Breakdown Read online

  For what? A comment? Concern?

  Ezra del Toro and Imogen Creed had met through his friendship with her brother, when Imogen herself was still a child. But his loyalty lay with his wife and Perversion now. No alliance we agreed to within the confines of this boardroom would alter that.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable across from me?” I suggested to Imogen, stretching out my arms. “There’s plenty of room.”

  She dipped a finger into the chardonnay and poked it into her mouth. “Mmm. I’m good here.” Another dip. This time with two fingers. Then three. Then four, and all but her thumb swirled in the bowl of the fine crystal, submerged in chardonnay. Finally she withdrew her hand and it disappeared over the edge of the table, out of view.

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Imogen,” Merritt began. “With respect to all our busy schedules, let’s just have a productive conversation, okay?”

  I provided a timeline and detailed the correlation between strikes against Perversion and acquisitions made by Gash Lyrics.

  “First off, I’m going to respond to what you’re not outright saying.” Imogen issued measured glances to each of her ex-colleagues…ex-friends. “I’ve played no part in poaching your talent. Gash isn’t building its success on the backs of crumbled competition. That’s what Perversion did so well.”

  “If we stepped on competing labels’ backs since taking over,” Merritt interjected, “it must be because we found no reason to veer from the Creed tradition. It’s how you, your father, and your grandfather managed this label—”

  “Merritt,” I warned, “chill.”

  “Am I incorrect?”

  “To address the matter at hand,” Imogen continued, glaring at Merritt, “a couple of years ago I stood in this house and predicted some shit like this would fall. I could’ve stitched the wound if Ezra had been willing to hear me out.”

  “You two spoke?” Merritt asked. “When?”

  Ezra’s expression shifted; his fury seized the room. “Couple of years ago, as she said,” he replied, his deadly stare finding Imogen. “June. The night of the party.”

  “You mean our wedding anniversary,” Merritt clarified, arching a brow. “Tell me what was said.”

  A muscle rippled in his jaw at the same time that his hands flexed into fists on the table. His wedding band spun the light, and I didn’t doubt that everyone in the room caught the gleam of it. “Imogen said she could control Heezy Floyd’s lawsuit if I convinced you to let her back into the company.”

  Imogen added, “And he told me no, without stopping to consider the consequences.” She drummed her right hand on the table, used it to twirl the errant strands that had fallen from her topknot, to gesture as she spoke…

  What was she doing with her left hand?

  I was hit with the urge to drop a pen onto the floor as an excuse to peek under the table. Who knew if she wasn’t sitting here with a lighter concealed in the hand that wasn’t in plain sight?

  “I guess your husband should’ve informed you about our chat,” Imogen said. “It’s the way of men, though, right? They filter our information.”

  “Whatever,” Merritt said. “He did speak correctly on behalf of our board. We wouldn’t have let you back into the company.”

  “But that was then,” Imogen reasoned. “Shit’s changed. You begged me to come to Atlanta so you can burden me with all the drama you assholes frankly deserve. What if I want back in?”

  “Is that what you’re asking?” I demanded. “Ask, then. I’m not playing goddamn mind games.”

  Imogen’s eyes dropped to my wrists. No fresh welts, but there was residual scarring that I’d forgotten to cover with concealer. “So you’re all about being straightforward and honest, Sophie? Too bad you weren’t those things when you were fucking my brother while lying to his face.”

  “Shut the hell up, Imogen,” Ezra warned.

  She leaned closer, her lips inches from his. “I don’t think I will.” She bit the bottom one, as if concentrating on something abstract. Then, “I’m not here to fight. My life in California is stable. My career is secure. Except for a bad habit or two that I can’t shake, I’m on an upswing. I’d say my company’s got this industry by the nuts, but that might seem like boasting.”

  “Good for you,” Merritt said.

  “Oh, it’s good for you, that the best revenge really is living fucking well.”

  “Look, Imogen, what can you do for us?”

  “First, there’s my cut. I have the resources to buy back my twenty-eight percent.” The room almost erupted, and she yelled, “Before you refuse, realize that I’m proposing a silent partnership.”

