Broken Records Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Cassie Mae and Tessa Marie

  Sale of any edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.

  CookieLynn Publishing Services, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by C & K Creations

  First Edition: September 2016

  Broken Records Playlist

  If I Die Young – The Band Perry

  No Air - Jordin Sparks (featuring Chris Brown)

  That Guy’s an Asshole - Sara Bareilles

  Whispers in the Dark – Skillet

  Nobody Knows When You’re Down and Out – Bessie Smith

  I’m Not Your Hero - Tegan and Sara

  Wide Awake – Katy Perry

  Here’s to Never Growing Up – Avril Lavigne

  Clarity – John Mayer

  What Good Can Drinkin’ Do – Janis Joplin

  This is Me - Demi Lovato (featuring Joe Jonas)

  Seein’ Red – Dustin Lynch

  Count on Me – Bruno Mars

  My Own Worst Enemy – Lit

  Worst Day Since Yesterday – Flogging Molly

  Can’t Shake You – Gloriana

  That’s What You Get – Paramore

  Dangerous Woman – Ariana Grande

  Can’t Help Falling in Love – Elvis Presley

  I’ll Be There for You - The Rembrandts

  I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt

  Takin’ Care of Business - Bachman-Turner Overdrive

  I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor

  Play It Again – Luke Bryan

  Lean on Me – Bill Withers

  Think a Little Less - Michael Ray

  At Last – Etta James

  Somebody That I Used to Know - Gotye (featuring Kimbra)

  Lost for Words – Pink Floyd

  Bent – Matchbox Twenty

  Stand in the Light – Jordan Smith

  You Don’t Know Her Like I Do - Brantley Gilbert

  As Long as You Love Me – Backstreet Boys

  Everything Has Changed –Taylor Swift

  “One, two, shoot!”

  The noise surrounding my ears fades as I tip back, tequila running down my throat with one swift swig. A plastered grin sets on my lips, and I grab the nearest woman and cover her lime-soaked mouth with mine.

  My phone incessantly buzzes in the pocket of my board shorts.

  “Another round!” I shout, keeping my burning palm against the small of the beach beauty’s back. The bonfire blazes a few feet away, making the air around us wavy. I chuckle to myself, thinking I’ve maybe had a few too many, but that won’t stop me. Never does.

  A flash of a camera goes off somewhere. All the tabloids seem to wonder when I’ll grow up. I’ll go on the record right now that there is a fat chance of that happening.

  “Ethan! Get your ass over here!”

  My drunken gaze swivels around the crowd, landing on a girl I don’t know. A girl I’d like to know better than the one with her arm hooked around my waist. She slides her top off and eyes the tide rising up the shore, tilting an eyebrow at me in invitation.

  I ease away from the curvy brunette with the nice rack without so much of a goodbye since A) I’m not sober and B) I don’t give a shit. Another flash goes off. My phone buzzes against my thigh.

  “Get out of those pants,” she playfully demands. Her hair is long, blonde—my type. Her breasts are pushed together, the ocean lapping at them in a way I am ready to do. My clothes cannot leave my body fast enough.

  I drop my buzzing phone into my shoe. My father’s picture blinks on the screen with eighteen missed calls. Twelve missed messages. The blonde beauty in the ocean beckons me again. I ignore my phone—I’ve never cared enough to answer that particular caller, and I don’t plan to start caring now.

  Six weeks later…

  It took me all morning to learn how to dress myself. If it was the first time in my life attempting this—and I was two years old—I’d say that was pretty damn good. But it’s downright pathetic at twenty-seven.

  Running a hand down the tie I borrowed from my late father’s closet, I blow out a careful breath and count the seconds as they tick away on the clock hanging over my desk. As a freshly dipped CEO, I have yet to grow a backbone, and the three weeks I’ve been running the show, it’s been extremely obvious. But no more of that naïve shit. Today I successfully tied my tie and buttoned my suit. The entire record company will see a new Mr. Ethan Davis.

  A knock comes at the door, and I stand my ground, refusing to move toward it or acknowledge that the sound happened at all. The moment my title took effect my personal assistant made it very clear that he knew more about running a record label than that of a son—with no business or musical background, at that—who just inherited a company. He’s insistent on face-to-face interactions while ignoring the useful intercom system my father put in place because that very assistant complained about getting up and knocking on the door. For the past three weeks, I’ve played along, tried not to step on toes and make enemies in an already fiend-saturated environment. But a guy can only take so much crap before he loses his shit, and if they want a boss to hate, I’ll give them one. My reputation as a slacker precedes me everywhere—my father’s record label is no exception, but I got a hard-ass shell that I can easily put on.

  I walk to my desk and lower myself in the high-backed chair my father used every day of his life. I tap a finger against the white button that connects me to Jerome, the proverbial thorn in my side.

  “There’s someone at my door, Jerome,” I say through the speaker. “What do they want?”

  When I don’t hear an immediate answer, only the footsteps moving away from my office, an amused grin crawls onto my lips. I don’t normally find satisfaction in annoying people, but Jerome’s made it easier and easier the more I drag myself through the front door.

