13. Distractions
Distractions
Elias
I sat across from Jake Dollworth, watching him flip through sheet music with the methodical attention of someone who understood that every note mattered.
Sarah had her laptop open, pulling up contract templates while David scribbled notes in the margins of the agreement we'd been hammering out for the past two hours.
Jake was good. Better than good, actually.
His voice had the kind of raw honesty that couldn't be manufactured, and his songs cut straight to the bone without apology.
The demo he'd played for us earlier still echoed in my head: a track about his father's funeral that had made Sarah reach for tissues she pretended not to need.
“The studio time breakdown looks fair,” Jake said, his weathered fingers tracing the numbers on the page. He was older than most of our artists, maybe forty-five, with calloused hands that spoke of years playing dive bars for tips and promises. “But I want creative control over the final mix.”
“That's standard for us,” Sarah replied, adjusting her glasses as she scrolled through the digital contract. “We're not in the business of making artists sound like someone they're not.”
David nodded, pen clicking against his teeth in a rhythm that matched the coffee shop music bleeding through the thin walls. “The goal is to capture what makes you unique, not sand off the rough edges that make you interesting.”
I found myself only half-listening, my attention drifting to the window that looked out over Harbor's End's main street. The late afternoon light painted everything in shades of gold and amber, making even the weathered storefronts look almost romantic.
“Elias?” Sarah's voice cut through my distraction. “You okay with the timeline?”
I pulled my focus back to the room, to the contract spread across the table like a roadmap to Jake's future. “Six weeks is reasonable,” I said, though I'd missed whatever timeline she was referring to. “Gives us room to experiment without rushing the process.”
Jake smiled. “I appreciate you guys taking a chance on me. Most labels would've written me off as too old, too set in my ways.”
“Age isn't the enemy of good music,” I said, meaning it. “Sometimes it's the only thing that gives you enough perspective to say what needs saying.”
We wrapped up the details with handshakes and promises to reconnect next week when Jake's schedule cleared up.
He gathered his sheet music with the reverent care of someone who'd learned not to take opportunities for granted, and I found myself hoping we could capture even half of what made him special.
After Jake left, Sarah leaned back in her chair with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just closed a deal that mattered. “That went well. ”
“Better than well,” David agreed, already pulling up calendar apps to block out studio time. “His voice is going to sound incredible in the space. Natural reverb, no digital manipulation needed.”
It should have felt satisfying. Instead, I felt restless, like my skin didn't fit properly. The walls of the conference room seemed to press closer with each passing minute.
“You look like someone stole your lunch money,” Sarah observed, shutting her laptop with a decisive click. “Bad day?”
“Long day,” I corrected, which wasn't exactly a lie. Time had been moving like molasses lately, each hour stretching into something that felt more like endurance than living.
David gathered his notes with the methodical precision that made him invaluable in the studio. “You know what you need? A drink. Several drinks, actually.”
“I'm fine.”
“That's exactly what someone who needs several drinks would say,” Sarah chimed in, already reaching for her coat. “When's the last time you did something just because it sounded fun?”
I tried to remember and came up empty. Fun had become a foreign concept somewhere between the funeral and the gradual realization that Elaine's death had left me fundamentally altered, like a song played in the wrong key.
“Come on, Eli,” David pressed, using the nickname that only my oldest friends were allowed. “One night. A few beers, some terrible bar food, maybe even human conversation that doesn't involve contract negotiations.”
Sarah nodded enthusiastically. “The bar has that new whiskey selection she keeps bragging about. And it's Tuesday, so it won't be packed with tourists trying to take selfies with authentic local atmosphere.”
The idea of sitting in a noisy bar held more appeal than I wanted to admit. For months, I'd been moving through Harbor's End like a ghost, present but not really participating. Maybe it was time to rejoin the world of the living, even if it was just for a few hours.
“One drink,” I said finally.
“That's the spirit,” Sarah grinned. “Though we both know it won't be one drink once Anna starts pouring.”
