Chapter 13 #2
“You don’t know shit about our marriage,” he says, but his voice is weaker now. Blood keeps dripping from his lip, leaving dark spots on his work shirt.
“I know you showing up at her performance was deliberate,” I bark. “I know you sat right in front where she couldn’t miss you. And I know you’re done pulling that shit.”
His jaw tightens but he doesn’t respond.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, leaning in even closer. “You’re going to stay the fuck away from her. You see her in public? You turn around and go the other direction. You hear she’s performing somewhere? You stay home.”
He stands there smoldering, then wipes blood from his lip and holds up his fingers as if showing it off. “I could sue you, Midnight.”
I actually laugh at that. “Go ahead. Press charges. I’ve got lawyers who’ll bury you in paperwork for fun.
” I lean in closer, dropping my voice. “And you’ll have to explain to everyone why it happened.
Tell this whole town you showed up at Lark’s performance to intimidate her. See how that plays out for you.”
His face goes pale. More blood drips from his lip onto his shirt.
“This town loves her, Brandon,” I continue quietly. “It tolerates you.”
His jaw works like he wants to say something, wants to have the last word, but self-preservation finally kicks in. “Fine,” he mutters, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands. “Whatever.”
“You’ve been a piece of shit since high school,” I say quietly, my eyes locked on his.
“So understand me when I say this.” I lean in even closer.
“If I hear you’ve been anywhere near her, if you so much as breathe in her direction, I will make what just happened look like a fucking warm-up.
I will put you in the hospital. Do you understand me? ”
Fear flashes across his face, real and undeniable now. His face flushes red, anger and humiliation mixing together. But he doesn’t say anything. Just wipes more blood from his chin and reaches for his truck door.
I step back, finally giving him space. He fumbles with the handle, gets the door open, and practically throws himself inside. Slams the door hard enough to make the whole truck shake. Blood smears across his steering wheel as he starts the engine.
He peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing, spraying gravel. A few other construction workers are watching now, probably since I threw the first punch. One of them catches my eye and quickly looks away. No one’s going to say shit.
I stand there for a minute, letting the adrenaline drain out. My hand throbs. The knuckles are already swelling, skin split across two of them. There’s a little of Brandon’s blood on my hand too. I wipe it off on my jeans.
I head back to my bike, flexing my fingers. The pain is sharp but satisfying. Lark deserves to perform without looking out into the audience and seeing his face. She deserves to chase her dreams without him showing up to remind her of every insecurity he spent years building.
The label party Wednesday night is at this place in Seattle called The Vine. Exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs hanging from industrial ceilings, the kind of bar that knows what they’re doing with their cocktails.
Lark’s been buzzing with energy all day.
On the drive over, she talked nonstop, jumping from topic to topic—whether her outfit worked, which producers might be there, random observations about Seattle architecture.
Her excitement is contagious, and I found myself smiling the whole drive, just listening to her.
Now, standing outside the entrance, she takes a deep breath and shoots me a grin. “Okay, I’m ready,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Or at least I’m pretending really hard that I’m ready, which is basically the same thing. Fake it till you make it, right?”
“Exactly. That’s all any of us are doing.” I put my arm around her as we walk inside. “You’ve got this.”
She’s wearing dark jeans and a black blazer that makes her look polished and confident, and I’m having trouble not staring. The blazer fits perfectly, showing off her curves, and when she moves the fabric shifts in ways that make me want to peel it off her. I shove the thought away. Not helpful.
The place is already packed, music playing low enough for conversation but loud enough to create energy.
The crowd’s a mix of industry types in expensive casual wear and artists trying to look like they’re not trying too hard.
Dim lighting, exposed ductwork overhead, bottles backlit behind the bar casting colored shadows across faces.
Before we can even get our bearings, a woman starts making her way toward us through the crowd, waving.
“Lark? Jack?” She’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with that polished LA look—statement jewelry, perfectly styled hair. “I’m Maya. So glad you both could make it.”
