6. Callum
SIX
Callum
In every song, in every face
Friday, March 7
Love Studios NYC
545 8th Avenue, Midtown
3:51 PM
"Look mysterious." The photographer circles me like a shark. "No, more than mysterious. Like you're keeping secrets."
If he only knew. I shift against the exposed brick wall, trying to look broody while checking my phone for the hundredth time. Emma's latest Instagram post shows student artwork. No location tag, but the window in the background overlooks Chinatown streets.
"Cal." Luke's warning tone carries across the studio. "Phone."
The photographer sighs. Another flash blinds me.
"That's the fifth time in twenty minutes." Luke appears at my shoulder, coffee in hand. " The Times interview is waiting, and Rolling Stone wants to shoot the cover next week."
"I know."
A notification pops up. It’s a Pinnacle PR email about upcoming appearances. Not what I'm looking for. Then my phone rings. It’s Ethan.
"You're supposed to be focusing on the album." Luke keeps his voice low. "Our lawyers are still reviewing that Nashville contract. Until we know if Morrison can claim rights to everything you'll ever write?—"
"I get it." I do get it. Morrison wants half of what Pinnacle's paying me, or he'll try to blow up the whole deal. Prove he owns my entire catalog—past, present, and future. "I’m just stuck on seeing Sienna. Something feels off and I want to know why she’s in New York."
"Right now, the only thing that needs to add up is this album." Luke takes my phone. "We need you focused on recording, not hunting down old girlfriends for answers about things that don’t matter."
"One more set." The photographer adjusts his lens. "Think James Dean meets Kurt Cobain."
I run a hand through my newly styled hair. The label's image team darkened it even more last week and said it photographed better. Everything about me is being tweaked, polished, and packaged.
My phone vibrates in my pocket again. I'm clearly obsessed and annoying myself, but I can't help but look. This time it's a text from my brother, Ethan.
Talked to Dave Sullivan at Cooper & Ross. Entertainment law isn't his specialty, but he's got contacts in NYC. Says Morrison's contract might be vulnerable if we can prove predatory intent. Call me.
I look at Luke, grateful to have something to tell him other than my sleuthing. "It's Ethan. He has another attorney he wants us to talk to about Morrison."
"Your brother's worried." Luke keeps his voice low. "And he should be."
"Ethan's always worried." But for once my strait-laced big brother's right. The contract I signed in Nashville was ironclad. Or desperate-kid-clad, anyway. "What did our lawyers say?"
"Same as what Ethan said last week. They're looking for precedent. Similar cases where predatory contracts got overturned." Luke rubs his jaw. "But Morrison knew what he was doing. Fifty percent of the Pinnacle deal or he owns everything you'll ever write. He's got you by the balls, right where he wants you."
The photographer waves for my attention. I try to focus, try to look mysterious or tortured or whatever will sell records. But my mind keeps circling back to that coffee shop. To Sienna's face when she realized who I was.
To all the letters I sent that she claims never arrived.
"Last shot." The camera clicks. "Perfect. Brooding rock star with a dark past. I love it.”
If they only knew.
"Car's waiting." Luke checks his watch. "Studio in twenty. We need to nail that bridge on track four."
But as we head for the elevator, my phone lights up with another Instagram notification. Emma Chen just tagged a location.
PS 124 Yung Wing
The elevator doors slide shut. Through the smudged mirrored walls, I catch my reflection. I almost don’t recognize myself with my dark hair, dark clothes, and carefully cultivated edge. This is the image Pinnacle is building for me.
"Don't." Luke doesn't even look up from his phone.
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to find that school. Don't show up there. Don’t?—"
"I wasn’t. How can you see that? You have supersonic eyes."
"You were." Now he does look up. "Listen. Morrison's lawyers are circling. One wrong move and he'll come after everything. I’m not just talking the money, but creative control. Publishing rights. Your entire future catalog. Then you belong to him. And you saw how far that got you the last five-plus years."
"I know."
"Do you? Because right now you seem more focused on solving some mystery about unanswered letters and texts from half a decade ago."
He's right. The Morrison situation is a ticking bomb. I should be focusing on the album, on finding a way out of that contract. Not obsessing over why Sienna never wrote back. Not wondering why she's in New York instead of Charleston. Not…
My phone buzzes again. It’s another Instagram post. I probably need to turn off notifications for whenever she posts, but I’m hoping to glean something to know how to talk to Sienna. If I could just talk to her for five minutes.
I click on the IG icon and a media-worthy photo of potstickers on a red and white patterned plate. The location is tagged: Golden Dragon Restaurant.
Lunch break dumplings with my favorite person reads the caption.
No Sienna. Still. Favorite person. There is a chance…
"You know," Luke says carefully, "Ethan mentioned something interesting the other night when we talked. I told him you're losing your shit over seeing Sienna. He said he tried to reach Sienna after you left Charleston, too, but never could get through. Maybe she wanted to remove herself completely from your life. Not trying to be a dick, I’m just saying."
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Car's waiting." Luke checks his watch. "Studio in twenty. We need to nail that bridge on track four."
I pocket my phone, but my mind's already mapping the quickest route to Chinatown. I've never wanted shrimp fried rice so badly in my life.
Electric Lady Studios
4:23 PM
The elevator doors open to the studio floor when Luke's phone rings. He puts it on speaker.
"Change of plans." Victor's assistant's voice crackles through. "Max sends his apologies for the last-minute change, but he is stuck at Sony. Won't make it until at least five."
I look at my watch and try to hide my irritation. As if none of us have things to do except Max Greene.
Max Greene. The producer Pinnacle insisted on. The one who's supposed to help make my sound more "commercially viable." Shouldn't we be catering to him, not the other way around?
