53. Coffee
MIGUEL
“Shit, shit, shit.”
The clock’s tapping its seconds out like—tsk-tsk, dollface… might wanna hurry, these hands ain’t turnin’ back for you.
It’s already seven,
the day of Callista’s board meeting.
My stomach’s now the Globe of Death, stunt riders revving their engines, tires using it as a cage as I yank open a drawer, searching for the coffee machine’s instruction manual.
If I screw this up,
if I fail Callista,
I’m fucking done.
I slam the drawer shut.
Andrew comes up behind me, mocking when saying, “‘I’ll never wear your hoodie,’ she said with a mouth full’a bullshit.” He leans in, breath warm in my hair as he opens an above cabinet. “Lookin’ real wifed-up in my sweatshirt, just sayin’.”
I glance up at him.
He grins to himself.
I want to punch him.
And lick his throat.
“Where your roommates been hidin’?”
he asks, scanning the floor plan.
“Honor’s been gone,” I say. “He failed Hell Week. Ben? Don’t know, don’t care.”
I’ve successfully avoided Ben for an entire week. The only reason he’s still here after hitting me:
if Andrew leaves me, I’ll be alone.
And if I keep only Andrew,
then I’m in love.
And I’m not.
I’m in control.
People confuse love with control all the time.
I slap the side of the coffee machine. “This isn’t working,” I mutter. “Nothing’s working.”
Andrew opens a drawer,
pulls out a coffee filter.
“Move. I got this.”
I throw my palms up
and step to the side.
He scoops from the coffee jar, tossing a glance over at me. “Aight. What’s wrong with you, huh? You stressin’ or horny? ‘Cause with you it’s fifty-fifty.”
I drop into my chair at the breakfast table, rake both hands through my tangled hair. “Just label stuff. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
Coffee machine beeps after he presses a few buttons. “You sure there ain’t nothin’ I can help with?”
“No.”
“Aight.” He sighs. “Cool.”
He leans back against the counter,
gripping the edges.
The second hand on the clock ticks by.
The coffee drips into the pot.
He shifts,
crossing his arms over his chest,
looking down.
The silence stretches.
He clears his throat.
“Don't forget your jacket today.
“Says it’s gonna be low of 38—”
I groan. “I suck at business stuff,” I burst out, lifting the lid on all this pressure that’s built up inside me. “I’m talkin’ paperwork, contracts, budgets, assets, liabilities, profit margins, investments—”
“You sure know all the trigger words,”
he mumbles, playful.
I look at him,
arm falling to the table, annoyed.
“Like, what even is a shareholder?”
“A shareholder is someone—”
“I don’t care, Drew. That’s my point.
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”
I can’t believe I’m even getting into this with him.
I don’t talk to anyone about this.
“I just care about the artists. The music. But if I don’t get my shit together for this board meeting today? If I don’t go in there and kill it? The board will look at me like I’m a joke. Raymond’s title of CEO will become permanent, and I’ll lose the label.”
The machine beeps, and he kicks off the counter.
“What’d be so bad about him runnin’ it?” He lifts a brow as he turns to the machine.
“All I’m sayin’ is if you don’t care about none of that shit, why not focus on the music then?
You do you, what makes you sane, and let him worry about all the CEO shit? ”
“Because,” I grit out, “he’s a fuckin’ snake. He can’t be trusted. He’d stab you with your own knife, then ask why the fuck you bleedin’ all over his floor. He doesn’t care about the artists or the music. He only cares about the money. Do I need to keep going?”
He’s standing frozen,
mug raised halfway to his mouth.
“So Everybody Hates Raymond.”
My deadpan gaze falls on him.
“…A dad joke? Really?”
He shrugs. “Just slipped out.”
“Embarrassing.”
He sucks in a breath. “Little bit.”
I fall back into the chair. “Drew, after that whole mess with Bianca Vega last week? I can’t afford to choke in the conference room like that again.
I can’t get worked up and take shit so personal.
And I definitely can’t let Raymond overpower me.
I promised Callista I would stop this deal from going through. ”
I glance back at the clock,
rubbing my head.
“Now I have exactly three hours to figure out a plan, shower, change into something that doesn’t scream songwriter, and get all the way down to the label in morning traffic.”
He slides a mug in front of me and takes the next chair over. “C’mon. Tell me about this deal.”
I pull my knee up to my chest
as if I can trap all my anxiety there.
Then we’re staring at each other.
Him, waiting for me to proceed.
Me, wondering if I should let him in.
But truth is, as stubborn as I am,
he’s my only hope.
A defeated sigh spills out of me.
“Clementine’s Reserve wants to license one of Callista’s songs—y’know that summer vodka brand.
” He nods, right there with me. “She doesn’t want this.
Callista’s a role model. She advocates for mental health, fights against addiction.
