Chapter 40
SCOTT: SUITS
Two Years Later
The Making of Jake McKallister
The lawyer sat at the head of our kitchen table in his pressed suit, his legal pad aligned just so.
He appeared completely comfortable, like a man who knew exactly how much damage he could do from a seated position.
Michelle was beside me, with her back straight, mouth set, and her hands folded so tightly I could see the tendons straining.
Jake sat across from us, chair tipped back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest in textbook teenage rebellion.
At nearly sixteen, he didn’t suffer fools.
And although he hadn’t said a word yet, I knew it was coming just by his pissed-off expression.
The second man, a studio representative dressed just as impressively, sat beside the lawyer. He hadn’t said much yet, but he didn’t need to. Why get his hands dirty when he had a henchman lawyer to do it for him?
The lawyer adjusted his cufflinks. “Mr. and Mrs. McKallister, I don’t think you fully grasp the seriousness of the situation.”
Oh, we grasped it… right down to the dollar signs.
But Michelle and I were still trying to wrap our heads around the first shock that had come minutes earlier, when the lawyer informed us that our son hadn’t just been playing in a garage band like he told us.
No. He’d signed a record contract using a fake ID.
At fifteen. Without us knowing a damn thing about it.
Which was how the lawyer and the music label’s rep ended up in our kitchen.
“Your son entered into a binding recording agreement under a false identity. That exposes the label to significant liability… and constitutes fraud.”
We were still catching up to what Jake had actually done, but what we’d pieced together as the lawyer kept talking was this: he’d answered an ad.
Not from some kid’s garage band, but an established one hunting for a frontman.
He’d lied about his age. Lied about who he was.
He hadn’t just been rehearsing—he’d been performing.
A real label had signed them. And somewhere in all of that, our underage son had been fingerprinted for a background check.
“Uhh,” Jake groaned, like this was nothing more than a misunderstanding. “I sang a few songs. Laid a couple of tracks. Big deal.”
The lawyer turned to Jake. “You misrepresented your age and name.”
I looked at Michelle, giving her a what the hell is happening here? glance. Ten minutes ago, I still thought Jake was messing around in someone’s garage, chasing a hobby.
She gave a small shake of her head, but that tight crease between her brows told me she was already three steps ahead, connecting dots I hadn’t even seen yet.
“With falsified identification,” the lawyer went on, addressing Jake directly, “while you were a minor, and while concealing a very public identity that materially affects the value of the contract.”
I glanced over at my son and saw the crack in his armor. But only for a split second.
“Don’t release the music, then.” Jake shrugged. “Problem solved.”
“That is not the issue.”
“It is to me.”
I latched onto Jake’s reasoning. “Just release him from the contract,” I said. “He’s a stupid kid. He made a mistake, but it’s not like he hurt anyone.”
The studio guy finally spoke. “With respect, Mr. McKallister, your son has already hurt us. The label signed a band under the assumption that all members were of legal age and acting in good faith. That assumption was incorrect.”
“My kid joined a band,” I snapped. “That’s it. Kids do that.”
The lawyer’s smile thinned. “Your son is not just any kid. He’s Jake McKallister.”
The name hit the room like a mic drop. They always said it like that. Not Jake; not your son. Always the newsworthy version.
“And now?” Michelle asked, her hand finding mine under the table. Bracing.
“Now,” the studio rep said smoothly, “the label wishes to restructure.”
Jake let out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s nice to wish.”
“Jake,” Michelle warned.
The lawyer slid a thick folder across the table. It stopped just short of my elbow. “The label is prepared to move forward under your son’s legal name. Solo contract. Immediate dissolution of the band.”
“You’re dropping us?” Jake said.
“Them,” the studio rep said. “Not you. The band is… dispensable.”
Jake sat forward so fast his chair legs screeched against the floor. “Why? Why just me?”
But he knew why. When he signed the contract, Jake used his middle name as his last. Jake Ryan didn’t carry the weight of Jake McKallister.
“Because your name recognition has more value than six of those bands combined.”
“If that’s true,” Jake said, “I can go anywhere. I don’t need you.”
“Sure,” the lawyer said, cutting in before the studio rep could respond. “You could try. But walking away doesn’t make this disappear.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have signed a contract with a kid you didn’t bother to verify first,” Jake shot back.
