Chapter 19
EAGLES
I didn’t sleep.
I spent the whole night buried in payment logs, pulling up six months of numbers, dates, excuses.
Turns out, Eli wasn’t the only one. Two other artists are waiting for checks owed to them.
Raymond’s door is closed.
I don’t knock.
I shove it open so hard,
the plaques on the wall tremble.
He looks up from his desk,
dark hair slicked back
and a dubious grin sitting on his mouth—
the same backhanded smile he wears
while slipping the leash back around my neck.
His white shirt’s pressed, sleeves stiff,
a navy blazer slung over the back of his chair.
He’s dressed to either clean up blood
or beg for money.
Today looks like both.
“‘Bout time you showed.
“Place was startin’ to run itself without ya.”
He leans back in his chair,
leather sighing under him.
I drop the folder on his desk,
and it lands with a slap against the glass.
“Why are there artists still waiting to be paid?”
He ignores the folder.
“You don’t just snap your fingers and make shit happen.”
His eyes dip into a pool warm enough to drown in, if I was stupid enough to forget he poisoned the water.
“Takes time,” he adds. “Thought you’d picked up a thing or two by now.”
He rocks back, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his silver watch catching light under fluorescent. Every beat of his drumming fingers climb my spine.
“You’re not just holding back money. You’re holding back rent, fuckin' medical bills, groceries, real shit people need to stay alive,” I snap, brows raised. “Trash Romance. Holly Riot. Sierra. All of ‘em bleeding out while you sit in this glass tower jerkin’ off to the sound of your own name.”
A sigh spills out of him.
He follows it with a head shake
as if I’m boring him.
I narrow my eyes, hoping he sees the disgust in them. “How’s it feel knowing your paycheck’s funded by the people you’re starving?”
He throws his head back with a laugh. “You sittin’ in a Fifth Ave penthouse, talkin’ to me about struggle?”
“Kills you, doesn’t it?” I say. “I’m sittin’ pretty in a Fifth Ave penthouse I bought with money I earned. So you wanna stand up and tell me which one of us built success on the bones of someone else’s?” My brows jump. “Nah?—
“Then shut the fuck up.”
It hits him.
For half a second,
I see the truth land in his eyes.
He'll never be the man my father was—
not in smarts, heart, or talent.
Then he smothers it with amusement,
rocking his chair back.
“Yeah, go on. Pound your chest a little louder, baby.” He chuckles, gaze heavy on me.
“You’re still the same little girl, all worked up and cryin’ for me as soon as the ground shakes.
So go on.” He nudges his chin toward the folder.
“Walk me through whatever crises you cooked up to get my attention this mornin’. ”
I’m chewing on my thumbnail,
eyes locked on his.
He’s gonna find out about my maybe-illegal payment to Eli either way. Might as well tell him now so it comes from me.
I’ll say it calm,
indifferently,
in a blasé by-the-way tone.
“First, before I forget, I wired Eli the money last night.”
Yeah. If I were any calmer, they’d zip me up in a body bag and roll me out.
Still, it snags him as if I screamed it.
His gaze goes blank,
unblinking for half a heartbeat.
Then he squints.
“Say that again for me.”
I hold his stare with no regrets.
As if I thought all this through. (I didn’t.)
As if I’d do it again tomorrow. (I would.)
“I sent it. From my account. To him.
“Since you won’t run this label with an ounce of honesty, I didn’t have much of a choice. But this—” I shove the folder until it bumps his keyboard. “This ends now.”
He studies me,
fingers bridged beneath his chin,
elbows wide,
tattoos peeking out from under his cuff.
“Same blood, same fuckups.
“Apple didn’t fall, huh?”
He exhales, standing.
“Your daddy bought problems, too. Bought ‘em, fed ‘em, called it love.” He drawls the words as he rolls a sleeve up his forearm. “Thought money fixed everything. Thought if you threw enough at the world, it’d love you back.”
He gestures to the folder.
“What now—you want the label to kiss it better? Reimburse you, write you a thank-you card for wastin’ money and time to clean up the legal shitstorm you just handed us?”
He clicks his tongue,
his eyes finding mine again.
“Wiring a washed-up junkie a pity check doesn’t make you a good person. It makes you stupid and sloppy.” His barbed smirk returns. “Gotta learn, baby. A business doesn’t run on feelings.”
The word—
junkie—
punctures through the center of my chest.
Eli was never a junkie.
His parents were.
But I bury it deep.
“Reimburse me, don’t reimburse me, call it a donation, the Acting-CEO’s-a-Douche fund—whatever. Clean it up, make it legal. I’m not here for Eli. I’m here for the next two wires. Holly and Sierra. They’ve waited long enough.”
Amusement dances in his eyes.
“No.”
Heat rises up my neck.
My teeth grind. “No?”
I force my chin up.
“Then don’t be shocked when I start diggin’.”
