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“I brought her to a new studio in California, so she could work on her third album with a new producer. Coen was co-producer on that one, but he worked remotely because he had a gig in Nashville. It was TJ, the producer, Emily-Mae, and her two bandmates in the house adjoining the studio for a couple months in the winter.”

My stomach is a brick of ice.

He clears his throat, still looking straight ahead. “I walked into the kitchen after being out one evening and heard something in the hallway. Went down, turned on the light, and he had his hands on her. Anyway, I caught an assault charge.”

I inhale sharply. “What?”

He shrugs. “I took him by the back of the neck and hit him in the face. Close range, full strength. His face was fucked up.”

“You punched him.”

“I slammed his face into the wall.”

My jaw drops. Out of everything I thought he was going to say, this wasn’t even on the list. It starts to sink in, and some of his hesitancy about me pursuing this career path makes more sense.

“You went to jail?” I ask .

“No, it’s complicated. I was arrested, charged, but released on bail. I had to do the whole court thing, but the judge wasn’t a fan of TJ and let me off with community service.”

“So you’re a felon?”

“It was a misdemeanor. I guess my hand and the wall didn’t count as deadly weapons.” He turns his head, glancing at me. “Would you be turned off if I was?”

“No,” I say firmly. “It sounds like what you did was justified.”

I run my hand gently up his thigh, shifting closer and resting it on his chest. He releases a heavy sigh.

“Emily didn’t press charges. She was afraid of blowback,” he says. “That’s how these men do it. It’s not always safe to accuse them, so they do whatever the fuck they want. It’s not just men, some women contribute to it. That was a hard pill for Emily to swallow, seeing her friends keep working with him.”

“What happened to TJ?”

“Nothing. A broken nose and bruised pride.”

My chest feels hot and angry. “I hate that.”

“Maybe I’ll bide my time, beat his ass one more time if I run into him again,” he says casually.

I can’t tell whether that’s a joke or not, but I don’t really care. The total injustice makes me a little ill.

“Is that why you don’t want to sign me?” I ask, voice breaking.

He finishes his coffee and reaches over, taking me by the waist and lifting me into his lap to face him. His lids are heavy, eyes guarded. It’s the first instance he’s held me like this in a non-sexual context. It’s more intimate than I expected. His body is warm and broad, I have to push my knees together a little so I’m not having to do a split to sit on his thighs. His chest is hard and big beneath my hands.

It’s safe.

He would keep me safe.

“Yes, and no,” he says. “There are other reasons. Becoming successful in the arts and entertainment industry, it’ll fuck your life up. Yeah, you’ll make money. People will see you. You’ll get to make your art. But you won’t get to live normally.”

“Is that what happened to Coen?”

He nods, eyes dropping.

“I should have seen it early on that Coen didn’t have the temperament to be famous,” he says. “He hated the limelight, just wanted to write. But he never complained; he’s always been a workaholic. And he’s talented, goddamn, he is talented. I was too close to him to see everything until I noticed he was…fading out.”

“Coen is a grown man,” I say. “He could have stopped.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but no. He carried the early days of the agency. It would have put a damper on my career, too.”