Anna looked up from behind the bar as we walked in, her smile genuine and uncomplicated in a way that reminded me why small towns could be gifts instead of just limitations.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she called out, already reaching for glasses. “Elias Grant, out after dark. Mark your calendars, people.”
“Funny,” I replied, but I was smiling despite myself. Anna had that effect on people, made you feel like showing up was an accomplishment worth celebrating.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked Anna.
“Tom is currently doing some business out of town.” Anna said and I nodded before thanking her.
We claimed a booth near the window, close enough to watch Harbor's End settle into night but far enough from the speakers to have actual conversations.
Sarah ordered something complicated involving elderflower, David stuck with local beer, and I found myself asking for whiskey without really deciding to.
“To Jake Dollworth,” Sarah raised her glass when the drinks arrived. “And to taking chances on people who deserve them.”
We clinked glasses with the solemnity of people who understood that small victories were still victories. The whiskey was smooth, clean, with just enough bite to remind you it was working. Anna had good taste in everything, not just the obvious things.
“You know,” David said, settling back against the worn leather of the booth, “I think this is the first time I've seen you relax in months.”
“I relax.”
“You survive,” Sarah corrected gently. “There's a difference.”
Before I could formulate a response that didn't sound defensive, the bar's front door opened with its familiar chime. I glanced over automatically, the way you do in small towns where everyone's arrival is worth noting.
The world tilted sideways.
Rowan stood in the doorway like he'd stepped out of a rock and roll fever dream.
Black leather jacket that fit him like it had been tailored, dark jeans that clung in all the right places, boots that made him taller and somehow more dangerous than he'd seemed in the daylight conversations we'd been having.
His hair was longer than I remembered, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger and older at the same time.
He moved through the bar, shoulders squared, chin lifted just enough to suggest he didn't particularly care what anyone thought.
But I caught the way his eyes swept the room, cataloging exits and potential problems with the practiced wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust safe spaces completely.
Our eyes met across the crowded room, and I felt that familiar jolt of recognition mixed with something darker, more complicated. He nodded once, a gesture that could have meant anything or nothing, then made his way toward the bar where Anna was already pulling a beer without being asked.
“Is that Rowan?” Sarah asked quietly, following my gaze .
I managed a nod, not trusting my voice to work properly. Seeing him like this, dressed like every cliché about dangerous musicians come to life, made something twist low in my gut that I didn't want to examine too closely.
“We should invite him over,” Sarah said, already half-rising from the booth. “You've told us so much about him.”
“Sarah, wait—” I started, but she was already walking toward the bar, David trailing behind her with curious interest.
I watched from the booth as they approached Rowan, saw the moment his expression shifted from wary to politely interested as Sarah spoke to him. David offered his hand with genuine warmth, and I could see Rowan's posture relaxing slightly as they talked.
A few minutes later, they were all walking back toward the booth, Rowan carrying his beer.
“Rowan,” I said as they approached, standing up to make introductions feel less formal, “these are my friends, Sarah and David. Sarah, David, this is Rowan.”
“We've heard so much about you,” Sarah said, settling back into the booth with genuine warmth. “Elias talks about you constantly.”
Rowan's eyebrows rose as he looked at me, something unreadable flickering across his expression. “Does he?”
“All the time,” David confirmed with a grin. “Your music, mostly. He's got some of your recordings that he plays when he thinks no one's listening.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I might have mentioned your work a few times.”
“A few times,” Sarah laughed. “He's practically your unofficial publicist.”
Rowan slid into the booth across from me, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with leather and something that was purely him. The combination made my mouth go dry in ways that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
“So what do you two do?” Rowan asked, taking a long pull from his beer, his tone hovering somewhere between polite and suspicious.
I answered before either of them could. “Sarah runs the business side of the studio—keeps us from drowning in contracts and invoices. David’s our sound engineer. He makes the music actually sound the way it’s supposed to.”
“Studio manager,” Sarah clarified with a quick smile. “Budgets, scheduling, making sure Elias doesn’t sign away his soul by accident. Glamorous, I know.”