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“Even better, because the situation is still tenuous, and they don’t want to put something out that’s not cleared all the way through.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Sift through the Red Velvet Curtains’ contracts and see if there are any loopholes that can be useful in negotiation.”
“They also have the old Jailbirds’ albums masters. Maybe we can take a look at those too.”
I smile at her. I like how she thinks and sees the big picture, not just the immediate goal in front of us. It’s reassuring to know I have her by my side, consistently helping me untangle the amount of work that overwhelms me. The record company we started is so much work it’s unmanageable by one person alone. That’s why last night’s fight is a heavy weight I shouldn’t have put on our working relationship. One more reason to keep private and professional life well separated.
“I’ll grab the contracts and we can get started,” I say, and go to retrieve them from the file cabinets behind Faith’s reception desk.
Four hours and a pizza later, our enthusiasm has faded to a faint glimmer of hope as we discover we don’t have many weapons at our disposal against the record company. We found out that the contract binding the artists to the record company automatically continues under the new name without the need to renegotiate it. Unless there are changes to the contractual conditions that, at the moment, they haven’t submitted to us.
It’s a different matter for the album masters because we need both parties’ signatures, but not for the four Red Velvet Curtains albums that they’re still under obligation to record for the label.
That’s why Adam had to sign—to hand over the rights to the new record company for the distribution of his music, but he is no longer contractually bound to them as an artist.
“We can refuse to sign the contract covering the masters of the album the Red Velvet Curtains already recorded if they don’t free them from their contract as artists. If the label frees them, they can still release their first album and make money from it. We’ll produce the next ones,” Emily suggests.
“They’re not yet a successful band. They have potential, but we don’t know how much they can sell yet. They haven’t yet published anything, so we have no data to support our threat or negotiation. It’s like holding a lottery ticket before the draw—you potentially have millions of dollars in your hands, but you can’t be sure and spend it before you see those numbers appear on the screen,” I try to explain.
“There are always the Jailbirds’ masters. We could leverage that,” she hints tentatively.
“No. I’m not going to trade their music for anything, even if it’s the Red Velvet Curtains,” I say firmly.
Emily lowers her eyes, embarrassed, and I want to reach out and touch her face to reassure her and apologize for my roughness, but I clench my fists at my hips and force myself to keep my distance. I didn’t think it could be so physically challenging to try to stay away from her. Since realizing how much it disturbs me to know she’s on that website, I see how often I unconsciously want to be near her. I gravitate around her as if I were bound by an invisible force that I struggle to oppose.
“We still have an advantage. We know about the merger,” I add when she doesn’t speak.
It’s a clumsy attempt to dilute a tense situation that will never be resolved if we don’t clear the air from that fight. But my mouth seems sealed and unable to utter a single syllable of apology. We’ve had quarrels and differences of opinion, but they were always work-related and resolved with a good night’s sleep and a civil discussion the next day. But last night we crossed that line where the fight moved to a personal level, and a deep breath isn’t enough to bring things back to how they were before.
“Well, if we’re done, I’ll go home.” She doesn’t even look me in the eye and I feel worse.
She and I have never been like this, avoiding each other. We say things to each other’s faces, and we don’t let embarrassment take over. Until yesterday, we had never experienced such a personal confrontation.
Only when she reaches the door of the conference room do I attempt to blurt out an apology. “Forgive me for how I treated you last night.”
She turns around and rests her hazel eyes on mine.
“I didn’t mean to call you a prostitute, and I especially didn’t mean to offer to repay your debts in exchange for sex. I was just trying to help, and that amount is not a problem for me. I didn’t mean to belittle you or paint you out to be something you’re not,” I finally admit, and a weight lifts from my chest.
Emily smiles and blushes. It’s rare for her to be embarrassed. She usually manages to control her emotions and remain cool. “No, forgive me. I understood your intentions, but the truth is that I was ashamed because you discovered it, and I reacted immaturely.”
I wrinkle my forehead and observe her for a few seconds. “You know you don’t have to be ashamed of your choices, right? I would never judge you for that.”
She shakes her head and lowers her gaze. Again, that temptation to approach her and touch her face, to force her to raise her eyes to mine, overwhelms me but I resist.
“I’m afraid of losing your respect,” she confesses almost in a whisper, a vulnerable tone I’ve never heard from her. “Your opinion of me matters a lot, and I’m afraid that what I do in my private life may demean me in your eyes.”
“No, not at all!” I quickly reassure her, my heart pumping into my chest. “I would never judge or lose respect for someone over their choices. You took a courageous path, and I admire you for it. Not many people have the strength to do that kind of thing. Don’t take my desire to help you as a way of judging your life. I just wanted to relieve you of a burden since I can. I’m surrounded by people who don’t live conventional lives. If I had any desire to judge them, I’d already be in hell.”
Emily finally looks up at me. “Thank you,” she whispers before approaching and hugging me.
All my good intentions to stay away from her are shattered when her arms close around my waist, and her head rests on my chest. I hold her to me in a way that is anything but professional, but it’s as if my body has switched to autopilot. Her scent has a masculine note—it doesn’t surprise me that Emily uses it—and mixed with her skin scent, it’s to-die-for sexy. I inhale deeply and get lost in this moment I didn’t know I wanted so much. I let my body become intoxicated with the pleasure her warmth stirs in me. Her soft curves form to my muscles, alerting my senses and amplifying the desire flowing under my skin. Even touching her hair with my fingertips sends a pleasured shock through me that I struggle to hide.
When she raises her face to me, her lips curved in a smile, I accomplish the titanic feat of not lowering myself and resting my lips on hers to taste that forbidden fruit that keeps me awake at night.
I had never been inside the old Jailbirds’ record label building. I’ve walked in front of it a million times, and until a couple of years ago, I dreamed of working here one day. After spending the last hour and a half in a waiting room seated on uncomfortable designer chairs, with people strolling by and not even looking at us, I realize it wasn’t such a great aspiration. I saw a girl around my age enter the supply room at least ten times to take reams of paper, staples, and a roll of paper towels to pick up the poop of a Chihuahua that a woman in her fifties put in her arms before disappearing into a conference room. I prefer Jail Records, where I can learn how to do this job rather than spending my life bringing coffee to the big bosses.
