Chapter Six Adam #3
Meanwhile, Eleanor is biting her lip while she quietly reads, and it’s…
distracting. Knowing that we kissed last night is doing something to my brain.
I’ll admit I’ve thought about kissing her before, years ago.
I never could’ve imagined getting to do it, and then not even remembering it afterward.
I’m tempted to ask her if I can see that photo stashed away in her bag, but I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be pretending it doesn’t exist. Also, looking at it again would probably only make me feel worse.
It’s kind of embarrassing. Photographic evidence that my long-dormant crush on Eleanor Thompson led to me making a complete fool of myself last night.
She drags her tongue across her bottom lip, and I can’t seem to stop staring at her mouth, can’t stop thinking about her full lips crushing into mine, about all the other things she could do with—
“You do realize there are half-naked ladies here, right?” she asks without looking up.
I blink hard and drop my gaze down to my plate, stabbing my fork into my macaroni and shoveling the bite into my mouth. Once I’ve chewed and swallowed I say: “I’m familiar with the concept of a strip club, yes.”
She sets her book down, still open so she doesn’t lose her page, and leans forward to plant her elbows on the table in a way that pushes her cleavage together.
To be clear, I’d really prefer not to find anything about Eleanor attractive. Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. She’s smoking hot. It’s just the truth.
Her lips twitch into a smile. It’s another one of those calculating looks she has, the kind that makes you feel laid bare. “Then why do you keep staring at me instead of them?”
I ignore the heat rising up my neck. “I was wondering what your book is about.”
“It’s a romance.”
“Yeah, the bare-chested guy on the cover clued me in. Gotta say, that’s not what I would’ve expected you to be reading in your spare time.”
“Oh? And what would you have expected me to read instead?” She rests her chin on top of her knuckles, waiting.
“Probably a pop psych book about how to make people like you more. Or maybe a business guide to help your flailing little indie label.” She rolls her eyes and scowls, and I drag a hand across my jaw to wipe away the smile tugging at my lips.
It’s way too much fun, riling her up. “Guess I didn’t picture you as a romantic, Ellie. ”
Her eyes narrow, and she’s quiet for long enough that I grow uneasy. I play what I said over in my mind, and internally cringe at the implication I think about her in the first place.
“Don’t call me that” is what she winds up saying.
I take a sip of water, let it cool me down. “Aw, how come Tyler gets to call you Ellie but I don’t?”
“Because I actually like Tyler,” she says with a biting smile.
A hand over my heart. “You wound me.”
“I wish,” she mumbles.
This time, I don’t bother to hide my smirk as I stab another bite of macaroni with my fork. “You sure we can trust this guy?”
She shrugs, easy. “Of course. Tyler will get it done.”
Of course. Why would I ever doubt her random stoner friend? Naturally, he is the best person for the job. “So you guys met in undergrad?”
“Yeah. The dorms, freshman year.”
“Sounds like the two of you partied a lot.”
Eleanor puts her book down again, this time seeming to give up on reading because she doesn’t bother to mark her place. “I mean, it was college. We got high sometimes. Who didn’t?”
“I didn’t.”
She makes a face as she tucks her book back into her bag. “Why does that not surprise me.”
Offense taken. I set my fork down and fold my arms. “It’s not like I’m totally square—”
“Uh, I’d argue anyone who uses the term square absolutely is.”
My lips purse. “I didn’t have time to fuck around.”
Eleanor reaches for her water and stabs viciously at the ice with her straw. “Right. Because you went to Berklee and no one there smokes pot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, I know what you meant. You were earning a music degree from a prestigious program, and I went to a state school and majored in business and smoked some weed, so obviously you’re better than me.”
I rear back. “Whoa. That is not what I meant at all.”
She tilts her head. “No?”
“I do not think I’m better than you. Jesus. All I’m saying is that I took school really seriously. It was important to me to try to earn my place at a label.”
“Whereas I had mine handed to me by Griffin.” Eleanor states this in a flat voice, her face void of any emotion. But I can feel her anger simmering under the surface, ready to be unleashed on me as soon as I give her a reason.
Slowly, I blow out a breath. She’s not totally off base, is the issue.
I have thought that before. It never seemed fair, the way she leaped ahead of the rest of us, even though she objectively had less experience in the industry than most of the other interns.
