Chapter 18
GRANT
“I told her you were unavailable.”
“Yeah, well, Sloane’s never been particularly bright. Tell her no, and she hears an invitation to keep being a fucking nuisance.”
Sloane shuts the door in Erin’s face.
“Fuck you.”
“Get in line.”
She yanks off the sunglasses, and I damn near recoil out of my skin. Jesus Christ. She looks like hell.
No makeup. Eyes swollen to shit. Her auburn hair is greasy and shoved under a baseball cap like she couldn’t be bothered to remember she has a mirror.
For six months, I thought Sloane was fucking gorgeous, which says more about where my head was at than anything else. She had the kind of face that made a man overlook a lot of bullshit, and that mouth of hers did wonders around my cock.
Today, she looks like shit. My dick couldn’t get hard for her if it fucking tried.
“Crown Ridge wants to drop me.”
“I heard.”
“My tour slot is suspended. Bellemore Beauty froze my campaign. Radio pulled tomorrow’s interview. Marcus won’t answer his fucking phone.”
“Marcus has sixteen artists.”
“I had a number-one rollout weeks ago.”
“You had a song with disputed ownership.”
“That you gave me.”
“And legal is dealing with it.”
Sloane laughs. “Legal is preparing to tell the whole world I misrepresented the song’s origin.” I say nothing, watching the color drain from her face. “Oh my God.”
“Sloane, you know there are volume settings on that fucking mouth, right?”
“You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Making me the fucking idiot who stole Laurel Mercer’s song as you sit behind your desk acting like you just discovered the plagiarism after it already blew up.”
“Watch your voice.”
“You watched my mouth on your dick while your wife called you. Don’t fucking lecture me about volume.”
The words ricochet off the office walls.
I’ve no idea why she’s being this fucking aggravating. If it weren’t for her stupidity and inability to shut her mouth, we could’ve been having a good time somewhere, fucking until midnight. But no. Here we are, with Sloane screaming about her fucking career like I’m the one who ruined it.
“You told me for months Laurel didn’t want the business, didn’t care about the catalogue, didn’t want to perform, didn’t fucking notice where you were half the time. The second she finds out, suddenly I’m toxic to the company.”
“You slept with a married executive who controlled your record. If that isn’t toxic, what the fuck is?”
““You slept with an artist whose career you controlled.” She smiles, a glint sparking in her green eyes.
“Careful, Grant. You want to play power imbalance for the lawyers, we can play it together. I have the email where you told me the song was cleared. I have messages where I asked if Laurel knew. I have recordings.”
I grind my teeth. I know she’s bluffing, but I can’t take the chance.
“What do you want?”
“Now we’re talking.” Her smile widens. “Unfreeze my album.”
“Impossible until the song is resolved.”
“Then replace it.”
“We will.”
“My press restored, and don’t tell me it’s not happening because the photographers are shopping pictures. Buy them.”
“Already trying.”
“And my tour.”
“That decision belongs to Crown Ridge.”
She folds her arms. “Fix it.”
I scoff at the sheer audacity. “What the fuck do you think I am?”
“The man who spent six months bragging to me he could fix anything.”
So that’s the bargain she thought she was making.
I see it in full now. Sloane never expected me to leave Laurel.
She expected proximity to Grant Mercer to turn inconvenience into doors opening.
Maybe I knew that and enjoyed it because being useful to a beautiful woman scratches the same primitive patch of male ego as being desired.
Maybe we were both using each other and got pissed when neither of us got what we wanted.
“I’m not blowing up my company to protect you.”
Her eyes harden. “Then I won’t protect you.”
“Threatening me is stupid.”
“So was fucking me, but you did it anyway.” She puts the sunglasses back on. “Tell Laurel to stop strutting around like she finally won something. She got cheated on, not crowned fucking queen.”
Every muscle in my shoulders tightens.
“Leave my wife alone.”
“Your wife?” A mocking laugh slips out. “Beckett Vale is carrying her guitar around Nashville, and you’re still calling her your wife like the title is a shock collar.”
