Chapter 4
DARK THOUGHTS
They don’t even want you here.
All the evidence proves as much, yet here I am, driving to Kingsport Records to spearhead the meeting discussing Dreadful’s new contract.
The urge to bang my head into my steering wheel is strong.
Or maybe I could just scream until my vocal cords fry and I’m rendered non-verbal for the day.
As enticing as that sounds, I know it’s not an option.
I’ve been hiding from the band for the past few days, only responding to texts from Kelly.
Even she’s pissed at me for how I informed them about the label deal.
Did Devon tell them about the other night? Did he paint that picture so everyone will hate me even more?
I shouldn’t care what they think. It’s been years of trying to get these people to appreciate me, like me, and I’m still the god damned pariah of the band. Too controlling. Too bossy. Too demanding and blunt.
Look, I tried handling these people with kid gloves when I first debuted in their shitshow. Being soft-spoken and timid only encouraged them to treat me like a teenager. It took about six months of belittlement before I told myself I needed to embody someone they couldn’t ignore or tease.
I had to become larger than life itself and demand attention.
This persona wasn’t meant to be permanent, wasn’t meant to swallow my identity to the point I don’t recognize myself, but here I am.
Push someone too far, and they shatter into a thousand unrecognizable fragments, impossible to piece back together.
They created Frankenstein’s monster. They did this, yet I’m still blamed. Still too harsh and inconsiderate.
A bully, through and through.
A person I never wanted to be.
I squeeze the fuzzy purple wheel cover tighter, my sweat seeping into the fabric.
Besides my cousin, Michael is the only other person who has ever treated me with even a morsel of respect.
But over the years, his passive attitude hasn’t made me feel any more welcome.
If anything, the distance and lack of general interest in anything I say or do feels like rejection. And I have no idea why.
But the real reason I’m sweating, dreading everything about this meeting has little to do with my life and career and everything to do with a green mohawk-sporting, six-foot overgrown punk of a man.
Devon Thatcher.
Once my wettest dream and now a waking fucking nightmare. I have to share space with him. There’s no avoiding it. The way he’ll treat me, speak to me—my hackles rise, heart races, adrenaline spikes until I’m sure I’ll combust if he so much as looks at me wrong.
That kiss was a mistake.
It was never supposed to happen. But he called me things…
fed into dreams I’ve long since buried and awoke the starving man that’s been comatose for years.
I…snapped. In that moment, it was either kiss him or hit him, and apparently, my self-control is fraying at the seams because I did both.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? It’s not like I can explain myself.
It’s been eight years. Any normal person would have moved on by now, allowing the mistreatment to poison any and all feelings down to a pus-filled, rotten sore. But me? No.
I wish things had been different.
I wish I wasn’t me.
The studio is right down the road, so I have to reel this shit in for the time being. No one can know how fucked up I feel, or else I’ll be the butt of every joke. I can’t handle it.
Checking my mascara in the rear view mirror, I reach up and separate a few lashes and take a deep, calming breath. For good measure, I spritz some of my lavender aroma therapy on my pulse points. It’s natural and good for de-stressing—not that it seems to be working at the current moment.
When I pull into the parking lot, I deliberately avoid the group of metal heads waiting outside, watching me.
There’s no hiding—not in this purple Prius.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have bought the damn thing.
But I wanted something gentle and pretty.
Some bizarre reflection of who I might’ve been, I suppose.
“Good god, Lex, get it to-fucking-gether.” I park, shake out my hands, and sniffle. “Get it together,” I repeat. “Chin up. Don’t let them see shit.”
My expression shifts into its resting bitch face, my heart boot-kicks the door to my emotions shut, and I slide into the role I’ve created. No-nonsense, asshole band manager. I wait another ten seconds, then exit my car.
Clicking the key fob three times, I listen for the shrill beeps and square my shoulders. The leather jacket I’m wearing is pure show, meant to make me look bigger and meaner, but the squeak of my swinging arms gnaws at my ears. One day, I’ll burn this fucking thing.
As I approach the band, Kelly meets my gaze first, and she smiles sweetly.
I love her. When we were kids, we might as well have been siblings due to how much I’d run away from home to sleep in her bed and listen to all her musings about which celebrity woman would eventually become her wife.
As teens, our bond weakened, but that was less to do with her and more to do with my parents butting in.
They always wanted more for me.
“Finally,” Jorge groans.
It throws me off a bit as I take in the band and their outfits.
I’ll never admit this out loud, but they clean up well.
Jorge has his curls pulled back into a neat ponytail, a hairstyle that Oli mirrors.
They’re wearing matching Dreadful band T-shirts and pressed dress slacks.
It’s adorable and endearing. Something that I’ll never get to experience, I’m sure.
I pan over to Phoenix, who is swooning over whatever text he’s reading.
I’m positive there are literal hearts swallowing his pupils.
His long hair is combed out and falling down his back.
With a fresh shave and an ironed button-up, one would think he was going to a job interview.
My cousin has on a tasteful eggplant dress that accentuates her tiny curves.
Her yellow and green hair is curled into loose ringlets, complete with a skull-and-crossbones bow that pins a few locks behind her ear.
Only briefly do I look at Michael. Whenever I look for too long, my stomach gets tight.