Raymond faces the floor, his smile faltering.
“Relax, Ray-Ray. I’m not coming for your throne. Just wanna make sure the cash isn’t slippin’ into greedy pockets." I lean my hip into the desk. “I got time. I’ll do all the leg work. Anything for the label.”
His laugh falls out,
but dies before it takes a breath.
“You? Audit me? Baby, you still Google what time it is in L.A. before makin’ a call.”
He steps around the desk, drawing closer.
“But you go ahead. Knock yourself out.
“And when you’re done playin’ boss, here’s a lesson for you—”
The heat of his hand brushes my cheek,
thumb following, skimming the bone.
“Stay outta what you don’t understand.
“That’s what I’m here for.
“Let me keep this fuckin’ place standin’.”
His stare doesn’t waver,
it turns me into a statue here.
Raymond’s gift: you never see where the fatherly CEO ends and the soft touches begin. The lines blur till you forget which hands were holding you still.
“Speaking of pullin’ your weight—”
He says it offhand, back to business.
“Had a big meeting yesterday. This next artist could take this place to a whole new level.” Snide disappointment creeps across his face. “The board’s startin’ to notice, baby. Future CEO’s gotta clock in sometime.”
A laugh breaks in my throat.
“Your idea of ‘whole new level’ is what's gonna bury this label in ten years. 'Cause you don’t sign talent, Raymond. You sign trends. Fast money.” My gaze flies across the room, the truth literally written on the walls. “This place used to be a label. Now it’s a fuckin’ playlist.”
A chuckle slips out of him,
humorless air as he edges closer.
His fingertips brush my shoulder,
his touch trapping me under it.
A reminder of how simple it was for him to take control then.
And how simple it still is now.
“Baby,” he murmurs, gentle. “Still the same soft heart hidin' behind big talk. Always did fall apart when it counted.” Heat pours off his hand, soaking into my shoulder. “Seem on edge. Ben not doin' it for you anymore?”
“Not on edge, Ray. I’m in control.”
And I’ve never lied harder in my life.
Which is also a fucking lie.
“I know that look, baby.
“I’m just askin’ ‘cause I—”
“Don’t.” My pulse blows through my throat.
“Don’t what?”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone,
pressing memories into my skin.
“Don’t love you? Don’t look after you? The only reason you held it together is because I held you together.” His hand slips to my waist. “System not enough?”
Love.
An old-fashioned word that means:
Shhh…
Don’t fight back.
You owe me.
You’re trapped.
You’re mine.
Four letters—four chains locking up.
I force a step back,
breaking his touch,
breaking his grip,
breaking the spell.
“This isn’t about me,” I snap.
“It’s about them.”
I pluck a pen from the holder
and drop it on the folder.
“Sign off on the transfers, Raymond.”
He sees the shake in my hand I can't hide.
He sees the clench in my thighs,
the crack in my control.
Of course he can spot it.
He put the cracks there himself.
His fingers trail the edge of the desk
before taking the pen.
He spins it while staring at me,
the seconds ticking by,
the walls closing in.
Then—finally—he flips the folder open
and leans over the desk.
I turn away,
face the window,
close my eyes,
try to breathe.
Behind me, his voice floats up.
“One-fifty to Holly Riot.
“One-seventy-five to Sierra.
“Seventy-five grand to The Great Savior of Broke Musicians…”
In the reflection of the glass window,
he's standing tall again,
towering behind me.
My next breath stalls in my throat.
Then I feel his hand,
sliding up my thigh.
“You don’t need to worry about this shit.”
His fingers trail higher.
And higher.
“I know what you need.”
I can’t move.
My eyes are chained to his wicked stare in the reflection.
He says it to the glass,
but the words ruffle my hair—
“You don’t gotta run from it, baby.
“You know it’ll make you feel better.”
He traces a fingertip over the center of my panties.
My eyes shut.
Pleasure. Orgasm. Sensation.
They’re not gifts.
They’re traps.
And he knows how to set them.
His finger drags along the seam of me.
The cotton’s soaked in seconds,
heat bleeding through.
My balance tips, my body jumping the gun.
As if he injected cocaine into my vein.
I hate the way I react,
hate that I feel anything.
I spin to face him,
but the second we’re face to face,
his fingers dig into my waist,
holding me in place.
My mouth opens,
but nothing comes out.
“Easy now, baby,” he breathes,
slipping his hand inside my panties,
his fingertip falling to my clit.
He presses in soft, then drags,
sick strokes swelling through my nerves.
He knows my body,
built the blueprints,
created the rhythm himself.
Every stroke says, I made this.
Every circle says, still mine.
And my body fucking agrees.
I glance across the desk.
The folder’s open,
papers scattered,
but nothing’s signed.
His breath’s hot against my ear
as he pushes the folder aside,
rubbing my soaked clit at a sinful pace.