Page 26 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

T ap. Tap. Tap.

The sound is as inexorable and restless as my bouncing knee under the table. My brother’s eyes flick to me. My annoyance isn’t just obvious, it’s catching. At least where he’s concerned, but the others sitting around the rectangular conference table ignore the incessant noise from my tapping pen.

It’s not a secret that I hate being confined in the office. Even less of one that I hate these meetings. But the manic movements to my left remind me I’m not the only one, and if they have to suffer, so do I.

My mood might not be so shitty if it weren’t for the lingering effects of the damn nightmare I had again last night. They’ve been unyielding, and I know it’s because of everything going on right now.

But I suppose that means my theory about Poppy shutting it all down, making all the guilt and anger go away, doesn’t work when I’m sleeping.

She was by my side when they began. Although I didn’t know that.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. It’s what I want to believe anyway, even if logic tells me it’s all subconscious—both her effects when I’m awake and the inability to evade the nightmare when I’m asleep.

The fucking meeting with the lawyer earlier has wreaked havoc on my disposition.

The one last week got postponed until today, so I’ve had seven days to obsess.

It should’ve been straightforward. Papers should’ve been signed so we could move on to the next step, but I couldn’t do it.

Maxwell made it so much worse. My dad and I have barely spoken in the last year, and when we do, it ends in a shouting match with me storming out so I don’t commit patricide.

This pointless meeting is just the cherry.

I blame my neurotic, anal brother. Nothing said here today is new. We’ve been over it, all of it, every day for the last two weeks. Memos, emails, individual meetings…You name it, we’ve covered it.

He acts like we’re all new to this, but the truth is, he’s the new guy in the room. The rest of us have done this for years.

My lids close as I roll my head around my shoulders. A small crack fills my ears as my impatience grows.

“These are the songs you have to choose from,” Liam tells Maverick.

Maverick catches my attention, nodding to the list as he mouths, “Told you so.”

Wrinkles crease my forehead as my brows dip, wondering what he’s talking about. I haven’t touched the papers in front of me yet. After all, I’ve seen the song list already. Picking up the paper, I scan the sheet, not seeing anything out of the ordinary.

Subtly, he taps a finger on another leaf while he pretends to listen to Liam and Graham talk.

I flip through the sheets, still not understanding until I get to a page with three lines.

Song titles.

They aren’t printed with the rest. They’ve been handwritten in red ink, circled, and underlined.

I recognize the handwriting. Everyone who works here should.

My head snaps up, eyes wide. My heart lurches in my chest before hammering a thunderous beat.

Something swirls deep in my belly, but I can’t decide if it’s excitement or pure terror.

“And those songs I don’t get a say in?” He points to the list identical to the one I’m currently crumpling between my fingers as my stomach dips. His eyes jerk to the company owners. They grin in response, and Maverick laughs.

I don’t. I’m too busy deciding if I want to pass out or puke. I stare at the list, trying to figure out what’s happening. Why do they want these songs? Do they plan on changing them? Adjusting the music? The lyrics?

Because they won’t work—won’t sell as is. Their magic touch is the only thing that might save them. They’re B-sides at best, but the truth is, they’ll get the entire album trashed. They must know that.

I don’t have the talent to write anything substantial. My dad told me so years ago. So did my mom. If they said it…

“We want the album recorded in six weeks, so we need the rest of the songs chosen ASAP. You’ll be on tour with them,” Liam nods to Maddox, who’s sitting next to me, and Ryder and Angel sitting across from us.

“It will start in March,” Graham tells him from his seat at the head of the table, leaning back in the executive chair like he’s the king of the world. I would laugh if I weren’t having a fucking stroke. “Anything to add, Jagger?”

My attention jerks to my brother. “Why would I have anything to add?” My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels thick. Sweat rolls down my back. I’ve never begged my brother for anything, but now I’m silently pleading for him to let it go.

His eyes narrow, then drop to the papers in front of him. Sweat beads at my temple as he thumbs through them, stopping when he finds what he wants.