“We did verify. Your fingerprint background check is precisely why this meeting is happening. If you force the issue, Jake,” he continued, “the label will protect itself.”
“You’re gonna sue me? I’m fifteen.”
“No, Jake. We’d pursue your parents.”
“You’re not going to do shit,” Jake said, all full of bluster. “I’m not signing under my name. Not happening.”
“What you want doesn’t matter,” the man said in a patronizing tone. “As you pointed out—you’re fifteen.”
Michelle straightened. “Do not speak to my son that way.”
The room went silent. A tick broke the lawyer’s neutral expression, but only for a moment. He cleared his throat. “My apologies. Let me rephrase that. Jake, you don’t have the authority to make that call. You’re underage. Your parents will decide what’s best going forward.”
He turned to Michelle and me. “And I suggest you consider the ramifications carefully. If this agreement is challenged, the label will pursue damages. This could stretch on for years, with legal fees reaching six figures, conservatively.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past the lawyer’s shoulder. The defiance was still there, but it had gone quiet. He knew as well as we did that there was no emergency fund to cover those costs.
The lawyer, mistaking silence for consent, continued.
“If the agreement proceeds,” he said, tapping the folder, “the label absorbs the legal exposure, and your son’s prior misrepresentation becomes irrelevant.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Michelle asked.
He paused. “Then the contract is contested, which means discovery, depositions, and court filings. Everything becomes part of the public record, and in the course of defending itself, the company would be required to correct the public record regarding your son’s identity.”
Michelle exhaled slowly, like she was trying not to panic. We’d worked hard to stabilize Jake’s life, and he’d finally seemed to be finding his footing since joining the band. This had the potential to derail everything.
“We’ve heard enough,” she said. “Leave the paperwork. We’ll read it and get back to you.”
“A word of advice,” the lawyer said. “Don’t sit on this. The label is being generous. They’re offering a way out.”
I laughed at that. “No—the way out is to just dissolve the contract. To give a kid who’s had a rough go of it a goddamn break.
This? This is the label knowing they stand to make a hell of a lot more off him by exploiting his name.
So don’t stand in my kitchen with that smug expression on your face and act like we are too dumb to figure that out. ”
“Fair enough,” he said, unfazed, gathering his things. “Any other questions?”
“What does the solo contract actually require?” Michelle asked.
Jake’s eyes rounded on her, his anger palpable.
The studio rep cut in. “Exclusive recording rights, promotional appearances, tour commitments… just the standard clauses.”
“And editorial control?” she asked.
“Shared,” he said. “The label would retain final approval.”
“No,” Jake mumbled under his breath.
“And his story?” Michelle continued.
The rep hesitated. “It wouldn’t be the focus.”
“But it would be used,” she said.
The rep didn’t confirm or deny, which said it all.
“No.” Jake raised his voice. “I’m not signing.”
“Again, that decision isn’t yours to make,” the lawyer said. “This deal protects you. Protects your family from ruin.”
“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.”
“We can make you a star.”
Jake stood, towering over him, his fists clenching at his sides. “Do you think I want that?”
“I think you do. You signed the first contract, didn’t you?”
Jake’s glare could’ve killed.
Puberty had pushed him past six feet, his frame hardened by the weights in our garage.
He looked nothing like the boy on the missing person flyer that had made him famous.
Add his anger and poor impulse control, and if I were that lawyer, I wouldn’t be sitting there with that patronizing look on my face.
Michelle reached for him. “Jake—”
“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to fix this by handing me over.”
“We’re not handing you over.”
Jake picked up the contract and threw it against the wall before storming out.
The lawyer opened his mouth to speak.
I raised a hand to him. “You’ve said enough. We’ll be in touch.”
Both men grabbed their things and left.
Michelle and I didn’t speak until the door shut behind them.
“Well,” she finally said. “That went… not how I planned my afternoon.”
“And just to be clear,” I added, “there’s no garage band?”
“Apparently not. Jake’s been in Los Angeles when we thought he was down the street playing cover tracks. That’s some of our best parenting, McKallister.”
“I mean, in our defense, he did smell like a garage band.”
“Right?” She laughed, a moment of levity before things inevitably got worse. Then Michelle lay her head on her arms and sighed. “Oh god, Scott. What are we going to do? We could lose the house.”