Chapter Twenty-Four #2
“No, I mean, I understand the question, but I’m not on hiatus.
I didn’t take a sabbatical or leave to take care of family.
I had to step back from the industry and from making music because of the constant sexual harassment.
There’s immense pressure on young women to do anything to further their careers, and when you don’t, you get ostracized.
It really messed with my head that the music industry didn’t seem to be interested in my music at all, just in what I had to offer sexually, so I stopped making music.
I couldn’t make music. I would get panic attacks about wandering hands and being cornered in recording booths when I picked up my guitar.
And in that sense, yes, Brooks has changed my process.
He’s always supported my music, and he brings this incredible joy to writing songs together just for the fun of it, just as a game.
Having that pure love for music back in my life has been healing for my own relationship with it.
Even seeing him support his daughter’s interests, which have nothing to do with music, without judgment or hesitation, has been part of that.
That kind of unconditional support is rare to come by. ”
A beat of silence passed.
Fuck.
I’d meant every word, but I’d said too much.
“You know what?” Trixie chimed in, resting her hand on my arm again, but speaking to the entire round table.
“Things just don’t goddamn change around here.
I was nineteen when I recorded my first album, and that producer—it was Bobby, he’s dead, probably in hell now—said in front of an entire room of men, to my face, that he’d get me a gold record if I sucked his dick for his birthday that weekend.
His exact words. And everyone laughed. But everyone knew he meant that. ”
“Nobody interfered?” Georgia asked.
“Nope. I skipped the birthday party, drove to Vegas, married a gay man built like a fridge. Wasn’t anyone gonna touch what’s his.”
I glanced down at the ring on my hand. Things really didn’t change.
“They don’t even care if you’re a lesbian,” Helen added and leaned onto the table with both forearms. “Sometimes I think that makes them go harder, because it’s about the power play, right? It’s like they can assert their dominance over two women at once.”
A recording that was scheduled to only last ninety minutes turned into four hours of swapping war stories.
It was no less than that. We had all been scarred and had endured things that were too normalized in the field.
Trixie was the one who opened up the most, said she had nothing to lose, and told us about how the women often coped by using alcohol and drugs in the seventies and eighties without it being seen as a problem, just a staple of musicians partying hard.
I told them about the paparazzo yelling profanities and threats at me and Skye.
Off the record, I even told them about smashing the camera.
All of them understood. All of them shared similar encounters.
Jackie could have leaned back and gotten the scoop, but she shared the things she’d had to endure as a Black female music journalist herself.
I caught Jackie glancing over at the instruments once, but the musical part of the show was forgotten in an outpouring of rage and grief and solidarity.
When we wrapped things up, hugs and numbers were exchanged. Something had happened in this room, and the air was crackling with the weight of it.
“I want you to call my friend,” Helen said and programmed a second number besides her own into my phone. “She’s starting a record label. It’s new and it’s untested, but I think it’s a gamble worth taking.”
“Thank you, but I’m pretty sure a lot of people still have me on their blacklist, even with this thing on my finger. Taking me on as an artist would be the bigger gamble.”
“I have a feeling that’s about to change real soon. If you have a female rage kind of song, now would be the time to get that ready for production.” She vaguely nodded toward the podcast setup. “Besides, Kiki is in it for the music, not the connections. Call her.”
My chest fluttered at the implication. I could sign with a new label. I could actually go back to making music. It wasn’t an offer, but it was someone I could talk to without being shut down the second they heard my name.
I wanted to call Brooks. The urge came on so sudden and strong that I almost forgot all about our fight. We could figure that out later. I wanted to tell him about this recording and Trixie and this new label.
As I walked out of the booth, ready to find a quiet corner and get on the phone with him, I stared at the new number in my contacts. Kiki Nguyen, Patrons of Music Records. The glimmer of hope in my chest was fully to blame for the fact that I almost barreled into him.
“Well, well, didn’t think I’d see you in a recording booth again, young lady.”
The sound of his voice raised every hair on my body.
I dragged my eyes up to the pale, wrinkled man in his impeccable suit.
I waited for the panic to set in at the sight of Marble Audio’s label head, but only a strange undercurrent of nausea swirled through my stomach—and I’d rather throw up on his designer leather wingtips than spiral into an anxiety attack.
“Doyle.”
“Adriana.”
He didn’t move out of the way. The recording studio’s hallway was wide enough for us to walk past each other comfortably, but if he wanted to play hallway chicken, I wasn’t going to budge. Not this time. Not after the last four hours.
“You have a teenage girl in a miniskirt trapped in one of those recording booths?” I asked.
He chuckled. It sounded like clucking. “Still so feisty. I thought you’d learned your lesson.”
“Hold on, let me get this on camera, so you can tell me exactly what kind of lesson you’ve been trying to teach me.” I swung my phone up and pointed it straight at his face. “Go on, tell everyone what lesson you teach young women who dare talk back to you.”
