Chapter Twenty
Malik
November was a blur of working at the studio, rehearsing with the band, and being with Spencer every possible moment in between.
December was more chaos as the deadline for our Rocktoberfest application was nearing. The studio’s calendar was full, and I was getting plenty of work. Cramming in more rehearsals was a challenge.
Reese worked retail—so this was her busiest time of year.
Freddie worked for a delivery service and was up to his eyeballs whenever he signed on for a shift. He made a ton of money in tips, but the work was grueling, and his stress was high as he had tight deadlines.
Mama Murthi was especially busy this year—her legal-aid docket completely jam-packed. She recruited Creed to do administrative work for her. Which freed up her time to visit with clients while having the side benefit of keeping her trouble child out of mischief.
Well, that was the intention.
It mostly worked.
Still, Creed was spending an inordinate amount of time in my basement studio. Ostensibly working on new music. In reality, he was hiding out from his mother.
I was supportive. To a point.
On the evening of the twenty-first, he and I jammed while Spencer sat on the sectional black leather sofa with his laptop.
His brow was furrowed in concentration. He also wore his reading glasses—newly prescribed by the optometrist I’d insisted he see.
The glasses hadn’t helped with the migraines—which were still too frequent, as far as I was concerned—but he had fewer tension headaches. Likely from less squinting.
Score one for me.
He rode me hard about getting my shit together music-wise and to stop focusing on social media. I’d written three more songs.
Score one for Spencer.
Creed stopped drumming.
I stopped strumming.
Spencer gazed up. He met my eyes, nodded as if realizing everything was okay, then went back to his laptop.
He’d tried to explain it to me—some new legislation.
He was tearing it apart and sending copious emails to his Member of Parliament.
As if she, one of three-hundred-and-forty-three, could somehow impact the legislation.
He was prepared to email all of them if it meant he got his way.
I both admired him and was terrified of him. I had a business lawyer who had never steered me wrong. I had an estate attorney who worked her ass off to keep everything running smoothly.
Still, I trusted Spencer more than both of them combined—even though contract and real estate law weren’t his specialty.
He also loved hot chocolate, so I made that for him frequently.
I sipped my water as my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I glanced at the screen and nearly dropped the phone.
Pauletta Magnum.
“Holy shit.”
The panic in my voice must’ve reached my companions.
Creed was up from his drums and at my side in the space of a ring.
Two more and Spencer was on my other side.
“Dude, you’ve got to answer that.” Creed pointed to my phone. “It’s Pauletta Fucking Magnum. You do not want this call to go to voicemail.”
I met Spencer’s gaze. While his eyes were wide with confusion, he pressed himself against me—offering unspoken support.
I pressed to accept the call, then put it on speakerphone. “Hello?” My voice cracked. Because of course it did. I cleared my throat. “This is Malik Forestal.”
“Oh, good.” A strong voice carried through the line. “I never know when I track down a phone number if it’s the right one. You’re not an easy man to find, Mr. Forestal.”
If I’d known you were looking for me, I wouldn’t have hidden myself so well.
“Apologies.”
“No worries. When you’re famous, you’ll be glad you’re tough to reach.”
“Famous?” My voice came out as a croak.
“Well, bigger than you are now. I have plans for you. First, though, I should introduce myself. My name is Pauletta Magnum. You might know that I rep Grindstone.”
“Yes ma’am. I’m aware.” She’d helped them land a huge contract with Grand Central Records. Well, their talent caught the recording label’s notice. But she’d negotiated the contract. At least that was my memory of what I’d heard through the grapevine. “May I ask why you’re calling me?”
Creed rolled his eyes.
Spencer gripped my arm. Thankfully the one not holding the phone.
“I saw your concert last month.”
I wracked my mind. We’d done two. One at a dive bar just off Commercial Drive and one at The Pearl. “Oh?”
“You were the opening act. Way better than the headlining band.”
I’d thought the same thing, but never would’ve said it. I had just been grateful for the opportunity to play at a real venue.
Mama Murthi and Spencer had worked our merch table, and we’d sold out of CDs and most of our T-shirts. Not bad for being the opening act.
I cleared my throat. “Well, at least you saw one of our better performances.”
Creed groaned.
I shot him a look.
Spencer tightened his grip on my arm.
“Yes, well.” A moment passed. “I’ve heard you’re hit and miss. More hits than misses, but you need work. Refinement. Control.”
She wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already know. We were good. We could be better. We needed to be at the top of our game to get to Rocktoberfest.
“I want to rep you.”
Creed pumped his fist in the air.
“What’s the catch?” Because there was always a catch. Top-notch agents didn’t just call out of the blue and offer to rep. At least she’s heard you play.
“You know I plucked Grindstone out of obscurity and made them stars.”
“Sure.” Where is she going with this?
“That took years. Raw talent but no discipline. Axel and Ed also needed to find the right keyboardist, drummer, and bassist.”
“My band is my family. I’m not doing any of this without—”
“Relax.” She chuckled. “You’ve got a good band together already. But you need…more.”
“So you said. What do you suggest?”
“I’d like to meet with you in person before giving you the pitch.”
That sounds ominous. “Look, Ms. Magnum. You’re busy. We’re busy. Why don’t you say what you have to say, and then we can decide whether or not to meet.”
Again, she chuckled. “Persistent. I like that. I have someone willing to work with you. An award-winning producer. But…it’s complicated.”
Creed and I exchanged glances.
I checked the time on my phone. “Creed’s already here. Reese and Freddie are due in an hour. Our lawyer’s here as well.”
Spencer coughed.
“That’s an interesting turn.” Pauletta’s voice came across as amused.
Creed rolled his eyes.