I’ve grown up enough in the time since to realize it wasn’t that cut-and-dried.
I cock an eyebrow at her. “You know how many people think I only got where I am because I’m a nepo baby?”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve been working my ass off since I was sixteen years old, or that I graduated from Berklee with honors, or that I’ve pulled countless all-nighters scavenging SoundCloud to find new talent.
It doesn’t matter that I chose to work for a label he never even recorded with.
It’s always been my primary identifier—Atlas Shaw’s son.
“Well. You can’t deny it gave you a leg up,” Eleanor argues.
“Sure. Yes. But that’s not something I’ve ever leaned on. The man bailed on me and my mom when I was six. I would’ve preferred if no one knew he was my dad, to be honest.”
It was worst when I was first starting out.
My dad hadn’t put out new music in a while, but he was still very much part of the scene.
I was always paranoid I’d run into him at a show or at a club, which of course never happened because he wasn’t slumming it at the same venues as broke twenty-one-year-olds.
That didn’t stop the other interns from kissing my ass, like I was going to invite them over on the weekend and they’d find Atlas hanging around, eager to have a jam session with them.
Eleanor was the only one who seemed unimpressed by my connection to a famous artist.
“Look, I don’t pretend to know what exactly went on with you and Griffin,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“But you did get promoted to a full-time A&R rep after less than six months of interning. Without a relevant degree. You’re good at what you do, and I’m not saying you didn’t deserve to be recognized for that.
Or that I deserved it more. I’m just saying it was fast.”
Eleanor’s lips press into a flat line. “Yeah. It was fast,” she agrees in a tight voice. We settle into silence for a moment, neither of us inclined to pull the thread any harder, I guess. Then her brow pinches. “You really wish people didn’t know you were Atlas Shaw’s son?”
“Most of the time, yeah.” A lot of the time, I wish I weren’t his son, period.
“But you kept his last name.”
I shrug. “So did my mom. I didn’t want a different last name than her.”
She seems to consider this for a moment as she swirls her straw around in her water. “I figured… I mean, Billy Draper gave you your start.”
And Billy was famously my dad’s manager for a good chunk of his career. I get how easy it’d be to jump to the wrong conclusion there. “He did. Much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“Smart lady,” Eleanor comments, with this flick of her eyebrow that tells me there’s a whole lot more she wants to say.
My foot taps an agitated rhythm on the floor, completely out of sync with the Ice Spice song playing overhead.
I’ll readily admit that Billy is deeply flawed, but it pisses me off the way industry folks are piling on, bringing up shit he said years and years ago, trying to get him canceled.
You’d think Eleanor, of all people, could relate. “He’s really not a bad guy.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” she mocks. She drinks some water and sets the glass back on the table before meeting my eye again. “I used to say the same thing about Griffin.”
“Okay, let’s not…” I lift both hands, palms out. “I know Billy can be a bit… problematic, but they are not the same.”
Eleanor picks up her water again and brings the straw to her lips. She takes a sip and holds my stare, completely unmoved.
“Look, Atlas sucked at being a father. We hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since I was thirteen.
But obviously when I was younger, I still wanted him to be in my life.
The year after he moved out, my mom wanted to throw me a party for my seventh birthday, but I begged her to let me spend the day with my dad instead.
I’d asked him to give me a guitar lesson.
My mom hated taking me to his house, but it was my one fucking wish, so they set up a time and she drove me over.
But either he forgot, or blew me off for something better—either way I sat there in my mom’s car, waiting behind the gate at the bottom of his driveway, for like an hour before my mom convinced me to give up and go home.
“The next day Billy showed up at my mom’s house with a guitar from his own collection.
He sat down with me and spent the entire afternoon teaching me chords.
Then he arranged for me to take lessons.
Paid for them until I decided to quit a few years later.
I don’t even know how he found out Atlas had let me down—my mom didn’t tell him, that’s for sure.
But he stepped in, and he has consistently shown up for me since.
Birthdays, school band concerts, and yes, my first job.
He’s been there, even after my dad fired him and he had no reason to keep in touch. ”
Eleanor’s expression softens a bit, but her response is as pointed as ever: “So you’re saying he’s your disreputable fairy godfather.”