  The intercom lights up on my phone. “It was me. You should’ve known that.”

  “I see through thick wood paneling now? My mistake, Mr. Personal Assistant. Next time I’ll allow any two-bit schmuck to disrupt me during business hours. Or I can find someone who possesses the knowledge on how to press a button. What do you suggest?”

  The silence I’m met with is the most satisfying response I’ve had here. I was stampeded into the ground, spat on, and I took it all in good fun until I found out I was really just the butt of a bad joke. It doesn’t matter that I agreed with the staff on my dad’s decision—I haven’t a clue why my father left an international label to me. Our relationship was complicated at best, non-existent at worst. He ignored me, and I took advantage of his money. I was actually ready to leave the company in the hands of someone who’d spent more than five minutes inside its doors, but after spending one last night in party town in my drunken haze, I thought I probably should grow up at some point. So I put on the suit and decided to hell with it—I’ll figure this out. Nothing like baptism by fire.

  “I…” Jerome stutters, then quickly composes himself. “It’s nearly nine. The interns start today, and they need to know who you are.”

  A “thank you” nearly slips out, but I turn it into an acknowledging grunt. Politeness, I’ve discovered, is not the way with these people either. Maybe after I’ve earned their respect, which may
take an entire lifetime.

  “When you find out where they are, let me know. By phone this time.” I click off the intercom before waiting for a response, a slow, sick taste building in my mouth. Did my father have to be such a dick in order to get stuff done when he was running things? Leaning back in my chair, I turn to the upper right-hand drawer in my desk and roll it out. It’s filled with USB sticks that my father was in the middle of listening to before he died. He was adamant about having his opinion heard on every band that was offered a contract, spent hours listening with his eyes closed at the dinner table while Mom begged him to give us an hour of his time. Sometimes he humored her, but I could always tell his mind was on whatever band he was obsessed with.

  My fingers tumble over the demos until they land on one I downloaded from my father’s drive my first week here. I plug it into the port and slide on the headphones, trying to quiet the pounding of my heart and the voices in my head that tell me music is what destroys things.

  While my reputation is a factor in why I’m not welcome behind this desk, it’s not the biggest one—I despise music, and that’s not something easily hidden. It wasn’t always that way; there was a time when I enjoyed it like everyone else. There were songs that woke fond memories and made me subconsciously grin. But most music now, like this demo that’s playing in my ears, turns my blood into acid. I see my father and how he let the music eat away at our family, how he kept the headphones on even during the darkest of times. I hardly recognized him in the open casket because it seemed that I hadn’t seen his face in years; work obstructed my view of him.

  I skip the track, and the next song doesn’t feel any different, so I skip that too. And the next and the next until my insides burn and shrivel with every note. My hands find the headphones and tear them from my head, ruining the serious business I’ve done with my hair to command some type of authority in this place I know next-to-nothing about. I run a shaking hand over my forehead, count the ticks of the clock yet again, tick, tick, tick, and when I’ve regained sense, I push the drawer closed and tell myself that today is not just the day for a new Mr. Davis. It is also the day I’ll find someone worthy of listening to every demo that runs through here. Someone with no family to ignore, nothing but passion for music and a good ear that will keep my father’s label afloat.

  My label.

  “Mr. Davis, the interns are in studio three,” Jerome says into the intercom. I breathe out a sigh of relief that my hard act, at least, is doing its job for now.

  ***

  A few minutes after I leave my office, I stop mid-stride toward the elevator and clutch a hand to my chest. It’s in your head, I tell myself, letting a long, satisfying intake of breath calm the thumping of my heart. When your father dies from unexpected heart failure, there’s bound to be a little paranoia when nerves overtake the bloodstream. But I, unfortunately, have a teeny tiny hypochondriac gene that loves to inform me that faster heartbeats can lead to death. The office isn’t exactly where I’d prefer to have a heart attack—if I’m destined to have one at all.

  My heart takes several seconds to calm, thanks to my focused breathing. It’s a relatively new method of relaxation—I’ve had to try something else since I gave up music nearly a decade ago. Music used to be the thing that could calm me in a second flat. Strange how comforts can turn into triggers.

  When I’m certain that I’m not about to share the same fate as my old man, I drag a hand up to the button on the elevator. The yellow down arrow immediately lights above my head, and the doors ping open. This is my father’s private elevator… was my father’s private elevator. He was the private type; nothing and no one could tear him away from the music world that consumed him. I pray to God I don’t end up the same. What with me shedding the carefree spirit, my personality is pretty much a blank canvas at this point.

  I step onto the elevator and hit the studio floor. The doors slide shut, and the floors tick down, down, down, the ride much faster than the average elevator. I lean against the handrail, tucking my hands into my suit pockets. The closer I get to my destination, the harder my heart pounds in my chest. It’s been four days since my last visit to any of the recording studios, and it wasn’t the most pleasant day of my life, that’s for sure.

  The elevator comes to a stomach-lurching stop. My brow furrows as I look up at the bright red 5 glowing just above the now-opening doors.

