Chapter 4 #2
“Anyway, changed your mind?” he asks. God, his posture is smug, somehow. Too relaxed, like he knew that he was going to be here today. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, almost touching mine despite my effort to maintain distance.
“I said I wanted to talk about it. My timeline has shortened significantly since my cousin decided to get engaged and scraped together the credits to graduate next month. But I’m not automatically saying yes.
” I cup my hands around my mug so I don’t fidget.
“Because there are so many ways this could go sideways.”
“But you’d want it to work?” He raises an eyebrow. The hazy light coming in through my window catches his greenish brown eyes.
“I want my grandparents’ hotel. Not what I have to do to get it.” I sip my coffee.
“But why didn’t they just give it to you? You said it was a ploy to get your ex to propose, but why would a married couple need to run it together?” he asks.
“Running a hotel is hard and time intensive. My grandparents ran it together as a team and they were able to succeed because of it. They said all the time that their marriage was the only reason that the hotel was a success and told me that I needed a good partner in my corner,” I say.
“And my ex used to work for the hotel. He had…ideas. Charm. Stuff that they thought were good ideas. Maybe they would have been, if he didn’t quit. ”
That was the first lie he ever told them—that he was quitting to focus on his PhD in Hospitality Management over at Crescent Hill University, where we met in our master’s program.
He quit because we were on the verge of breaking up and we were always disagreeing on everything.
Or more accurately, he was constantly questioning everything I ever did with that little smile on his face.
I’m glad I dropped out of the program. I would have lost it if we spent any more time together. Grace dropped out too, and now the only remnants of our ill-fated doctoral degrees is our group chat with other dropouts called Ph.DEEZ NUTS.
“If we got fake married, you’d still have to run it alone,” Ash says. “I have to work for Stryker Liquors.”
“That’s fine. I have Grace to help me. And the staff. They’ve been there for years. Some for decades, even.” I have complete faith in them. My grandparents knew how to hire dependable people.
But I’ve always dreamed of having what my grandparents had—a partner in business and life.
Maybe I’ll have that someday. Not with Ash, obviously, but someone.
“What about you? You need to get married, too,” I say. “Your grandfather was an asshole, and he knew that marriage would be the thing you’re least willing to do for the inheritance. What’s making you this desperate?”
He looks out the window for a moment, tension around his mouth.
Pip rears up and gently taps Ash on the thigh for a pet, snapping Ash out of it.
He lifts his hands and Pip takes that as a cue to haul himself into his lap.
I snort. Ash really is cat neutral, because he has no idea what to do with Pip.
“Uh…he doesn’t know me,” Ash says.
“You have a lap and you haven’t petted him yet. Pet him or he’ll be upset,” I say. “Anyway, what’s making you this desperate?”
“Legal bullshit with my band,” he says, giving Pip a delicate scratch between his ears.
“Our lead singer Caro and our guitarist Gordon basically screwed over me and Dylan, our drummer, with some contract bullshit. I need to get married to get the money to pay for lawyers to get it sorted. I get part of it when I get married and start at Stryker Liquors, then the rest after a year of working there.”
“What contract bullshit?” I ask.
“Basically, they claimed a contract was only to fix how the money that we make touring was distributed. But in reality, they split the royalties for songwriting and use of our music four ways instead of all that money going to me and Dylan.”
“You wrote your band’s songs?” I didn’t know that. Growing up, Ash was always broodily scribbling something down or drawing on his jeans. Apparently, something came of it.
“Dylan and I did, yeah. For all of our albums.” He glances down at Pip, who’s looking up at him expectantly.
“Our money has been halved. Between that and the fact that Dylan and I can’t get along with Caro and Gordon anymore, the band is basically broken up.
And that means no money from performing either. ”
“So you really need this.” I’m not super familiar with the law, but I’ve heard of artists going bankrupt fighting legal battles.
“Do you really think I’d voluntarily get married otherwise?
” He quirks an eyebrow and lifts his mug so Pip won’t rub against it.
Pip hops back down to the floor instead.
“The money I’d get from the share of royalties that Caro and Gordon basically stole matters, but it pisses me off more that they’re stealing credit for what Dylan and I worked hard on. ”
His tone darkens a little bit, finally taking on the serious tone that I assumed this conversation would have. It’s like he’s opened the curtain a little bit and I’ve seen the actual Ash behind it, just for a flash.
Damn it, now I feel bad for him, somehow. I don’t write music, or even do anything visually artistic, but I’d be pissed off, too, if someone stole my credit and my money.
He seems to sense that I feel bad for him, because he shifts in his seat, his eyes taking on a new light. I try to school my expression, but it’s too late. He’s sunk his claws into me.
“Why should I help you, though?” I finally ask. “What if you cut and run once you get the first part of your inheritance?”