Chapter 1 Playing Dirty #2
“You’re playing with fire, Dylan,” Rachel warns. “He’s signed with Left Turn. How do you think they’ll feel about you poaching their artists barely three months after Bret’s funeral?”
The reminder hits like a punch. I remember the rain, Morgan’s pale face as she accepted condolences. The way she’d hardly looked at me when I offered mine.
“Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition.” I shrug, pushing away the uncomfortable memory. “Besides, he came to me.”
Rachel narrows her eyes. “Right.”
“I’m not offering him anything… yet,” I clarify. “But if Kane’s targeting Left Turn’s roster, we should consider our strategic position.”
Bret Clemson’s legacy deserves better than dismemberment.
A hand grips my shoulder. “Dylan, good to see you again.”
Remy Shah recently sold his streaming start-up for a pretty penny and loves to drone on about algorithms and data. He’s a nice guy but I can only take so much.
“Remy.” I force a smile.
“Did you catch me on that panel last week?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “The future of music is moving in a direction that no one is ready for. How are your numbers?”
“Fine,” I say noncommittally, which I realize too late is a mistake.
“Fine isn’t cutting it,” he scoffs.
I try to discreetly get Rachel’s attention using my hand signal and winking, but she looks at me like I’m having a seizure and turns away with a smirk.
“Is there something in your eye?” Remy asks, squinting at me.
“No, no, but uh, don’t we have that thing—you know…” I say to Rachel, hoping she’ll get the hint.
“Nope, you have all night,” she shoots me a saccharine smile and I narrow my eyes at her.
“Excellent,” Remy says excitedly. “You should look at your numbers,” he continues. “I developed this algorithm…”
Goddammit.
“You’re fired,” I mouth as discreetly as I can while giving her a menacing glare for leaving me alone with the human calculator.
I hate these events.
“Does your marketing team know how to accurately predict future streaming?” Remy asks as I tune him out.
My attention is drawn across the bar to a woman standing near the patio. She’s wearing a deep blue dress that flows like water when she moves, making the sea of gray suits around her dull in comparison. I tug at my collar, suddenly feeling the balmy air of the summer night.
She turns, and the recognition hits me like a physical blow.
Morgan.
What is she doing here? I thought she’d be in New York by now.
“Earth to Dylan.” Remy waves a hand in front of my face and he tracks my gaze. “Should I grab you a napkin for the drool?”
“What? No. I know her,” I say, still staring. “That’s Morgan Clemson.”
“Oh, I heard she took over Left Turn Records,” he laughs. “Good luck bringing that dinosaur back to life. Their numbers are spiraling. Last quarter’s release slate was a disaster—sales down forty percent, year over year.”
“Excuse me,” I say as I make my way across the room.
She spots me approaching and something flickers in her gaze—recognition, maybe surprise.
Up close, her dress is even more stunning, clinging to curves I definitely shouldn’t be noticing—one of her own designs, I’d bet.
She was always talented, even when she was sketching during those summer gatherings.
The scent of her perfume hits me as I approach—jasmine with undertones of something warm and spicy that’s uniquely her. It’s unexpectedly intoxicating, making my focus waver for a split second.
“Morgan,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry about your father. I wanted to say more at the celebration of life, but there were so many people there that day.”
“It’s okay,” she offers. I’m sure she’s tired of hearing countless condolences over the past few months. Her shoulders relax slightly as she adds, “I’m actually glad you’re here. I barely know anyone at these industry events, and it’s nice to see a friendly face.”
“I imagine how overwhelming this can be,” I nod, understanding. “I’ve been coming to them since I was in college, and they’re still intimidating. Everyone sizing each other up, looking for the next big thing to sign.”
I pause, then add more softly, “Bret meant a lot to the industry. To me.” I try to find the right words. “His approach to developing artists, the way he valued creative independence—it shaped how I think about this business.”
“I remember all the times he’d stop by the house to visit my fathers,” I tell her. “I used to hide on the stairwell and listen, enthralled by their wild stories about the early days. The way they’d laugh about that first South by Southwest when they were all sharing a tiny motel room.”
Morgan laughs. “I bet that was interesting. Dad would say Adam saved his life that weekend with his emergency sewing kit.”