“Get out.”
“She thinks she gets to destroy my career because you cheated on her?”
“I froze your rollout.”
“She challenged the song.”
“No shit. It’s hers.”
“Well, then she should’ve fucking recorded it.”
My temper snaps so cleanly I almost hear it. “Get out of my office before you say something I’ll make you regret.”
Sloane assesses me from head to toe, her mouth curling into a smug little smile. “Too late for everybody, isn’t it?”
She storms out, the sharp clicks of her heels filling the silence behind her.
∞∞∞
Laurel is in the hallway when I step out of my office, Beckett standing beside her.
Evelyn and Harlan have walked ahead, leaving Laurel and Beckett behind near the framed platinum records. Beckett has a folder in one hand while Laurel reads across the top page.
He says something that makes her look up, then reaches for the loose strand of hair caught against her lip, stops himself just short of touching her, and gestures to his own face instead. Laurel understands, brushes it away herself, and smiles.
The restraint pisses me off more than touching her would have. He knows what he’s doing. Or worse, he doesn’t, and I’m the one losing my fucking mind over a strand of hair.
“Laurel.”
Her smile vanishes the moment she sees me. Beckett’s does too, which means the bastard had one.
“Can we talk?”
“I have a call with Evelyn.”
“Five minutes.”
“About?”
“The agreement.”
Her expression closes. “We discussed it in the meeting.”
“No, attorneys discussed it in a meeting. I’m talking about us.”
Beckett shifts the folder into one hand. “I’ll be downstairs.”
She nods. “Thank you.”
I watch him walk away. Six-foot-something of perfectly tailored aggravation disappearing toward the elevators with the ease of a man who knows he has somewhere else to be wanted.
“You’re going with him?” Laurel’s face goes blank in a way that makes me feel like I’ve just asked the stupidest question alive. “Where?”
“A meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“One you aren’t invited to.”
“Laurel, I am trying to fix what happened in there.”
“You approved adding my private catalogue to a contract while I was in a hospital bed.”
“I approved the administration package. Daniel handled the schedules.”
“You keep saying Daniel’s name like he was the fucking weather.
” She steps closer, and her voice drops into something so calm it makes every word land harder.
“Daniel worked for me. You paid him. Daniel rejected deals for me. You paid him. Daniel added songs I never agreed to give Mercer. You approved it. So stop saying his name like he’s some convenient excuse you can throw between us whenever you don’t want to answer for what you did.
Daniel didn’t do this to me, Grant. You did. ”
“I never forged your signature.”
“Congratulations. You want a fucking medal, or should I just add it to the list of things you expect credit for?”
My eyes narrow, but I disregard her sarcasm and ask the one question that’s been burning a hole in my chest for days.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Her expression falters, and I see something I’d rather she throw at me.
“No.”
The fist in my chest loosens its grip, and I draw in a slow, contented breath. I knew she wouldn’t dare.
“But here’s what you need to start getting used to, Grant.” Her voice stays infuriatingly calm. “One day I might. And after everything you’ve done, I could decide tonight is a perfectly good night to start.”
Every thought in my head goes white.
∞∞∞
I make it back into my office with anger boiling under my skin when Harlan calls.
“I’m recommending a temporary suspension of your unilateral authority over Mercer Publishing until the chain-of-title review is complete.”
I grip the phone hard enough for the case to creak. “You’re fucking joking.”
“I am not.”
“This is my company.”
“It is a company. That distinction appears to be part of the problem.”
“Harlan—”
“The board votes tomorrow.”
He hangs up.
I stand in the middle of an office with my name on the door, my records covering the walls and forty-two percent of the company sitting under my control, and realize Laurel has managed something nobody has done to me in twenty years.
She’s made me look in the wrong direction.
I spent the morning watching Beckett Vale because I was afraid he wanted my wife.
Meanwhile, my wife walked into the building and put my authority on the fucking agenda.