” My stare lands deeper. “This is an alcohol company. It’s personal to her. ”
I scoop up the mug, bringing it to my lips. “But Raymond wants the deal. And the millions that’ll come with it.”
“Doesn’t sound like a smart move,” he agrees.
I gesture to him. “Thank you. And Raymond does this shit on purpose, too.” I scoff.
“Every board meeting’s the same. He’ll keep pushing me until I shut down so hard I look taxidermied…
or I’m one second away from goin’ batshit crazy and throwin’ a chair through the window.
” I gasp for air after saying all of it in one breath.
Andrew’s gaze hasn’t left me.
But he’s not with me.
He’s in his own head,
already ten steps ahead.
“Can I ask you somethin’?” he treads careful, almost as if he’s scared of my reaction. “Your dad’s label—you fightin’ for it ‘cause it was his dream or you fightin’ for it ‘cause this is your dream?”
The question knocks my brain empty.
It’s a question I’ve never asked myself.
“CEO’s not my dream, but it wasn’t his either… Dad only wanted to protect music. Was never meant to be some money-making machine. Or a cage. Or a pyramid that only benefits the top. It was meant to be a wave big enough to carry us all. Cheesy as hell, but that was his mission.”
I adjust in my chair,
my feet sliding off the edge.
“Drew, I know I’m not cut out for CEO. But it’s like, if not me, then who?
‘Cause no one cares about these artists more than me. So if I have to pretend that I know what I’m doing to save the heart of this place?
Fuck it. I'll do it. I don’t want to be CEO.
I don’t want a label. I want a home. For music.
A safe place. That’s it. That's how I'm looking at this.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
I have no idea what he’s thinking.
Then—finally—
he smiles.
A small, almost amused, smile.
“Okay,” he says, leaning closer,
and I feel the electric of it,
how he’s about to change everything.
“So here’s what you’re gonna do…” His gaze locked on mine. “First off, you ain’t walkin’ in there like you gotta earn respect at the table.
“You own the table, Sonny.”
“Drew—”
“Nah. Listen t’me.”
He taps the table.
“You walk in there, the most important person in that room, ‘cause you are.
“You set the pace.
“You decide when people talk.
“You decide when they shut the fuck up.
“And you’re gonna know exactly what you’re talkin’ about at that meeting ‘cause you’re not leavin’ this penthouse until you do.”
// SHOWER — BECKY G //
“Your dad left this role to you.
“There’s a reason for that, Sonny,” he says over the water from the other side of the glass wall, steam fogging the bathroom. I close my eyes and work shampoo into my hair.
“And those boardroom assholes?
“They’re gonna watch every little thing you do. They wanna see if you crack, or cave, or stutter.
“So don’t give ‘em shit.
“They should feel like they’re explainin’ themselves to you. Even if you fuck up, say the wrong thing, the goal’s to make ‘em think correctin’ you would be a terrible fuckin’ idea,” he says as I rinse shampoo out of my hair.
“You wanna come closer?” I ask him, a smirk playing on my lips. “I’m havin’ a hard time hearin’ you.”
He laughs. “You evil temptation, If I’m hard enough to fuck you through this glass, I know damn well you can hear me just fine.”
// LIP GLOSS — LIL MAMA //
The blowdryer’s a low hum under Andrew’s voice. And by the time I’m putting on makeup,
he’s pacing behind me,
shorts hanging off his hips,
and molding around his perfect cock.
“You wanna know why Raymond gets under your skin?” he says, catching my gaze in the reflection.
“‘Cause he gets you reactin’. So stop reactin’, Sonny, and start steerin’.
That dipshit has no power over you. None.
” His hand swipes the air in front of him.
“When you’re talkin’? Don’t even look at him.
You don’t give a fuck about him. He’s just another guy on the board. ”
His gaze swings back to mine in the mirror, making sure I’m listening.
“When he starts talkin’?
“Glance at your phone.
“Check your messages.
“Look bored. This will trip him up.
“He won’t be expectin’ that from you.”
He drags a hand through his hair,
still pacing,
humor spreading across his face.
I can’t kill my smile as I put on lipstick.
“If he pulls his manipulative bullshit,
“don’t engage, don’t argue with him,
“none of that back and forth crap.
“That’s his game.
“Just let him yap.”
He smirks.
“Then glance around the room,
“exhaling loud,
“and cut him off with the ‘no.’
“Right then, move the fuck on
“like he never had a voice in the room.
“He tries to overpower you?
“pull that—” he lifts his hand,
“I’ma-stop-you-right-there bit.
“Then hit him with the ‘no’ again.
“Don’t defend yourself.
“Don’t talk too much.
“Confident people don’t over-explain.”
He stops,
holds my attention in the mirror.
My fingers freeze on my eyeliner.
“Eventually, the tables will turn.
“He’ll start showin’ his ass.
“He’ll start gettin’ emotional.
“This is when you know you got him.
“‘Cause the more calm you are,
“the crazier he looks.”
He points at me.