Chapter 27
BECKETT
Mara is already in my office when I get to Vale House Monday morning, helping herself to the almonds in my desk.
She slides a twelve-page cease-and-desist toward me as I sit, and halfway down the first page, I learn Sloane Avery spent the weekend acquiring attorney number three.
Three lawyers in five days. At this rate, she’ll exhaust Nashville’s legal profession before she exhausts her capacity for shit decisions.
Her newest counsel accuses Vale House of “participating in a coordinated campaign to injure Ms. Avery’s career and commercial relationships” and demands that we immediately cease whatever coordinated campaign they’ve invented for the occasion.
The allegation would be more interesting if twelve pages produced a single example of Vale House actually doing it.
What they do produce is an exhibit attached to the letter: selected pages from a transcript of Grant’s voice, recorded months ago.
I stop skimming.
The excerpt picks up after Mercer loses a catalogue acquisition to Vale House.
Sloane: You’re pissed Beckett got the deal.
Grant: I’m pissed Vale keeps reaching for things that are mine.
Sloane: Things? You mean Laurel.
The transcript marks a pause.
Grant: Vale’s been obsessed with my wife since Austin.
Sloane: And she didn’t know that?
Grant: Laurel knows when a man wants her.
Sloane: Did she like it?
Grant: She likes being wanted and pretending she doesn’t notice.
Sloane: You think she encouraged him?
Grant: I think she knew exactly how much attention to give him without ever doing enough for anybody to call her on it.
My jaw locks.
“Anything here showing Laurel actually said or did a damn thing?”
“No.” Mara tosses an almond into her mouth. “Grant Mercer’s suspicions about his wife are not evidence that she did anything.”
“What exactly are they demanding from us?”
“They want Vale to stop participating in what they’re calling a coordinated reputational attack. More specifically, they want us to stop providing information that could assist Mercer’s rights review.”
I lower the pages. “So no.”
“That was also my analysis.”
Sloane’s distributor has been reconsidering its position for days. Mercer’s interim committee is reviewing everything tied to her catalogue, the stolen song has become radioactive, and every new recording she releases seems designed to prove somebody else forced her to light the match.
“She thinks Laurel can make Mercer back off.”
“Mmm.” Mara reaches for another almond. “Or she thinks making Laurel look dirty muddies the water enough to keep the argument going.”
“There’s nothing dirty to show.”
“I know. You know. Facts have had a difficult month.”
I hand the letter back. “Coordinate with Evelyn. No direct response to Sloane.”
“Already did. Evelyn asked the same.”
Mara folds the letter, sets it aside, and stays put. Experience says the next sentence is going to cost me money.
“What?”
“Russell Vance’s counsel called.”
I sit back. “Why?”
Mara pulls another folder from her stack. “He’s looking for a buyer for his Mercer stake.”
“He wants out.”
“Russell wants eleven-point-seven million dollars.”
“For six and a half percent?”
“Grant offered it.” Mara slides a one-page summary over the desk. “One hundred and forty-six percent of the last preferred valuation.”
A laugh gets out of me. “He’s actually paying that?”
“Offering it. Russell hasn’t signed yet.”
Grant owns forty-two percent of Mercer. Russell’s block would put him at forty-eight and a half. Still short of control, but close enough to make every vote a fucking headache.
“Why call us?”
“Russell’s counsel is testing the market before they paper anything. Vale’s been buying music assets in Nashville, we’re already in diligence on Bellamy rights, and Vale looked like a plausible landing spot for a minority stake in a company currently setting itself on fire.”
“At that price?”
“I told them I’d ask.”
“You’ve asked.”
“So I have.”
I push the summary back toward her. “Pass.”
“Tragic,” Mara says. “The balance sheet will need time to grieve.”
My phone lights up with an incoming call from the woman who has spent nineteen days fucking with my head and an indecent number of nights in my bed without ever setting foot in it.
Yes, I counted. Sue me.
Mara sees the name. “I’ll pretend the timing isn’t suspicious.”
“Remove yourself.”
“Always lovely working for you.”
The door closes behind her, and I answer. “Laurel.”
“Is Vale bidding on Russell’s shares?”
No hello.
I smile despite myself. “Good morning to you too.”
“Oops. Good morning, Princess Beckie. Is your company planning on buying those shares?”
“Is Vale bidding on Russell’s shares?”
No hello.
I smile despite myself. “Good morning to you too.”
“Oops. Good morning, Princess Beckie. Is your company planning on buying those shares?”
I laugh. Fucking Princess Beckie—she’s really committed to this.
“No. We passed.”
Her breath leaves her in a quiet rush. “Good.”
“You’re waiving.”
“Yes. I don’t want Russell’s shares, Beckett, and I’m not spending millions on something I don’t want just because Grant does.”
“You’re comfortable letting him get that close?”
“No.” A little steel slips into her voice.
“But being uncomfortable isn’t a reason to rescue him from his own decisions.
He knows the price. He has lawyers, bankers, advisers.
If he wants to pay eleven-point-seven million dollars to discover that forty-eight and a half is still less than fifty, I’m done standing in front of him with a calculator. ”
I laugh under my breath. “Christ.”
“I’m serious. And I need you to stay out of it. Not just Vale. You.”
“You don’t have to worry about me saving Grant Mercer from basic arithmetic.”
“I know.” It comes easily enough to make me pause. “I trust you. But if Vale touches those shares, Grant gets to turn you into the villain again. I’m not giving him that.” Her voice drops. “I don’t want you anywhere near this when it blows up. I need you clear of it.”
Fuck, that feels far too good to hear.
I put the satisfaction away where it belongs.
“You want the decision to belong entirely to him.”
“I want my decisions to belong to me. His can belong to him for a fucking change.”
“Then Vale stays out. So do I.”
“Thank you.”
“And when he decides this was your fault?”
A tired laugh slips through the line. “Grant could trip over his own shoes and subpoena the floor.”
I laugh. “Point taken.”
“Bye, Princess Beckie.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
She hangs up laughing.
I keep the phone against my ear for another second, grinning like an idiot at absolutely nothing.