to preen and feel immediately a little better at the reminder of my extracurricular activities last evening.
"Spilled coffee all over my bedding," I lie. "What, am I not allowed to use the laundromat when you guys aren't there?"
"No, it's just—never mind. I thought you might've needed something and wondered why you didn't ask."
"Don't worry, Atty, I didn't touch your things."
…not anything important, anyway.
He grunts. "Fine, then we'll hear from you again tomorrow by eight a.m. We should be in the air by then."
"Atticus," I blurt before he can hang up, "are Seven and Elijah close by?"
"No, they're getting some things ready."
"All right, well, tell them to be careful."
There's a pause on the other end, and I realize I've told him to tell them to be careful. I could correct my mistake. Tell him they should all be careful, but I can't seem to make myself say the words. Besides, I know that of them all, Daddicus will be the most careful. He doesn't need my warning.
"I'll tell them," he replies in a cold monotone.
"And good luck."
"Don't need it," he says, and the line goes dead.