Cross the Line Excerpt
CROSS THE LINE EXCERPT
DYLAN
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, I feel the weight of scrutiny from the other occupants: three record executives in their perfectly pressed suits, all eyeing me like I'm an imposter in their exclusive club.
Rachel, my assistant, notices my discomfort.
"Stop fidgeting," Rachel leans in. "You remind me of my five-year-old."
"Geez, thanks for coming tonight," I grumble back.
"Are you kidding?" Rachel 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 your kids all day," I say.
"And you fall for it every time," Rachel quips.
I roll my eyes. "Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you."
She fixes the lapel of my jacket. "Because you'd be lost without me," she says with a smile. I don't disagree, even though she comes with an attitude I could do without. But she was both my fathers’ right hand and has been with the company for years.
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. I never wanted to be a cookie-cutter executive in an expensive suit, but here I am.
Rachel's practically bouncing in her heels.
"Just don't forget the hand 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 scoffs and turns her attention toward the bar.
"Where are you going?"
"It's a party, and 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 before walking away.
I follow her towards the bar. "Remember, this is still a work function."
She waves me off and orders us both a cocktail.
Jaxson Steele catches my eye from across the room. He's not a Stonewall artist—yet—and the fact that he's making his way towards me says that I've piqued his interest.
Rachel makes a disapproving noise.
"What?" I ask, but Rachel doesn't get a chance to answer as Jaxson approaches.
"Dylan," he says, extending a hand. I shake it as he turns to the bartender and orders a drink.
"Your performance at Live Wire last year was great," I offer, taking a sip of my drink and setting it back on the bar top. "Paper Skies should have had higher billing and more coverage."
"Don't you need to make that important phone call?" Rachel interrupts, giving me a look.
Annoyed, I shake my head and try to 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.
Jaxson gives me a contemplative look.
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 act normal, even though my leg is throbbing.
"We have a little free time before the Summerfest tour starts. Are you busy tomorrow morning?" he asks, and I have to suppress a smile.
I turn to Rachel to ask about my schedule but frown at the disapproving look she's giving me. I decide it's best not to give her an opportunity to talk and turn my attention back to Jaxson.
"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.
"You're playing with fire, Dylan," Rachel warns. "He's signed under Left Turn."
"Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition." I shrug. "Besides, he came to me."
Rachel narrows her brown eyes at me.
A hand grips my shoulder, and I recognize the voice of Marcus Chen. "Dylan, good to see you again."
He recently sold his streaming start-up for a pretty penny and loves to drone on about algorithms and data. He's a nice guy, but I can only take so much.
"Marcus." I force a smile.
"Did you catch me on that panel last week?" he asks but doesn't wait for an answer. "The future of music is moving in a direction that no one is ready for. How are your numbers?"
"Fine," I say noncommittally, a mistake I realize too late.
"Fine isn't cutting it," he scoffs.
I try to discreetly get Rachel's attention using my hand signal and winking, but she looks at me like I'm having a seizure and turns away with a smirk.
"Is there something in your eye?" Marcus asks, squinting at me.
"No, no, I'm fine, but, uh, don't we have that thing – you know…" I say to Rachel, hoping she'll get the hint.
"Nope, you have all night," she gives me a saccharin smile, and I narrow my eyes at her.
"Excellent," Marcus says excitedly. "You should really look at your numbers," Marcus continues as I tune him out. "I developed this algorithm…"
Goddammit.
"You're fired," I mouth to Rachel as discreetly as I can while giving her a menacing glare for leaving me alone with the human calculator.
I hate these events.
"Does your marketing team know how to accurately predict future streaming?" Marcus continues as I tune him out.
My attention is drawn across the bar to a woman standing near the patio. She's wearing a deep blue dress that flows like water when she moves, making the sea of grey suits around her look dull in comparison. There's something familiar about the graceful curve of her neck, the way she holds herself with quiet confidence. I tug at my collar, suddenly feeling the balmy air of the summer night.
She turns, and the recognition hits me like a physical blow: Morgan Clemson, the girl I used to follow around like a lovesick puppy as a kid.
The last time I saw her was at her father's funeral, but we barely spoke – she was surrounded by mourners, and I couldn't find the right words anyway. Now, seeing her here, looking so poised and beautiful...
What is she doing here, anyway? I thought she'd be back in New York by now.
"Earth to Dylan." Marcus waves a hand in front of my face, and then he tracks my gaze. "Should I grab you a napkin for the drool?"
"What? No. I know her," I say, still staring. "That's Morgan Clemson."
"Oh, I heard she took over Left Turn Records," Marcus remarks and then laughs. "Good luck bringing that dinosaur back to life. Their numbers are spiraling."
That can't be true. Morgan's in fashion design. What does she know about running a record label?
