Chapter 7
Ronan rang the after-hours bell beside the locked entrance to Vidal Records and gave a short, quick wave to the guard inside.
She gave him a considering look, then her voice came over the intercom. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Ronan McCaffrey.”
She looked down at her monitor as she searched for his name.
He knew the moment she found it because her brows shot upward.
His stake in the company was so new that some of the employees were still unaware of who he was or what he looked like.
In other takeovers, he would’ve explained the new situation via a company-wide email first. That initial contact would also set up an in-person gathering of all employees, during which he’d introduce himself.
But he’d had different plans for Vidal until very recently. Correcting that lapse was another thing he had to handle while in the office.
By the time the guard hurried over to unlock the door, he’d pulled out his driver’s license and had it pressed against the glass.
“Good morning, Mr. McCaffrey,” she said as she stepped aside for him to enter.
He read her name badge. “Morning, Eady. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Aww… thanks. You, too. You might not see much of me, since I’m only here on weekends.”
“You’ll likely see me more than you’d expect.” Since he was pushing Chris Vidal Sr. out of the company entirely and expected both of the man’s children to be indisposed indefinitely, he’d be juggling most of the C-level roles while managing his own business interests.
“Would you happen to have any updates on Ms. Vidal?” she asked hesitantly.
“No, unfortunately.”
She nodded grimly. “I hope we hear something soon. It’s a terrible thing. Just terrible. I’m really fond of her. She’s…she’s just…”
“An amazing woman,” he finished. “I agree.”
“Yeah.” Her expression went from pensive to serious. “So, uh, the two recording studios are booked. The graveyard shift said both Six-Ninths and Chantal have been here all night. Um… They might’ve gone dark while they’re recording.”
Ronan went still. “They haven’t heard about Ireland?”
“I’m really not sure. I overheard Darrin Rumsfeld and Brett Kline talking when they went out for coffee earlier, and Brett was complaining that the senior Mr. Vidal isn’t here producing. Or returning calls.”
“Merde,” he muttered.
“’scuse me?” Eady asked, frowning.
“Nothing. I’ll run by the studios and talk to them.”
She nodded. Ronan turned on his heel and headed to the elevator, then decided he was too restless to wait. He climbed the single flight up to the second floor on foot.
Talking about Ireland, especially her kidnapping, was more and more difficult to do. Discussing it meant thinking about it and imagining what she might be going through.
When Ronan exited the stairwell, it was to utter silence.
The soundproofing and acoustics were top-tier.
Chris Vidal Sr. had taken out a sizeable loan to overhaul the once aging recording studios, bringing them up to the cutting edge.
Ronan had financed that loan after years of exerting financial pressure on the record label to keep it in the red.
He’d known Vidal would default and that he would then have the company on the chopping block.
Both of the studios had their exterior recording lights on.
He walked over to the nearest one and peeked through the door’s inset glass, seeing the petite blonde pop star who’d been in the upper-floor offices earlier in the week.
Dressed in tiny shorts and an even smaller top that was more like a strip of bandage across her breasts, she held both hands to her headphones as she sang passionately into the mic.
He moved on to the second studio’s control room on the opposite side of the hallway and stepped quietly inside.
The sound engineer had his hands at the ready as the drummer counted in with four quick raps of his drumsticks.
As the song began, Ronan stayed by the door and listened.
The rhythm washed over him first, the tempo resonating in his blood, then the story of the verses began to form.
The lyrics moved him, stirring the unruly emotions he was keeping barely in check.
Midway through the song, the lead singer saw him through the glass and extended a tattooed arm with his index finger pointed—much like someone commanding a dog to stay.
Ronan’s wry amusement at the gesture helped him find some composure, although it took a hard swallow past a lump in his throat to fully regain his poise.
When the song ended, Brett Kline exited the studio and stepped out to the hallway. Ronan joined him, studying the man with interest.
It was widely known that Kline had once dated Gideon Cross’s wife because he’d written an intimate, sexual ballad about their time together.
Ronan found it very interesting that out of all the record labels Six-Ninths could’ve signed with, they chose Vidal while it was still partially owned and managed by Cross.
The two men couldn’t be more different, which made him curious about Eva Cross.