I try to divert my gaze, look anywhere but at him, but I can’t. I’m frozen, staring at my brother, praying he’ll keep his mouth shut.

I mean, he can’t know, right? He’s just guessing. He hasn’t seen a word or heard a note I’ve written in years.

But when his eyes leap back to mine, wide and brimming with something I refuse to acknowledge, I know he knows.

It shouldn’t bother me. If they want to waste their time with worthless songs, it’s their money and time. All of them.

But the thought of them bombing and Maxwell finding out they were mine…the inevitable I told you so makes me sick.

The memories roar in my head, made raw by the meeting I had to attend this morning with my dad.

Everything crashes and blurs together as I remember running to my mom, eager to show her what I’d learned—what I’d written, only for her to scream it was trash and I was wasting my time as she hurled the guitar across the room.

She was so sick. It was just a few days after that Graham found her dead body.

Deep down, I knew she didn’t mean it, but I was a kid, and the words have been burned into my mind.

Then I’m back to the memory of handing my dad a demo I’d put together with a few covers, but mostly my original songs.

He told me they were good, but not good enough.

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Son, I know you want to make this your career, but you’re not good enough and you don’t have the discipline to get there.

Which means everything you do will be mediocre. Stop wasting your time and mine.”

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. This business will chew up the best. He was protecting me because he knew I’d never be the best. But I was sixteen and already going through more than he could ever understand, even when I tried to tell him.

I needed my dad, not just Maxwell Davis, music mogul.

It was just another reminder that I would never live up to his expectations.

Or maybe I have.

I am the son without ambition or drive, with below-average grades, no talent, and a penchant for trouble while my Summa Cum Laude brother went to Princeton, started his first business in college, andwas completely independent of my father with his own wealth by the time he graduated.

He was a goddamn billionaire by the time he was twenty-six, and he’s only five years older than me.

I suppose it’s fortunate he did all of that.

He might not even be CEO of Sin Records if he hadn’t, since Dad and his partner sold the company before Graham could take over.

But I knew I couldn’t compete, so I didn’t try. Not that I ever wanted to follow in my brother’s shadowed footsteps.

Straight out of high school, I went to work for L&D Records—the former name of the label.

Dad had no idea his idea of punishment was right where I wanted to be.

Starting in the mailroom didn’t faze me until I tried to prove myself to him, and he brushed me off.

He was still punishing me for refusing to go to college.

He wanted me to learn a lesson: without a college education, I would never move beyond the mailroom.

It was Nichols, Dad’s partner, who moved me to Artists and Repertoire as a talent scout not long after I started, despite Dad’s protests.

My tattoo artist was the drummer of a band, and I brought Nichols to see them at a dive bar in Brooklyn called Lucky’s, where I used a fake ID to get in.

It infuriated my dad when Nichols signed the band and promoted me.

Fuck, has it been six years?

“The marketing approach will be to push a few small, intimate venues, live, over social media platforms, hyping a song before it drops. We want them to go viral before they release.” Thad says to everyone because not a single person, except my brother, has noticed I’m fucking spiraling over here.

“We need PR on hand, too. The shit that happened last tour can’t happen again.” Graham’s nostrils flare as he glares at Maverick.

Maverick holds his hand up in defense. “I can’t help what the band members do.”

“But the band can sink your career,” Liam tells him, agreeing with Graham.

It’s weird when they agree, considering Liam is technically his father-in-law, even though he didn’t want Graham and Casey together for a long time.

From his perspective—his little girl and her older stepbrother, together? —no one could blame him.

“This is a music label,” Angel interjects. “The best we can hope for is they stay away from anything too criminal like murder and fulfill their contracts.”

“I disagree. The artists’ behavior is a direct reflection on Sin Records,” Graham says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The name of the bloody label is Sin Records, mate. If misbehaved rock stars crumbled music labels, this one would’ve been finished years ago,” Ryder chuckles.