  “Silent?” I asked, skeptical.

  “Yes. You’d all remain in your current positions. I won’t take that from you. Furthermore, why the fuck would I alert anyone of a shakeup here that can be traced back to me?”

  “So all you want is permission to buy back your stake?” I pressed. It wasn’t a request to piss on, but I’d expected Imogen to demand control. “You want to be part of this company but with no decision-making power?”

  “Not so fucking fast. I do expect voting rights. Perversion is a part of me. I should be a part of it. Agree, and I’ll give you two names that will clot the bleed.”

  “We need an immediate fix. We have zero time to network.”

  “I’m aware. The best in your lineup is 714. What they have is good, but they can’t compete with what Gash and several other labels have on tap. Gash is your threat. I’m a threat to you. I can either save you or take everything I know to my president.”

  “Swear to God, I had a feeling you’d take advantage. I knew you wanted revenge.” Merritt stood up. “Get out.”

  “If I leave,” Imogen said, watching Ezra, “then I won’t come back and everything’s off the table. Tell your wifey to sit down.”

  “That’s not our relationship,” Merritt snapped. “I don’t sit because he tells me to.”

  “Then do it because I told you to,” Imogen replied, her voice sharper, wilder. “Twenty-eight percent in exchange for names. A quiet transaction. I’m the Mensa member in this room, but you’re all smart enough to look past your egos.”

  Merritt made the southern socialite equivalent of a snort. “Mensa? As in the intellectual equivalent to a middle-aged man’s sports car and hair plugs. How cute.”

  “No, as in the one thing you can’t steal from me,” Imogen said, sounding bored. “Anyway, I have faith you people won’t run this label into the ground. Of course, if I have a stake, then I’d be obligated to protect my interests.”

  It brooked no further discussion or debate. We all knew it.

  “Okay,” I said, speaking for us all. “We’ll sell.”

  “And does our CEO agree?”

  “I agree.” Merritt stood staring at her husband as the afternoon light slanted over her. “Ezra, just agree.”

  His nod was nothing more than a sharp hitch of his chin, but Imogen grinned.

  “Perfect. Now, someone document these names. The first is Jocasta Jones.”

  I leaped for a pen and notepad. “Who’s she?”

  “Perversion’s next breakout star. You’ll build her in-house. Keep her protected and out of the media until launch.”

  “Wait a fuckin’ minute,” Ezra cut in. “Give us background.”

  “Seriously? I have to hold you by the dick on this?” She offered a lazy smirk and continued. “Jocasta Jones is twenty. She does down-home cooking and hobby stuff on Instagram, and she has a YouTube channel. Look her up, listen to her rap. Tell me Nikita Jade’s fan base won’t identify with her.”

  “Assuming we’ll let Nikita out of her contract.”

  “You will, once you meet Jocasta.”

  Merritt tapped on her tablet. Then she turned the screen, revealing a young woman with honey-brown skin and a
riot of blond ringlets, whose big gray eyes and full lips smiled as if ready to share the dirtiest jokes and most disturbing secrets.

  “Holy shit,” I said. Fashion designers and editors around the globe would salivate over this girl. “Is she not under any representation, Imogen?”

  “Nope. She’s an ingénue.”

  Merritt offered no comment as her focus flickered to Ezra before returning to the tablet. Then her eyebrows almost kissed as she frowned. “This is a sign language channel.”

  “Jocasta is deaf,” Imogen said. “She’s one of the most badass undiscovered talents I’ve ever seen. She uses vibrations to fucking kill it. Watch the cover videos she uploaded.”

  “Where would we find her?”

  “Louisiana. Merritt, you studied sign language, so communicating with her won’t be an issue for you.” Imogen swayed in a rhythm, her body gently rocking. “Sophie, Ezra, you’ll be relieved to know she also reads lips competently enough, but vet a few interpreters. Hire one as you will her publicist, her PA, her lawyer, her hair and makeup artists, her doctor and dentist, her fitness trainer and personal shopper, her—”

  “We get it, Imogen,” I interrupted. “Every relationship and interaction must be manufactured with precision.”

