Chapter 1 Playing Dirty
PLAYING DIRTY
DYLAN
Lie To Me By Jonny Lang
I clear my throat as the elevator glides upward, offering glimpses of Los Angeles through its glass walls.
With each floor number that lights up, the press of scrutiny from the other occupants is suffocating.
Three record executives, in their perfectly pressed suits, all eyeing me like I’m an imposter in their exclusive club.
“Stop fidgeting.” Rachel leans in. “You remind me of my five-year-old.”
“Geez, thanks for coming tonight,” I grumble.
“Are you kidding?” She smooths down her black cocktail dress. “A night away from screaming kids where I get to wear something other than yoga pants and drink adult beverages? I should be thanking you.”
“That’s odd, because when I ask you to stay late at the office, you whine about not seeing them all day,” I remind her.
“And you fall for it every time,” Rachel quips.
I roll my eyes. She may come with an attitude, but she was both my fathers’ right hand and has been with the company for years. Her loyalty to Stonewall Records runs deep—something I’ve learned to value above all else in this industry.
The elevator doors open to a sprawling rooftop bar, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city lights. As we step out, I catch my reflection in the glass—disheveled hair that refuses to stay in place—and for a split second, my confidence wanes.
Rachel’s practically bouncing in her heels.
“Don’t forget the signal for when I need you to rescue me,” I remind her as I survey the room.
She plants her hands on her hips. “Is that the only reason you brought me, to play interception?”
“Well, it certainly isn’t your winning personality,” I say dryly.
“Hey, I’m offended.” She turns her attention toward the bar.
“Where are you going?”
“I was promised adult beverages,” she huffs.
“Fine, but stay vigilant.” Before she walks away, I stop her. “Two drinks max,” I warn.
“You’re no fun. Are you sure you’re twenty-four?” she tsks.
I follow her. “Remember this is still a work function.”
She waves me off and orders us both a cocktail.
I scan the room, clocking familiar faces from various labels.
Maxwell Kane is holding court near the far window.
His tailored suit probably costs more than my monthly salary, his confident stance betraying none of his forty-something years.
Three junior executives hang on his every word as the CEO of Anthem Records gestures with his old-fashioned glass.
He catches me looking and raises his drink in acknowledgment, a predatory smile stretching across his face. Great. Just what I need.
He strides across the room with effortless confidence.
“Well, well, the boy wonder of Stonewall Records,” Kane says as he approaches, deliberately loud enough for nearby conversations to pause. “Enjoying your moment in the spotlight?”
I straighten my shoulders, adjusting my worn leather jacket, and extend my hand. “Maxwell. Didn’t expect to see you slumming it with the kids tonight.”
He chuckles, the sound entirely without humor as he shakes my hand with calculated firmness.
“I like to keep tabs on the industry’s… shifting landscape.
” His gaze drifts pointedly toward the Left Turn Records logo on a promotional banner across the room.
“That’s what this business is all about, isn’t it? Recognizing value before others do.”
My stomach tightens. “Value comes in different forms.”
“Indeed.” Kane swirls his whiskey. “Their roster alone is worth considering. Jack O’Donnell’s back catalog still generates significant streaming revenue, and artists like Jaxson Steele have promising futures.
” He says it casually, like he’s discussing auction items rather than people’s careers and legacies.
I struggle to keep my expression neutral. “Those artists are loyal.”
Kane’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Loyalty is negotiable, son. Especially when a company lacks direction.” He leans in slightly. “I’ve been watching Left Turn. His daughter’s in over her head—fashion background, no industry connections. It’s only a matter of time before the wheels come off.”
The thought of what Bret’s built being picked apart by Kane makes my blood boil. “Bret built something special with Left Turn,” I say, voice low but firm. “He cultivated artists who might not have found homes elsewhere. Artists who needed time to develop.”
“True,” he concedes, surprising me. “But that was then. Today’s market isn’t kind to sentiment or tradition. The smart money’s on consolidation.” He studies me with calculating eyes. “I haven’t put in a formal offer yet, but it’s coming. Just doing my due diligence first.”
“Due diligence,” I repeat, the words tasting bitter. “Is that what you call circling a family company while they’re still grieving?”