"Excuse me," I say as I take a deep breath and make my way across the room. She spots me approaching, and something flickers across her face – recognition, maybe surprise. Up close, her dress is even more stunning, clinging to curves I definitely shouldn't be noticing.
"Morgan," I say softly. "I'm so sorry about your father. I wanted to say more at the funeral, but..."
"It's okay," she offers, giving me a reprieve or maybe giving herself one. I'm sure she's tired of hearing countless condolences over the past few months.
"He meant a lot to the industry, to me." I pause.
"I remember all the times he'd stop by the house to visit my fathers’," I tell her. "I used to hide on the stairwell and listen, enthralled by their wild stories."
Morgan laughs. "I bet that was interesting."
"I don't think Bret ever knew how much he'd influenced me—about as much as my own fathers’," I admit. "Which is why I wanted to…"
"I'm sure he never thought I'd be taking over the company for him," she interrupts, and my face falls.
"Taking over?" I ask, realizing Marcus was right. "What happened to fashion design? I thought you'd be going back to New York." As much as it would disappoint me, especially after we've had a chance to reconnect, fashion was always her passion.
"Things change," she says sadly. "I can't let my father's legacy die or get pulled apart by some money-hungry company who cares more about the bottom line than the music."
My heart sinks, and I feel the need to defend myself, but I have no reason to. She's not talking about Stonewall—is she?
"The fashion industry is cutthroat, and I wasn't going anywhere in New York," she explains.
"I'm sure that's not true. You're very talented," I say.
"That's very sweet of you." She lets out a small laugh. "You follow fashion?" she asks teasingly. "Maybe you're more like your dad, Adam, than you think."
I scoff. "Of course not." Maybe I do follow fashion, but not for the reason she thinks.
"So you're staying in L.A.?" I ask selfishly, trying not to sound too eager. It's a double-edged knife, though. If she stays and runs her father's company, it means we'll be seeing more of each other, but the fact that she thinks she can save Left Turn makes it all the more difficult for me to separate business from family.
"Yeah. This is where I need to be," she says firmly, as if she's trying to convince herself and not me.
"Are the rumors true, that Left Turn isn't doing well?" I broach the subject lightly.
"Rumors? I guess this industry is smaller than I thought." There's a flash of defensiveness that crosses her face, but then she lets out a sigh. "My father left a pretty big hole, and…" she pauses. "I have a lot to learn."
"You don't have to take all that on yourself," I start to say.
"The employees are like family. If I don't step in, people will lose their jobs, and I don't want it to be because I couldn't handle it."
I take a sip of my drink, trying to think of a way to broach the subject of buying Left Turn, but the reality is, if I bought the company, I would have to let people go. It's the reality of doing business.
"Thirty Under Thirty Most Influential Music Executives," she says, pulling me from my thoughts and causing me to blush at the mention of a recent article in Vibez magazine.
So she's been following me too.
I mockingly adjust my suit jacket and cock an eyebrow, causing her to laugh. The pretty sound cuts through the dim atmosphere of the bar.
"Modest, I see," she teases.
My demeanor turns serious. "I worked really hard to get that acknowledgement."
"I didn't say it wasn't deserved," she says, and the compliment, coming from her, makes my chest tight.
She was pretty back then, before she left for college and we lost touch, but now—now she's just gorgeous in a way only a grown woman can be.
"I had some pretty great mentors."
"It's funny how things turn out. I never pictured I'd be taking over my father's company, but I always pictured you would," she says.
She's thought about me too.
"It's what I've always wanted to do. And, of course, all the stories our parents told about the old days," I say jokingly, "when we all got together at Jack's summer kick-off parties growing up."
"I loved those summers," she laughs, and it's good to know the memory makes her happy. "Even if I got stuck babysitting most of the weekend."
A waiter passes by with champagne, and I grab a couple off the tray. Holding it out to her, she shakes her head. "I really shouldn't."
"Come on Clemson, how often do we get a chance to enjoy one of these events?" I prod, and she takes the flute from me.
"I don't get out much these days. Hazel keeps me pretty busy," she sighs.
"I heard you had a kid. How old is she now?"
"She's three going on sixteen," she laughs and then pulls out her phone, showing me a picture of the most adorable toddler.
"She looks like you," I admire, passing the phone back.
"Everyone says that, but the older she gets, the more she starts to look like Christian," there's a hint of sadness in her tone.
"I'm sorry things didn't work out." I'd heard about her divorce through my parents.
She smirks. "We got married because of Hazel, and that's not really a reason to be together. He's a great father when he's around, but…" she trails off. "Anyway, I never expected to be divorced with a toddler at twenty-nine."
I wonder what he thinks of Morgan moving back to L.A., but I resist the urge to pry.
"And dating—how's that going?" I ask instead.