His face turned crimson in the space of a second. “How dare you talk to me—”
“Whoa there, buddy, no need to get so emotional. I’m just trying to have a conversation.” I threw the same gaslighting phrases back at him that I’d heard time and again.
He took a rattling deep breath and narrowed his eyes at the phone camera. “Whatever you’re insinuating,” he hissed, “you should point that thing at yourself and tell everyone how you’re sleeping your way into a comeback.”
I rolled my eyes at him but pocketed my phone anyway. “Didn’t you see? We already gave an interview about our engagement. We’ve been very open about it.”
He did not like being talked to without a drop of respect or devotion. He puffed up like one of those fish when they got defensive. “Forgot to mention some important details in that interview, didn’t you?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Did he know that the engagement was fake? About the custody case? “Well, we did have to keep it PG,” I said, deflecting.
Doyle cocked his chin up, clearly trying to stay physically superior. “I do wonder what Brooks is getting out of this. You got something on him, hmm? Gotta be pretty bad for the deal he offered for your contract.”
Contract? My stomach dropped, but my voice came out steady. “I know true love is hard to fathom for a man who couldn’t get laid if he didn’t pressure people into it, but I’m not that desperate. Now, please, stop acting like a needy ex, and let me through.”
His flabbers adequately ghasted, Doyle took a step to the side, and I breezed past him. I didn’t slow down or pause until I was in the safety of my car and had it locked from the inside. The second I was, my body broke out in tremors.
I tried to pull up Brooks’s contact on my phone, but my fingers trembled too much.
Fine. I’d talk to him in person.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel and started driving.
The roads were too empty and the drive too smooth.
Without the distraction of traffic, I had the chance to obsess over Doyle’s words.
I hated that he still had that power over me, hated that he erased the cathartic joy of the Potluck with a few sentences.
There was only one contract Brooks could have bought from Doyle. A predatory but legally binding contract that had given Marble Audio all the power and, comparatively, left me with peanuts. If he had it transferred to himself…My jaw locked up.
I tried the hotel first, with no luck, then the saloon. If anything, I would have expected him in the staff section, but he was by the stage, talking to Austin, our sound tech, pointing at something at the back of the stage.
“Brooks.” I stomped through the middle of the saloon.
“Hey,” he called over his shoulder without giving me much attention.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Oh no, you’re in trouble,” Austin chuckled, and earned himself a death glare from me that had him capitulating with his hands up.
“Let me wrap this up.” Brooks waved in the general direction of the stage. “Five minutes.”
“Brooks.”
“Addie, five—”
“Did you buy the rights to my music?” I asked, not even letting him finish.
His shoulders clenching up told me all that I needed to know but I still wanted him to say it. I needed to hear it from him.
Brooks turned away from the stage and tried to move me off to the side, but I wrenched my elbow out of his grasp. “Don’t you dare touch me right now,” I hissed.
“Can we not do this here?” he whispered.
“No, actually, we are doing this here.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and planted my feet solidly on the floor. “I’m done holding back to make men comfortable. At this point, I’m pretty sure the phrase ‘creating a scene’ was invented purely to shame women into enduring all kinds of crap.”
“Addie—”
I cut him off, left with zero patience for placating words. “Did you or did you not buy my record deal from Marble Audio?”
“Yes, but—”
“Was that before or after you found a house fit for your own recording studio?”
“Before, so if you just let me—”
“Before or after you bought me a guitar?”
“Before,” he sighed, giving up his attempts at justification.
“Before or after you proposed?”
“Before.”
“I can’t believe you let me think that you wanted me to make music for my own sake. Of course you were a dick about that paparazzo. I was fucking with your investment.”
“I promise you that it’s not what you think, but we shouldn’t discuss this here or now.”
“Fuck you.” I spat the words out.
“Adriana, keep it down.”
“Oh, hell to the no.” I raised my voice extra loud, fully aware that the domed ceiling carried it through the whole saloon. “Fuck you, Brooks Monroe!”
“Addie, for Skye’s sake—”
“Yeah, for Skye’s sake, maybe you should fucking lose custody. The Greens are hugely problematic but at least they’re open about it. With you, I don’t even know what’s real anymore, Brooks.”
I saw the hurt flicker across his face. Good.
I wanted him to hurt. As long as I hurt him, I wouldn’t be too distracted by the pain crawling through my own chest, curling its sharp claws around my lungs and stealing my breath.
He was to blame for that pain. I’d trusted him.
I’d opened up to him. I’d thought he was safe.
I’d thought he was good. And in the end, that was worse than everyone who had tried to use me—but at least had the balls not to hide their intentions.
“Don’t come near me again. I’m done with the lies.” My voice cracked dangerously, so I turned on my heel and booked it out of there.