  “Jocasta will need a proper introduction,” Imogen said. “Debut her as if she’s a headliner.”

  “We haven’t heard what she can do,” I challenged. “We don’t know her abilities, who she’ll mesh with. It’s too soon to talk introductions.”

  “It’s too late to be conservative. You won’t feature her on someone else’s studio shit. Give her a solo record. Take all the rules of this business and fuck them.”

  “Hell, no,” Ezra objected. “We’re not creating that kind of budget for a pretty face you found giving sign language lessons on YouTube.”

  “You’ll invest in her the way you’ve never invested in an artist before. Because if you don’t capitalize on her talent, I’ll see to it that Gash Lyrics does.”

  “Which begs the question,” Merritt interrupted. “Why isn’t she already a Gash commodity, if she’s what you talk her up to be?”

  “I’ve kept my eye on a few prospects. After what happened here, I went to Gash knowing I’d need insurance should things become complicated. I figured I’d start my own label if the need presented itself.”

  “Then you’ve been holding out on your company, looking out for Imogen Creed first.”

  “Fuck, yeah. If I don’t, no one will.” She shrugged. “I’m giving you Jocasta because I’m generous. Generosity’s a flaw—one of those bad habits I can’t shake. Use it to your advantage while you still can. This is your one chance to acquire her. Take it.”

  “What’s the other name?” I asked.

  “As I was saying before, she’ll need content. A killer debut record. The only songwriter I’ve met who can produce the results Perversion needs in this type of cluster is my brother. So, Sophie, write down the second name. Atticus Creed.”

  The room went eerily silent.

  Atticus Creed’s voice had reached through radio waves to take hold of me when I was thirteen. I’d loved him before I met him. Before sex. Before heartbreak.

  I’d been stupid with him, out of my mind for him, absorbed in him.

  After he’d realized the part I played in compromising A-Town Sound and bringing Authentix to Perversion, he hadn’t confronted me straight-on, face-to-face. He’d answered my lies with vile retribution, fucking me that night, waiting until I was bent over in front of him, holding out until he was in me deep and I was crying out my orgasm—

  “This won’t be a problem, will it, Sophie?” Imogen asked. “I’m sure you’ll agree that of the three, you’re the best candidate to approach Atticus and lure him home where he belongs.”

  “Lure sounds shady. I remember he doesn’t respond kindly to lies.”

  “The purpose of this meeting is shady, so drop the good-girl act. All I can advise is that you stay out of his bed. Keep this about business and your feelings won’t get hurt. Besides, as I told you, Atticus is engaged. Any dealings you have with him from this point forward should be professional, not personal. I mean, you’re not the type to interfere in someone’s relationship, are you?” Imogen slid her eyes to our CEO. “That’d be unforgivable, wouldn’t it, Merritt?”

  I stared at my notepad. Jocasta Jones, a deaf hobbyist from Louisiana. Atticus Creed, who’d said he cared about me yet had shredded my heart while we were naked and he was inside me. Those were the people who’d rescue this label?

  “If you fail,” Imogen said, “it’s twenty-eight percent my failure too. I won’t accept that. So don’t fuck this up.”

  “I’ll start the paperwork,” Merritt mumbled, seemingly grateful to leave the boardroom.

  As I watched her flee, my peripheral vision snagged on something across the table. If my heart hadn’t already been broken beyond repair, it might have broken now—for Merritt.

  Conversation could disguise the slide of a zipper, soft restrained groans, and the faintest sound of thrusting…but nothing hid the sight of Ezra reaching down to fasten his pants while Imogen licked semen off her hand.

  When he got up and crossed the room to the bar, I sidled close.

  “I’d slap the hell out of you,” I whispered, as he poured himself two fingers of single malt whiskey, “but I guess there’d be nothing left if I did.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “No.” I wanted to scream, but my voice shook. “No. Don’t gaslight me. I know what Imogen was doing across the table…underneath it. She’s sitting there licking your come off her hand.”

