Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
BEATRICE
Four days later…
The control room at Checkers’ studio feels creepy this afternoon, the silence so complete, it’s unsettling.
This room was engineered to devour sound.
It doesn’t just muffle noise; it swallows it whole, leaving nothing behind, not so much as the ghost of a memory of an echo.
After five months of the Scottish wind rattling my cottage windows and the ocean churning outside my door, the dead acoustic quiet is like a hand pressed gently, but firmly, over my face.
I’m not a fan of hands pressed over my face.
Even gentle ones.
“Relax, it’s going to be fine,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders as I pace the length of the soundboard and back.
Through the glass, the live room sits empty, nothing but a single stool and a mic stand in the center. The soundboard is the star of this studio, a thousand faders and knobs and color-coded channels that look like the cockpit of a spaceship.
It’s always felt like a little too much, but especially so today.
Checkers is not going to be happy about going back to basics with the first half of the album. He isn’t a fan of stripping things down. He jokes that he likes his mixes like he likes his women—smart, complicated, and offensively hot.
But that’s not my sound anymore. I’m not sure it ever was, but it certainly isn’t now.
Scotland didn’t just refine my work as an artist; it solidified my sense of who I am as a person.
It would be insane to release a first solo album that wasn’t true to that.
Not to mention setting my career up to fail long-term.
Why get listeners hooked on a vibe when I’m not going to keep making music like that?
I can’t, and I won’t.
Surely, if I can make that clear to Checkers, he’ll see that I’m right, and that a revamp of the earlier songs is the only way forward.
I flip open my notes, but the words swim in the dim light, and I already have my arguments memorized, anyway. I could present a Ted talk on why the Swamp Witch sound I nailed in Scotland is the only way to go. I’m as ready for this discussion as I’m ever going to be.
But Checkers is stuck in traffic, leaving me nothing to do but pace.
And stress about this meeting.
And stress about the gaps in the care schedule for Clover that we haven’t filled for next week, when Nix and Blue are out of town. And stress about Blue, and how close I came to dragging him into my bed again last night.
But I can’t do that again. I. Can. Not.
“You really can’t,” I mutter aloud.
If I keep repeating the words, over and over, maybe the stubbornly horny part of me will get the message.
Though at this point, I’m not sure.
Logically, I know that “friends with benefits” isn’t a good idea for us right now.
Blue made that obvious the morning of the surprise call from my parents, when he rocked me back and forth in his arms with such gentle, unselfish care.
I could feel the love rolling off of him in waves, leaving no doubt that he’s having “more than friends” feelings.
It would be cruel to encourage those feelings when I’m not sure I can handle romance right now, not on top of everything else. I need to concentrate on launching a high-stakes album and becoming a mother. Even one of those things would be enough to fill a plate, and I’m doing both.
It’s a lot.
So much that sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, already halfway through a panic attack over something I’ve forgotten to put on my list for the album launch or the birth plan. I’m pretty sure adding “being a good girlfriend” to my list of daily duties would break me.
Which sucks!
Why couldn’t Blue have caught feels seven months ago? Eight months ago? A year ago, when we first sang karaoke together and looking into his eyes felt like magic?
I would have sworn he felt the magic, too, but every time I tried to close the “just friends” distance between us, he pushed me away.
He pushed and pushed until the night he stopped just long enough to help me make Bean.
But as soon as he knew about the pregnancy, he couldn’t start pushing again fast enough.
It’s only logical that I moved on, creating a life for myself without room for him in it. It’s also logical that Blue finally came to his senses and realized that we’re perfect for each other. Because we are.
It could have been so easy, so beautiful.
Instead, it’s like trying to dance a waltz to a rap song.
“With a bum leg,” I say, wincing as my injured foot begins to protest the ridiculous amount of pacing.
I’m feeling much better—I don’t need the crutches at all anymore—but I’m pushing things. I know that. But moving is the only way to purge the hunger from my skin. Hot baths are off the table for pregnant women. The high temperature isn’t good for the baby, and lukewarm baths are lame.
I still take them, but I don’t enjoy them…not unless I bring my waterproof vibrator and spend half the bath thinking about Blue fucking me in the water, which is the last thing I should be doing right now.