Morgan smiles knowingly. "Very subtle, Dylan," she laughs, "but having a toddler kinda puts a damper on dates. Besides, I'm busy getting settled in at Left Turn, and there's no time for anything else."
"Well, since you're back, you should come to Jack's next weekend. We're all gonna be there—it'll be like old times," I offer. "They'd all love to see you. Bring Hazel."
"Maybe," she says, giving me a bit of hope of seeing her again. "Will there be another Monopoly flipping incident?" she laughs hard.
"Ah, when Jack landed on Park Place with four hotels." The memory makes me laugh. "He accused Maggie of cheating."
"Maggie was always a handful," she reminisces.
"Still is," I scoff, taking a sip of the champagne.
"I always felt a little out of place, though."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, back then being five years older felt like such a huge gap," she says.
"And now?" I ask curiously as I lean against one of the high-top tables.
"I'll get back to you on that," she laughs softly, setting her glass down.
"You know, I'm not that skinny kid who used to follow you around anymore."
"I can see that." It's the way she says it and the way she looks at me that causes hope to bloom in my chest, making me bold.
"I had a crush on you back then," I admit, the words slipping out before I can catch them. "Still do, if I'm being honest."
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks away, vulnerability flashing across her face.
Then she looks at me, admiring my suit, her pretty green eyes drifting down to my feet and glisten with amusement. "I see you didn't inherit your father Wade's obsession with Italian leather."
I teasingly pick up a scuffed and battered Converse as if I didn’t know I was wearing them. "Didn't you get the memo? I was adopted. It's not in the genes," I wink.
She laughs. "You've changed a lot since the last time I saw you. But it's nice to see that some things are the same."
I smile, lifting my eyebrows.
"Do you still play the drums?" she asks.
"On occasion, when I need a way to blow off steam."
"When did you get this?" She reaches up but stops short of touching my lip ring. "I'm sure your fathers love that."
I smirk, running my tongue over my lip, and my heart races as her eyes track the movement.
"About the same time I stopped caring what people thought about my choices." I catch her hand before she can pull it away.
"How do you even kiss someone with that?" she asks quietly.
My stomach tightens at the thought of what her lips would feel like against mine, the way her lipstick would smear, and I have to suppress a groan.
"If you want to find out, step forward another inch," I coax her, my voice coming out low and rough.
She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume – like summer.
"Dylan." A familiar voice breaks through the moment. We pull apart to find Jaxson Steele grinning at us. "Don't forget about our meeting tomorrow.” He slaps me on the back before passing through.
Morgan stiffens beside me, and the look on her face is enough to make me grimace. "What meeting?"
I scratch the back of my neck uncomfortably. Where the fuck is Rachel right now?
"It's not what you think," I start to explain, but she's already putting the pieces together as she rears back.
"So that's what this was about?" She gestures between us, her eyes widening in shock. "Soften me up, using our past and plying me with champagne to get me to open up before you poach my artist?"
"Let me explain."
"That's really low, Dylan."
"Morgan, wait—that's not what I was doing. The kiss, that was…"
"Trying to trick me. God, I can't believe I fell for that," she barks out a laugh.
"Believe me, Clemson," I take a step forward into her space. "I don't need to *trick* women into kissing me," I say confidently, my eyesdropping to her lips.
"You're such an asshole."
She slaps me. The sting on my cheek is like fire. There's shock on her face for a split second before it morphs into something impersonal.
She scoffs, taking a step back, and the loss of heat from her closeness makes me shiver as the cool night air drifts in from the patio.
"You know what, you're right—you did earn your spot on that list along with the other sharks that want to tear this business apart," she accuses.
"I'm offering you a lifeline. We could merge the labels, preserve your father's legacy while bringing it into the future."
I realize my mistake too late. Now is definitely not the time to bring that up.
"By buying me out?" She lets out a bitter laugh. "Wow. I actually thought... never mind. If you want to play dirty, Dylan, I'm game. Just stay out of my way."
She storms off, leaving me with the phantom taste of her lipstick and the sinking feeling that I've just made a huge mistake. I shouldn't have said those things, especially when the passing of her father is still so fresh. The sound of her retreating heels kicks me into gear, and I start to go after her but run into Jaxson looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You did that on purpose," I accuse.
Paper Skies is on the cusp of being one of the biggest bands on the planet. Bringing them in Stonewall would definitely be a boost—if only there was a way to check rock star egos at the door on the way in.
He shrugs, unapologetic. "Just lighting a fire under Left Turn's ass. Nothing personal."
"Everything about this business is personal," I snap, watching Morgan disappear into the crowd, the silk of her blue dress slipping through a sea of black. Her words echo in my head – if you want to play dirty, I'm game – and despite the mess I've just made, I can't help but feel a thrill of competition.
Game on, Clemson. Game on.
Read Cross The Line now.