But he’s wearing a blue polo that hugs his pecs like a second skin and dark wash jeans that scream a high price tag.
His backward hat makes the blonde fringe flick up in a way I’ve always loved.
I tear my eyes away when he catches my stare.
I refuse to look at Devon, but out of the corner of my eyes, I see he’s put in zero effort. That tank top he’s wearing has such gaping arm holes that I can see his pierced nipples. I give Kelly a brief hug.
“You’re late,” Devon sneers. I’m not speaking to him.
“He’s here now,” Phoenix argues. “Let’s go. Eli’s dance class is over at 3, and I have to pick him up.”
“Are you okay?” Kelly whispers, always having the ability to see through my armor.
I really need to figure out why there’s a strain between us. I miss my cousin.
“I’m fine,” I mumble back and clear my throat.
Still avoiding Devon’s sharp hazel eyes, I tell the group, “This is just a formality. Contracts will be officially signed in a week if everyone agrees to the terms. And I expect unanimous agreement. This is the best offer you will ever get, so be fucking grateful.” The last few words pop off my tongue like tiny grenades.
Oli drops his gaze to the floor as Jorge stares at me like I shit in his cereal. “That was mean,” he tells me and grabs Oli’s hand—gently—and leads him through the building’s double doors.
“What do you expect?” Devon says, following behind the pair.
Kelly sighs. “Be nice, will you?” She gives me a pointed look. My face burns under her stare, but I refuse to back down.
This is what they wanted me to be, so this is who I’ve become.
“It’s the truth,” I say dryly. “This is how you get fame—setting aside immaturity and making deals with labels.”
“They know that,” she insists, shaking her head. “We all know it. You need to work on your delivery.”
Michael clears his throat and nods towards the doors. “Let’s get in there.”
I peek at him, and he offers me a small smile. I’d like to return it, but I don’t.
“The tour would start around January 10th, given the new album is released on schedule,” Nils Andersson says. “We’d be willing to push it back or forward by a month, if there’s an issue securing venues, but to my knowledge, all but a few locations have been reserved.”
“Fantastic,” I say, smiling with my eyes. “And what of the new studio?”
“New studio?” Michael perks up in his seat at the end of the large table.
Nils smirks and taps something on his laptop. The screen projector he’s been using for most of the presentation lights up again, showing the studio layout promised to the band once the tour is over. As a group, they oo and ah, but Devon remains stubbornly in his seat, arms crossed, slouched.
“And we’ll bring in-house producers for future albums to take some of the burden from—”
“No,” Devon snaps. “Fuck no. I mix. I produce. The sound we have is only due to how I mesh it all together.”
I’ve managed to avoid him this entire time, but he can’t speak to Nils that way. They haven’t even signed their contracts. “Devon,” I urge, trying not to sound as shitty as I want to.
He ignores me. “Everything else is fine, but that’s a hard no from me.”
Nils looks at me expectantly. I knew that Devon liked doing it, but I never thought he’d be so unwilling to share the weight. “I was under the impression that the contracts were looked over?” Nils asks me.
I sent a copy to each of them. Clearly, Devon didn’t fucking read his copy. “A minor misunderstanding,” I say calmly. “Those responsibilities have always been Devon’s. But I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement going forward—”
“I said no, Lewis,” he growls, slapping his palm on the table. “This is how bands lose their authenticity—how they sell out. No offense, Mr. Andersson, but Dreadful ain’t selling out.”
“Just hear him out,” Jorge offers. “Maybe you can work with their producers?”
“It’s not the end of the world, man,” Phoenix agrees.
“As I said,” I push my voice louder, “we can arrange an amendment to the contract. Nothing is final.”
I glance at Michael, knowing that if anyone can reel Devon in, it’s him, but he simply glares at his best friend.
“Kel, back me up!” Devon demands. “I’m not giving up the only thing I’m good at for money. I won’t do it.”
Nils clears his throat and holds up his hand. “We can amend the contract.”
“Damn straight.”
My heart is racing. I don’t know how to get a hold of this unruly bassist right now.
I’ve never been able to pacify Devon. That’s always been Michael’s job.
“Devon, please stop,” I growl. We hold each other’s stares for a few beats before he pushes away from the table, the wheels squealing over the floor.
“I apologize, Mr. Andersson,” I rush out.
Devon storms out of the meeting room, and only then does Michael speak up.
“Producing our music is his passion,” he says carefully.
“We are all hungry for success, but Devon has nothing outside of this room. What if we… revisit the topic? Amend the contract to say that production remains with the band until further agreements are made?”
Everyone gapes at Michael, including me. This is my job, and he’s handling this situation better than I could have expected. I guess it’s due to his relationship with Devon. He knows him inside and out—something I’ll never experience. The thought pangs a low ache inside me, but I ignore it.
“We are happy to do so,” Nils says easily. “I can have the revised version emailed this evening.”
Michael nods and gestures for me to take over.
“As far as the other points, everyone agrees to the terms and stipulations. The new album will be finished within the next three months, and their two new singles, Strange Lad and The Mighty, will be ready for all streaming platforms by the end of this month.”
“Great.”
“And,” I rush out, trying to save face with the rest of them, “for what it’s worth, thank you for taking a chance on Dreadful. It’s been ten years in the making.”