“Well, he’s not my entertainment lawyer.”
“Just your boyfriend?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
Pauletta chuckled for the third time. “I caught sight of you and Spencer Wainright getting…close. I do my research, Malik. I want to know who I’m offering to rep. If any of you have skeletons in the closet, you’re better off telling me now.”
The documentary about Grindstone flashed in my mind.
How ten years ago, Axel’s girlfriend had overdosed when he’d been in rehab.
How they’d kept the secret to themselves until a documentary filmmaker—the woman’s brother—had forced the truth to surface.
How Ed and Axel had lived clean lives and stayed away from drugs and booze.
How they encouraged their fans to do the same thing.
“I don’t have any, Pauletta.” I held Creed’s gaze.
He shook his head.
“I don’t have any reason to believe any of my bandmates do either.”
“Great. I can be there in an hour. I have contracts which, of course, you’ll want your lawyer to read.”
Spencer could look them over tonight, and Gemma could tear them apart tomorrow before we signed. Better call her and give her the heads-up. I rattled off my address.
“Nice neighborhood. I don’t live too far away.”
“It’s a long story.”
“No doubt.” She paused. “May I bring Mickey? They’re my partner. And a documentary film producer. I don’t have any plans to film you, but they’ve always got a good sense for people and often bring great ideas to the table.”
A nonbinary partner? Interesting. “Of course they’re welcome here. See you in an hour. You can park on the street and ring the bell.”
“See you then.” She cut the connection.
I stared at Creed. “Uh…did you understand that?”
“Nope.” He puffed out his chest. “The Pauletta Magnum, manager of the Grindstone, wants to rep us.”
“Did you catch the bit about a producer?”
“An award-winning producer.” Spencer finally released my hand and put his on his hips. “This sounds fishy.”
Creed whacked him on the upper arm. Gently, but with meaning. “Let’s hear what she has to say before we pass judgement. This might be a really good opportunity.”
“Or she might demand you agree to work with this producer or she won’t rep you.” He scowled.
I held up my hand. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Creed, you touch base with Freddie and make sure he’s on the way. I’ll do the same with Reese. I suggest we wait until they get here before we spring the Pauletta news on them.”
“And Mickey.” Spencer’s brow creased. “That’s not usual, is it? To bring a documentary producer to a contract meeting?”
“Are you staying?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Of course.” Then he squinted. “If you want me to…?”
“Duh.” Creed whacked him again. “You’re a lawyer. She’s bringing a contract.”
“Yes, but as Malik pointed out, I’m neither a contract nor an entertainment lawyer. And he’s also my boyfriend.” He eyed me to be certain.
I nodded.
“So, conflicts of interest galore. I can sit in as his boyfriend, but I can’t be his legal representation.”
“Could you be mine?” Again, Creed puffed out his chest.
Spencer smiled and rolled his eyes. “Uh…no.” He whacked Creed back on the biceps. “Good try, though.”
I held up my phone.
Creed shrugged and sauntered off to the sound booth.
I texted Reese—her preferred method of communication.
A minute later, she gave me the thumbs up and a ten mins out.
“Hot chocolate.” I snagged Spencer’s hand and guided him upstairs.
“You’re nervous.” He followed me into the kitchen with a concerned expression—furrowed brow and all.
I snagged the jug of milk and a saucepan. “Reese will want one as well. Do you think I should make enough in case Mickey and/or Pauletta want some? I’ve got the coffee machine—”
He placed his hands over mine, gently guiding me to put the milk and saucepan on the counter.
He took my hands and pulled me into his arms. “Whatever this is, it’ll be over in a couple of hours.
You’re free to take your time making the decision.
You’re a band of four, so there’ll be a discussion.
I know this seems like a really big deal—”
“This is Pauletta Fucking Magnum. She made Grindstone.”
“Yes. You showed me the documentary. Really impressive. But they were ten-years-in-the-making overnight successes.”
“She’s better at her job now. She’s got connections. She can help us with our Rocktoberfest demo.”
“That’s all true. But you also have to stay true to who you are. And that means listening, taking it in, and deciding as a band. Don’t rush to judgement. Don’t jump headfirst without testing the depth of the water.”
I chuckled. “Is that really a saying? Isn’t it something about feetfirst?”
“Well, if the water’s shallow and you jump in headfirst, I’d say you’re in big trouble.”
I grasped his biceps. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He kissed my lips. “Make extra hot chocolate. We can always have it for breakfast.”
“Aren’t we staying at your place tonight?”
He nodded. “Right. Moses.”
I set about pouring the milk into the saucepan. “You know, we could set up a litter box for him here. For the nights you stay over. Then he won’t take his aggression out on that poor stuffed squirrel.” A squirrel we’d had to repair more than once.
“What do you mean?”
“We could make it even easier.” I turned the burner on, then set the saucepan down.
He curled myself against me—taking me in his arms. “How?”
“Well, you could just, you know, be here. All the time.” I held my breath.
He stilled.
For a very long time.
“Or not. It’s a stupid suggestion. You’d be much farther away from work. And you’ve got your condo—”
“I’m allowed to rent it out.” He pressed his nose against my ear. “Are you asking me to move in? It’s only been two months.”
I stirred the milk with the wooden spoon I’d grabbed.
“Sure. Except either you’re here or I’m there just about every night.
I hate when we’re apart. I don’t like leaving the house empty, and Moses shouldn’t be alone as often as he is.
” I took a deep breath. “Seems to me the solution is pretty simple.”
“Dude.” Creed sauntered into the kitchen. “Are you finally asking him to move in?”
I stopped my stirring and turned in Spencer’s arms to face him. “Yeah. I am. The question is, will he accept my offer?”