Not that I let that stop me this morning…
Though, to be fair, I had to do something after Blue burst into the apartment as I was making breakfast, sweaty and shirtless from his morning run, looking like the star of a high-budget porno.
Super high budget. His body is a work of art.
Those broad shoulders. That buff as hell chest. All those sweat-slick abs…
I wanted to lick them.
So much.
Even now, standing in this spooky room, stressing about the future, the thought is enough to make heat pool low in my belly. It’s ridiculous, and it’s past time I pulled myself together.
Bean kicks my cervix, making me wince at the force of her agreement.
Before I can assure her that I’m not about to drop the ball—any of them—the door opens and Checkers walks in, flashy as always in Gucci jeans, Balenciaga sneakers, and a bright blue tee from one of his favorite local streetwear designers.
I’ve worked with Devaughn Charles, Checkers to his friends, for nearly a year now.
He was the one who helped me launch my first single after all the shit went down with Kai.
He has three Grammy nominations, a wall of gold records, and is still on his way up in the industry.
He’s going to be a star-maker, no doubt in my mind.
I just hope he still wants to make me a star by the end of this meeting.
And once he realizes I’m pregnant.
I haven’t broken that piece of news yet, either.
I expect his eyes to widen when he sees my belly, his infamous cool to crack, at least a little. But as his gaze rakes up and down my frame, he doesn’t look surprised. Or particularly interested.
He takes me in with a detachment that sends a wave of unease whispering through me, even before he says, “Hey, Bea, welcome home. Sorry, I’m late. But since I am, and I’m sure we both have other places to be, I’ll spare us any more wasted time and get straight to the point.”
I blink, struggling to remain calm as I say, “Sure thing. Tell me what’s on your mind,” but inside, my pulse is already racing.
This level of directness isn’t Checkers’ style.
He’s not a “get to the point” kind of guy.
He pops weed gummies like other people pop slices of chewing gum.
Sure, he can be a shark sometimes, but a super laid-back one, the kind who circles his prey for hours, joking and telling random stories, lulling them into a false sense of security before he strikes.
He never just…strikes. And he’s never sharked out on me before.
He’s been on my side—socially, musically—since the beginning.
But maybe things have changed while I was away…
“I heard about the accident,” he continues, leaning against the other side of the board, about as far from me as he can get.
“Super glad you and Clover are okay, but the video after the wreck… Well, that’s how I found out about that, too.
” He gestures, briefly, to my midsection, the dismissive gesture of a man who isn’t a fan of the miracle of birth.
Or maybe it’s just me he’s not a fan of, I think, as he adds, “I should have heard about that from you, though, right?
Like, six months ago or whatever? But at least before I signed off on the plans for the photo
shoot. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I understand why you’re upset,” I say, meaning it, but I anticipated this kind of pushback might be an issue.
I didn’t think he’d be this angry, but I’m ready, either way.
“But you’ll remember that our contract states I have final approval of all images used for cover art, advertising, promotion, etc.
In the end, the version of me that shows up on that cover was always going to come down to what I thought was best. And I know this version can be incredible, Checkers.
The swamp goddess energy is even more intense now that I’m pregnant.
” I risk a hopeful smile as I add, “And I’ll definitely stand out in the new-release crowd of skinny girls in tight jeans, right?
I mean, this could be a good thing. Even a great one. ”
He laces his fingers over his chest with a sigh. “I want to be supportive, I really do. I mean, babies are cool. We were all babies once. But I’ve got to be real with you, Bea. I mean, that’s what you want, right? That’s what you asked for when we started working together?”
I nod, my stomach tightening. “Yes, absolutely. Please, keep it real.”
Bean stretches, protesting my internal stress levels. I resist the urge to smooth my hand over my stomach, not wanting to draw even more attention to my apparently undesirable state of being.
Silently, I pray that Checkers isn’t about to be a stereotypical male music industry dick and insist pregnancy is a photo shoot dealbreaker. I know there are men like that in the business—a fuck ton of them—but I thought Checkers was different. I thought he was one of the good guys.