“I don’t think Bret ever realized the impact he had on me—about as much as my own fathers,” I admit. “Which is why I wanted to…”
“I’m sure he never thought I’d be taking over the company for him.”
“Taking over?” I ask, pretending this is news to me, though Remy had just confirmed it. “What happened to fashion design? I thought you’d be going back to New York.”
“Things change,” she says sadly. “I can’t let my father’s legacy die or get pulled apart by some money-hungry company who cares more about the bottom line than the music.”
My heart sinks. She’s not talking about Stonewall—is she?
“The fashion industry is cutthroat, and I wasn’t getting anywhere,” she explains, a shadow crossing her face. “Just another aspiring designer with a portfolio full of dreams.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re very talented.”
She lets out a small laugh. “You follow fashion?”
“Of course not.” That’s a lie. “So you’re staying in L.A?
” I ask casually, not wanting to sound too eager.
It’s a double-edged sword—if she stays and runs her father’s company, it means we’ll be seeing more of each other.
But the fact that she thinks she can save Left Turn makes it all the more difficult for me to separate business from the past—from family.
Part of me has been waiting for this chance—to see her again, to find out if the memory I’ve held of her matches reality.
But now that she’s here, determined to save Left Turn when I’ve only heard industry whispers about its struggles, everything gets complicated.
If the rumors are true and the company can’t be saved, she’d have no reason to stay in L.A.
She’d go back to New York, back to fashion, back to a life that doesn’t include me.
The realization hits harder than expected.
“Yeah. This is where I need to be,” she says firmly as if she’s trying to convince herself and not me.
“How is Left Turn doing?” I ask carefully.
A flash of defensiveness crosses her face, but then she lets out a sigh. “My father left a pretty big hole and…” she pauses. “The last few releases haven’t performed. Our marketing department needs an overhaul. The streaming strategy is practically nonexistent.”
Her eyes suddenly sharpen with a fierce intensity I hadn’t expected.
“But I’ve been restructuring our distribution deals to strengthen our digital footprint.
I’ve spent the last two weeks analyzing data and identifying growth opportunities in markets where Paper Skies already has traction.
The fundamentals are solid, it’s just the execution that needs work. ”
The confidence in her voice catches me off-guard—she’s not just playing at running a label; she’s diving into the data, thinking strategically. Something stirs inside me—respect, and something else I don’t want to examine too closely.
“You don’t have to take all that on yourself,” I start to say. “There are other options—”
“The employees are like family. If I don’t step in, people will lose their jobs, and I don’t want it to be because I couldn’t handle it.”
I finish the rest of my drink, discarding it on the nearby table while I try to think of a way to broach the subject of buying Left Turn, but the reality is, if I bought the company, I would have to let people go.
It’s the cost of doing business. Duplication of roles, efficiency metrics, economies of scale…
the very things Bret had always railed against.
“Thirty under thirty most influential music executives,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts and causing me to blush at the mention of a recent article in Vibez magazine.
So she’s been following me too.
I mockingly adjust my jacket and cock an eyebrow, and she laughs. The sound cuts through the dim atmosphere of the bar.
“Modest, I see,” she teases.
“I worked hard to get that acknowledgment.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t deserved,” she corrects, and the compliment, coming from her, makes my chest tight.
I sigh. “It’s tough being the one to make the hard decisions. Makes me the bad guy most of the time.”
She tilts her head. “CEO, Dylan Kernish-Grant admitting he has weaknesses.” Her smile is mischievous.
“Allow me to be human, and admit when I can’t solve a problem,” I laugh.
“Oh, I’d love to hear this,” she teases.
“Ok,” I settle in, leaning against the high-top table. “I have this artist who’s brilliant but he doesn’t want to perform.”
“Stage fright?”
“Something like that.” I don’t want to give away that it’s Jesse. “But I don’t know how to solve the issue. We’ve put a lot of time and money into recording, but without a tour or press, we might not be able to recoup any of that. Let alone give the artist a space to create.”
Her brows knit, thoughtful. “Is it really just stage fright? Or do you think it’s something deeper? Burnout? Not wanting the spotlight?”
“Could be all of it. He loves the music but hates what comes with it. He’s looking for total anonymity, to let the music speak for itself without any of the pretense of who he is.”
She drums her fingers against her empty glass, considering. “So… why not take that part away? Make it part of the artistry instead of an obstacle.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”