Kane laughs. “We’re not in the grief counseling business, Dylan. We’re in the entertainment business. And any hesitation is fatal.” He drains his glass. “Anthem’s board is meeting next week. Left Turn is on the agenda.”
If Kane gets his hands on Left Turn, he’ll strip it for parts—keep the valuable catalogs and artists, discard the rest. All that history. All those people. Everything Bret stood for.
My throat constricts as memories flash—summers at Jack’s place, Bret’s hearty laugh echoing across the yard, his patient explanations of audio engineering while I hung on every word.
The way he’d talk about music like it was alive.
The thought of his legacy ending up in Kane’s portfolio makes something raw and protective rear up inside me.
The industry whispers about Left Turn’s struggles have been circulating for months—canceled studio sessions, delayed releases, distributors grumbling about missed deadlines.
Nothing concrete enough for a formal acquisition proposal, but enough to keep my attention.
On paper, it could be the perfect target—strong catalog, loyal artists, respected legacy.
But every time I consider approaching them, I hesitate.
Because saving the company means Morgan would have no reason to stay in L.A.
She’d go back to New York, back to fashion. Back to a life that doesn’t include me.
The conflict twists in my gut. I want to preserve Bret’s legacy my way. But I also want… her. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
But business is business. And sometimes preservation means acquisition.
“Good seeing you, Dylan,” Kane says, clapping my shoulder with enough force to intimidate.
“Give my best to your fathers. They built something impressive with Stonewall. Smart enough to evolve with the times.” He smiles thinly.
“That’s the difference between companies that survive and those that become footnotes. ”
He drifts away, leaving me with a gnawing sense of urgency. If Left Turn is in trouble, and if Kane is circling… there has to be a better option. One that preserves what Bret created while bringing it into the future.
I down my drink. I need to make a move before Kane does.
Jaxson Steele catches my eye from across the room.
Rockstar personified with an effortless charm and charisma that makes a star.
He’s not a Stonewall artist—yet, and the fact that he’s making his way toward me says that I’ve piqued his interest. Because if Kane is already circling, Paper Skies will be his first target.
Rachel makes a disapproving noise.
“What?” I ask, but she doesn’t get a chance to answer my question as he approaches.
“Dylan,” he says, extending a hand. He turns to the bartender and orders a drink.
“Your performance at Live Wire last year was great,” I offer. “Paper Skies should have had higher billing and more coverage.”
“Don’t you need to make that important phone call?” Rachel interrupts.
Annoyed, I ignore her.
“The promoters were giving us a hard time,” he explains.
“If your streaming numbers were higher, that wouldn’t have been an issue,” I tell him.
Rachel, not so subtly, kicks me in the shin with the pointed toe of her shoe.
“Shit!” I mutter under my breath and try to regain composure even though my leg is throbbing.
Jaxson gives me a contemplative look. “I’ve been hearing some things about Left Turn lately. After Bret…” He trails off, uncomfortable.
An opportunity presents itself, and I’d be a fool not to take it—especially after learning about Kane’s interest. If he’s eyeing Left Turn’s roster, securing talent like Paper Skies would be a strategic win.
“It’s a challenging time for smaller labels,” I say diplomatically. “The market rewards scale and resources. Artists need infrastructure to maximize their potential.”
“That’s what Maxwell Kane’s been saying,” Jaxson remarks, watching my reaction closely.
My jaw tightens involuntarily. “His approach is scorched earth. There are more elegant solutions.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Left Turn built its reputation on developing artists who didn’t fit the mainstream mold. That vision doesn’t have to die with Bret.”
“And what’s your solution?” he asks, curiosity evident.
“I looked at the numbers,” I say simply. “Streaming analytics, audience growth trajectories, marketing optimization. The data doesn’t lie.”
I meet his eyes directly. “Paper Skies has potential that’s not being fully leveraged. That’s just business reality. But you don’t need a vulture like Kane to fix that.”
He seems to be weighing something in his mind. “We have a little free time before the Summerfest tour starts. Are you busy tomorrow morning?”
I turn to Rachel to ask about my commitments, but at the disapproving look she’s giving me, I decide it’s best not to give her an opportunity to talk. “I’ll clear my schedule,” I tell him.
He lifts his drink and takes his leave, putting his arm around a beautiful redhead who’s been waiting patiently for his attention.
“What is your problem?” I grit out, rubbing my leg.