  He knocked back the drink and handed me the empty glass. “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re married to Merritt and you let Imogen jerk you off. During a meeting. With Merritt in the room. That’s not complicated. It’s all levels of fucked up.”

  “She unzipped my goddamn pants and took my cock out. What was I supposed to do? Interrupt the meeting because she likes to flirt?”

  “Flirt? We flirt. We kiss and insult each other and engage in stupid banter. That’s flirting. When you let a woman who’s not your wife tug you under a table and swallow your come, that’s cheating.”

  “I don’t need you to explain shit to me, Sophie.”

  “Just answer this. What about your marriage?”

  “That’s between Merritt and me.”

  “Until today. Now Imogen is a part of it. You’re as much to blame as she is, and I can’t stand to look at either of you.”

  When he stormed out, I picked up a napkin. Bringing it over, I let it flutter onto the table in front of Imogen.

  “For me?” She looked like an angel but was more sinful than the devil.

  “Thought you could use it.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “No worries. I mean, giving another woman’s husband a chardonnay hand job must be messy.”

  Imogen’s contrition was fleeting and might have been only a shard of light passing through the windows. “You’ll tell Merritt?”

  “You want me to, don’t you?”

  “As her best friend now, you have a duty to,” Imogen said slowly. “But then, as Ezra’s friend, you’d be betraying him—and he hates disloyalty. Guess you’ve got a dilemma.”

  “Sadistic bitch—”

  “Missed you, too, sweetie.” Wiping her hands on the napkin, Imogen tossed it onto the table and blew me a kiss. “I’ll follow up with Merritt about the papers.”

  “Are you a sociopath? It’s a legit question.”

  “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. It’s not a legit question. It’s animosity framed as a question, and the objective is to vilify me. Vilifying me will only make you a hypocrite.”

  “How?”

  “Atticus’s got himself a blueberry farm in Washington State. It’s par
adise, the life he carved out for himself away from music. What wouldn’t you do to convince an engaged man to trade paradise for hell?”

  “I’m not going to answer that.”

  “Oh, you just did. Before you throw another stone at me, make sure your house isn’t made of glass.” She made haste for the door. “Be a peach and call housekeeping about the rug. Merritt’s grandmother bought it for her. I’d really hate for it to be forever ruined because her husband couldn’t control his load.”

  “You,” I spat. Could this woman hear herself? Did she know she was spiraling through, leaving destruction behind? “He couldn’t control you.”

  Imogen nodded, and her smile held no shame. “No one can.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Seven years ago…

  Atticus

  At 12:01 a.m. on her eighteenth birthday, I put my hands on her.

  And my mouth.

  And my heat, and anger, and shame.

  An hour and forty-nine minutes ago, my drummer caught her stowing away in the back of our band’s Hummer, where she’d been hiding in cargo wearing a bright-ass pink puffy coat she couldn’t have really thought would go unnoticed.

  Past wasted, speed-racing toward shit-faced, Peppers had said to me, “Either you put all these hometown groupies on foot patrol or start sharin’.”

  “Go deep-throat a bottle of JD,” I’d said, on edge as I’d been from the fucking second I agreed to perform a goddamn halftime show for the Hawks. In December. A week before Jugular’s international tour. On the tenth anniversary of Mama’s death.

  Only being in the arena with a mic and my guitar, in the moment and in the music, had given me freedom. It wasn’t hype or merch or the opportunity destined to engulf Jugular now that we were on the mainstream radar and our dark alternative metal appeared in national ads and was pulsing through bars and clubs. Fuck that. It was about breathing. Music was oxygen and solace, neutralizing the chaos that came with the territory of being a Creed.

  After our set, the adrenaline high had crashed fast. I’d answered reporters’ questions, allowed photographs, given media and fans slivers of myself. They called me the mysterious front man of Jugular, the enigmatic tattooed heir to the Perversion kingdom, the shy southern boy who might get the golden ticket everyone really wanted—Hollywood.