“Hey,” Kline said, scowling. His spiky hair was darker at the roots and bleached platinum at the tips. His green eyes were narrowed dangerously. “This is a private recording session, and I don’t know you.”
Ronan extended his hand. “Ronan McCaffrey. I co-own this label with Ireland Vidal.”
One of Kline’s brows lifted. “Oh, yeah? Since when?”
“Monday.” Pulling out his wallet, he handed over his Vidal business card.
Kline read it, then shoved it into his jeans’ back pocket. “Congratulations. Did you come to tell us why Chris isn’t here? He promised Robby—our manager—that he’d be producing this song himself.”
There was no way to ease into the topic, so Ronan tackled it directly. “Ireland was kidnapped Friday night. She hasn’t been returned yet.”
“What?” Kline stared at him blankly. “What the fuck?”
“It’s all over the news.” His words were flat and heavy. Every time he had to speak of Ireland’s ordeal, it drained him. He felt the fatigue of his worry in every muscle in his body.
Without another word, Kline returned to the studio. Ronan followed, watching as Kline dug into a messenger bag for a tablet and powered it on.
The rest of the band looked between the two of them.
The drummer, an average-sized guy with blue eyes so thickly lashed they looked almost lined, and the bassist, who had a spectacular head of long copper curls, had moved to the black leather sofa.
The lead guitarist, who was basketball player-sized, was drinking a beer by the refrigerator.
Ronan went around and introduced himself to all.
“Guys,” Kline said for attention, as he passed his tablet to Darrin Rumsfeld, the band’s drummer. Then he looked at Ronan. “How does something like that happen with a shit ton of people around? No one manned up and helped her?”
Reading the screen of the tablet, Rumsfeld’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “No fucking way. Not Irie.” He looked at Ronan. “We’ve known her since she was a kid. We’ve watched her grow up.”
It was too much for Ronan to listen to them reminisce about Ireland, because there was inevitably a thread of loss. There was simply no way to ignore either one of the two possible outcomes.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news,” Ronan said, “and to add to it. But you should know that Chris won’t be working at Vidal moving forward. The executives are now Ireland, Christopher, my brother and sister Jules and Claudette Robicheaux, and me.”
The entire band looked at him with astonishment.
“Because of the kidnapping?” Kline asked.
“I mean, we get it. Totally. Rum’s right—we’ve known Irie for ages.
Shit, she was in high school when we met her.
Of course they’ll want some time once she’s back—and they will get her back.
Her brother is Gideon Cross for fuck’s sake.
But Chris can’t walk away from the biz. And we’ll wait as long as he needs, but he’s gotta produce this single. ”
Ronan’s arms crossed. “There is no place for Chris Vidal at Vidal Records. Period. We’ll find you another producer, and we’ll get this single made sooner rather than later.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Rumsfeld pushed to his feet. “Chris Vidal Sr. is a legend in the music industry. We’re talking genre-defining A&R. You don’t throw that out. He’s what makes this label what it is.”
Ireland had also argued that her father was invaluable to the business. And maybe that was true. Ronan wasn’t discounting it. But the man was also capable of lying, betrayal, and sleeping peacefully at night knowing he’d ruined lives.
“Chris has to work on this single with us,” the lead guitarist insisted. “He was really excited about it, and that means we’ve got something. This song is his kinda jam, and he’ll help us get it in the shape it needs to be a hit.”
“This is a departure for us,” Kline explained. “It’s a fusion… Soul. Rock. A dash of country.”
“I heard it,” Ronan said. “The lyrics… They pack a punch.”
The verses told the story of a man in a relationship he knew was doomed but couldn’t quit. The chorus about the first kiss goodbye reflected the pain of knowing that a love affair was already in a countdown to the end.
“What about the music?” the bassist queried, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I’m not the one you should ask,” Ronan deflected.
“Why not? You don’t like it?”
Ronan slid his hands into his pockets. “As I said, the lyrics are striking a chord right now. I’m not in the right headspace to offer an opinion.”
“You going through a bad breakup?” Kline asked.
“Not that it’s anyone’s business but Ireland and I are seeing each other.”
The band went silent.
Rumsfeld spoke first. “I’m sorry, man. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
With a brisk nod of acknowledgment, Ronan turned toward the door. “I’ll be upstairs working on getting you a producer if you need anything.”