Luke glances at me, eyebrows raised. Mike and Jace hover by the studio entrance, watching this unfold.
"We could push to six," I say before Luke can respond. "Everyone could use a break, anyway. I know I need some air and some caffeine."
"Six?" Luke's tone carries a warning. "She said five."
Five won’t give me enough time to get down to Chinatown and back. I’m already shrugging off the leather jacket - the one Pinnacle's stylist insisted on. "Tell Max six works."
"Callum."
"We all need a break, Luke." I loosen the ridiculous silk scarf they made me wear for the shoot. "We've been at this for days. What’s an extra hour?"
"Six it is," the assistant chirps, oblivious to the tension. The call ends.
This is the first location tag for Emma in real-time. I need to seize the moment. This is a sign.
I've finally got a window and a known location. Fuck it. I check my phone again. She's only been there for twenty-five minutes by now. If I can get to Chinatown quickly, I should be able to catch her. And hopefully whoever her favorite person is….
I'm already pushing through the doors, googling directions to Golden Dragon. I click my Uber app and see no one is right here. March wind whips down 8th Avenue as I flag a taxi instead.
"Chinatown," I tell the driver. "Mott Street."
Some risks are worth taking. Some questions need answers. And Emma Chen might be my only chance at both. If Sienna isn't with her, hopefully at least she will hear me out and help me fill in some gaps.
The taxi winds through narrow Chinatown streets, past fruit vendors and hanging lanterns. Each red light feels eternal. Each block between me and some answers stretches longer than the last.
Emma's post is forty minutes old by now. She could be gone already. Back to oblivion. Back to wherever Sienna is.
The taxi hits another light. Through the window, I see two old men playing chess on a card table outside of a storefront. A woman hangs laundry between buildings. Life happening in slow motion while my pulse races.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ethan.
Got more info about contract precedents. Call when you can.
Another text. Luke.
The label's watching every move. Don't fuck this up, Cal. I'm serious.
The taxi turns onto Mott Street. Red and gold signs flash past, but I'm searching for one in particular. Golden Dragon's been here forty years, according to Emma's posts. It has to be…
There.
The restaurant spans the first floor of a narrow building. Its windows are steamy and the lights on inside are bright against the gray sky. A weathered sign shows a dragon wrapped around the restaurant's name in both English and Chinese characters.
I pay the driver and step onto the sidewalk. Through the window, I see round tables with lazy Susans, red paper lanterns, and a counter with a lucky cat waving its paw.
No Emma.
No Sienna.
But maybe…
The bell over the door chimes again. A server hurries past with steaming plates. The scent of ginger and garlic fills the air. On the wall behind the counter, framed photographs span decades—the restaurant's evolution in black and white and fading color.
My eyes catch on one photo. Emma, maybe ten years old, sitting on these same counter stools, doing homework. The same determined set to her jaw I remember from college.
"You see?" The old man nods toward the photo. "Time passes. People change."
The tea kettle whistles from the kitchen, shrill and insistent. The old man doesn’t move to get it.
"You seem restless," he says, sliding a steaming cup of tea across the counter toward me. "Would you like some green tea to calm you?"
Restless is an understatement. My fingers drum against the counter. The rhythm is uneven, attacking my nerves even more. The lucky cat mocks me, slow and steady, like it has all the time in the world. Unlike me.
"No, thank you. I was just looking for someone." I force the words out, keeping my voice casual, but I can feel the tension tightening my throat.
He hums softly as if that explains everything. His hands are steady as he wipes the counter, though it doesn’t need it.
The old man nods, his movements deliberate, unhurried. "Chinatown is full of people hoping to find something—or someone. A place to belong, a piece of the past, good food." His gaze flickers to me, sharp beneath bushy brows. "But you look like you’re chasing ghosts."
The words crash over me like an unexpected wave. My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face neutral. Suddenly it feels like he can see right through me.
I force a smile, "Oh, no, just hoping to run into an old friend."
"Friends come and go, like the seasons," he says with a shrug. "But the ones worth finding usually don’t hide for long."
The businessmen at the back of the room stand up, laughing as they gather their things. Their voices ricochet off the tiled walls. They are loud and cheerful, which feels like a personal affront to the nightmare I've gotten myself into…trying to chase down someone who doesn't want anything to do with me.
The old man doesn’t seem to notice. He pours himself a cup of tea, the liquid dark and steaming. "Tea can calm the mind," he offers, sliding the kettle my way. "But sometimes, it’s the waiting that does the trick."
The irony isn’t lost on me. Waiting isn’t exactly my strong suit.
I tap the screen of my phone, but there’s no new notification, no sudden lead. Just the same silence that’s been gnawing at me for days. "Thanks," I say, though I don’t touch the tea. "I have to get going, but I'll be back," I assure him.
He looks up then and looks at me. He appears to uncover the desperation I'm trying to hide.
"You know," he says finally, "in Chinese, we have a saying. 'The wind follows its own path.'" He pauses. "But sometimes, the wind disturbs more than just leaves."
The businessmen's laughter fades as the door chimes behind them. Only the old women remain now, whispering over cooling tea cups. I seem to be here in between the lunch and dinner rush. And there is no doubt that Emma is no longer here.
I throw a five on the counter as I pull my collar up and head toward the door.
My phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Luke.
We're all here. Including Max. Where are you?
I choose not to respond. He will see me when I get there. Just like Max.
The bell chimes one last time as I step back onto Mott Street. The March wind whips between buildings, carrying scents of old urine, spices, and secrets.
My phone shows that it’s six o’clock on the dot.
I should go straight to the studio.
Instead, I pull up the directions to PS 124. "Forty Division Street, please."