“Oh hello! So lovely to meet you in person,” Lark says, and I can feel the slight tension in her back under my hand even though her smile is perfect and warm.
“You as well.” Maya’s handshake is firm. She turns to me with an appraising look. “And you must be Jack? I’ve heard so much about you. Great to meet you.”
“You as well,” I say, shaking her hand.
She returns her gaze to Lark, her expression shifting to pure business excitement.
“I was just talking to our A&R team about you. We’ve been following your numbers since our call last week and they just keep climbing.
Really impressive growth. Your streaming numbers are up almost forty percent this month alone, so we’re so glad you were able to make it tonight. ”
Lark’s smile widens. “Thank you so much! I’ve been working really hard on content consistency and engagement.”
“It shows,” Maya says. “The algorithm loves consistency, and your fans are incredibly engaged. That’s what we look for, not just numbers, but real connection.” She gestures for us to follow her deeper into the bar. “There are people who’ve been asking to meet you.”
She leads us through the crowd toward a group gathered near the windows overlooking the street.
The space opens up here, floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting the city lights back at us.
I notice Lark’s hand fidgeting slightly with her clutch, the only tell that she’s nervous underneath all the confidence she’s projecting.
“Everyone, this is Lark Reyes,” Maya announces to the group with enthusiasm. “The artist I was telling you about. Lark, this is Harrison, one of our senior A&R executives.”
Harrison is maybe mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair. He extends his hand. “Lark, really great to finally meet you. We’ve been impressed with what we’ve been seeing.”
“Thank you,” Lark says, shaking his hand firmly.
“Of course,” Harrison says, leaning in slightly like he’s sharing something important. “Seems like you’ve got some loyal fans developing, and they’re actively sharing your content. That’s gold in this industry.”
“I’ve been really intentional about engagement,” Lark says, and I can hear her confidence building. “Responding to comments, sharing behind-the-scenes process stuff.”
“That’s exactly what we like to see,” Harrison says, nodding. “Artists who understand the business side of things.” He pauses, studying her with interest. “So tell me, what’s your songwriting process like? Your lyrics have this narrative quality that’s really compelling. Very story-driven.”
And just like that, Lark’s off. The nervousness fades completely as she talks about her music, her hands moving expressively as she explains how she builds songs from small observations or overheard conversations.
She’s funny too, making self-deprecating jokes about her writing process that have Harrison and the others laughing.
I watch her work the room, and something twists in my chest. She’s magnetic without even trying. Smart, funny, talented as hell. Every person she talks to leans in, interested in what she’s saying.
“I have about three hundred voice memos on my phone that are just me humming melodies at random times,” she says with a grin.
“My neighbors probably think I’m losing it.
Just this woman wandering around her apartment singing the same three notes over and over trying to figure out if they work together. ”
“That’s the creative process though,” Harrison laughs, clearly charmed. And who wouldn’t be. She’s incredible. “Some of our biggest artists have the same habit. The voice memos, the random middle-of-the-night recording sessions. It’s all part of it.”
Maya introduces her to more people over the next half hour.
A producer named Sam who immediately starts asking technical questions about her vocal range and recording experience.
Another artist on the label, a guy named Devon Kane who Lark clearly recognizes and tries not to fangirl over.
Each conversation, I watch her get more comfortable, more herself.
I hang back mostly, letting her do her thing. This is her moment, not mine, and she doesn’t need me hovering. But I can’t help watching her. Can’t help feeling proud of her. I’m not her actual boyfriend. I’m just here to boost her image, make her look good for the label.
Except it doesn’t feel fake when I watch her light up talking about music. It doesn’t feel like a business arrangement when I realize I’d rather be here watching her shine than anywhere else.
Fuck. I’m in trouble.
After about forty-five minutes of networking, Lark finds me near the bar. Some producer had pulled her away earlier with an enthusiastic wave and a “I promise I’ll give her back!” and a wink.
“Hey there, thought I’d lost you to the industry vultures,” I say as she makes her way over.