  A woman pauses in front of the open elevator, her eyebrows lifting at the sight of someone actually inside. I raise a similar brow to her, not only because her appearance is unexpected—and I’ll admit, boner-inducing—but because she boldly steps inside and clenches her jaw as she looks at the floor buttons.

  I’m sure I haven’t met her before—not that I remember everyone I’ve met since arriving as CEO—but I know she would’ve been a difficult person to forget. As she debates on the floor she wants, I straighten my stance and let my eyes wander over her braided fire-engine red hair, low-hanging white tank top, and splashed green and black tights hugging a pair of sweet-looking legs. There are piercings that form a curved line along each ear, the bottom-most earrings dangling so low the ends graze her exposed collarbone. I wonder if she’s one of our artists. No doubt someone gave her faulty directions to the studios.

  Her thumb hangs suspended over the different floors; her jeweled ring glints from the elevator light.

  “Lost?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  Her eyes flick over her shoulder from behind thick hipster glasses. She takes in my suit and tie, my height, my styled hair, and those eyes narrow.

  “Not sure if you can help me,” she says, turning back to the numbers. “I’m not in the market for a startup loan.”

  An amused grin hits the corner of my lips. “You think I’m in the finance department?” Hilarious. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  She does her up and down scrutinizing overview of me again. “Lawyer, then? Here to make sure contracts are fair?” Her arms cross, and she gives me an arrogant tilt of her head. “Are you on the label’s side or the artist’s?”

  “I lean toward the label in most cases,” I say, enjoying the assumptions that started this conversation. Since I just learned to dress myself this morning in monkey attire, it’s hysterical to be compared to such professions. Had she seen me in my normal wardrobe, she’d probably recognize me as the unabashed freeloader whose face graced the tabloids every few months.

  “Hmm…” she mutters thoughtfully, her tongue toying with the ring on her bottom lip, and I suddenly have to blink myself out of a daze. “Maybe you don’t lack the information I need.” Her eyes skim down to my tie. “But don’t let it get to your head.”

  Someone’s been burned a few too many times by a suit. I think I’ll find a lot of satisfaction in the look on her face when she discovers who I really am.

  “Studios?” I ask, jumping to my own assumption about her. “Losing precious recording time?”

  A small, humorless laugh falls from her full lips, and a surprising jump runs through my gut. “I prefer being behind the scenes. Not center stage.”

  That spikes my interest—I guess neither of us is good with initial impressions. “Where exactly behind the scenes?”

  Her eyebrow tilts upward. “Hopefully scouting. Have to get past this dreadful internship first.”

  My sore attempt at playful flirting sinks. An intern—one who I’ve let speak to me like I’m still that screw-up with no responsibility. The progress I had with Jerome this morning will be pointless if I allow an intern to give me lip. If she was an artist, it’s different—charm, banter, charisma is expected, encouraged from everyone, including the CEO. I tried that tactic when I first stepped up to the plate, and it failed miserably. I’m not risking it again, not even with someone who I can see being an entertaining addition to the label. With so many eyes on me, making a pass at one of the staff members is probably not the best idea.

  I put on a smirk, one that causes her eyes to round. “The interns are in studio
three, level two.”

  She lets her arms drop. “Well, let’s hope you’re not yanking my chain.” Her thumb reaches for the door-close button, but stops when she finds that she needs a key to make the elevator functional—one that is currently in my pocket.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, resting against the elevator wall. “Did you think you were riding down with me?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Oh, big time lawyer thinks he owns the elevator?”

  My grin twitches. “Finally a correct assumption.” I lean in close, ignoring the way she smells strongly of mouth-watering peppermint. “Yes, I own this elevator. And you, Intern, can take the employee elevator located right… through… there…” I nod toward the long hallway she just came from.

  “Didn’t Mommy ever teach you how to share?” she lilts. Her tease is so addictive that I almost give in to it. She expects that I will. In fact, I’m damn certain from the way her eyes meet mine. I hate to disappoint her—and in the past, I would’ve granted her request without hesitation. But I unfortunately have to push back the desire to give into whatever temptation a gorgeous woman presents. I can’t risk this authoritative exterior, and I definitely can’t revert into the spoiled boy I was only six weeks before.

  I wipe the grin from my face and stand straight, tall, commanding, even though it feels incredibly foreign for my body to do so. “No. She didn’t.” Then I step forward, urging her out of the elevator without ever laying a finger on her. Good ol’ dad taught me that move as well.

  Her brows pull inward, and her jaw sets before she troops off down the hallway. I imagine her teeth grinding behind those lips, that smart tongue. I nearly tug her back into the elevator in a moment of red-blooded weakness.

  “Hold up,” I say, stopping the doors. She spins around with a tiny, hopeful smile playing in the corner of her mouth. “You’re also welcome to take the stairs.”

  I get to see the frustrated pull of her expression before the doors shut us off from each other. Then I let my stomach sink into its full acidic bath. Is this really the person I have to be now? The person who will take control of this label and not let it crumble into another statistic? A person who, if he doesn’t know what he’s doing, at least fakes it well?