Chapter 66: Nice Guys Don't Know Their Wives

Okay, time to see what the suits think the solutions to Soundcrush's tour complications are...and also check in with Adam and see how Mac's decisions are settling with him. I think the song above--Blurry--is a pretty good song to capture Adam's feelings in this chapter.

Adam

The next few minutes are a confused blur for me.

Not because of the introductions being made, even though this entourage is way bigger than expected. Not because Randall Burns—famous country music star from about three decades ago—is here with a kid who is apparently his niece, Arabella. Not because Moran makes no immediate effort to explain Randall and Arabella's presence, either. Not even because Moran—who basically looks like an ageless, blond pony-tailed vampire in a slim cut suit—is smiling at Mac, viewing her ring with an approving wink to me, and offering congratulations on her pregnancy.

Not even because Moran waves away Trace's offer to hit the green room and sit down, insisting instead that he wants to be the first to preview the unsigned Strut, and hear some new material from us. Maybe I should be surprised by that—that he's more interested in the music than getting down to business-- but I'm already too mixed up from Mac's recent revelations to worry about his agenda.

Truth is, I'm reeling. Mac is my blur. I feel like...I don't even know her right now. I've never felt that way before. From the first night I met her, and she gave her body and her trust to me, and let me see her—the softness, the vulnerability, the sweetness—I've always felt like I've known her. I've seen her scared and angry and fucking up, making mistakes, putting on a tough act, and even though I have spent at least half my time these last couple of years digging deep and wondering if I could really be the guy that could love her like she deserves in the midst of all her fear-based mistakes, I still felt like I knew her.

Right this minute? I'm not sure.

I have no idea what I say to Moran as he shakes my hand and offers congratulation on our marriage and kid on the way. I feel drunk, like things are happening all around me.

Really, the person that things are happening all around is Mac. She's...fuck...she's surrounded. Dawes—the bastard giving me smirking side-eye—and two or three other people that look LA —stylists, video stylists, choreographers, maybe, I don't fucking know—they've literally engulfed her, chattering away around her, their conversation with her nearly indecipherable as Moran overpowers it with hearty, boisterous talk about Matt del Marco and Strut and Soundcrush's next album and vague new "opportunities."

Before I know it, we are back at side-stage and Moran is nodding along to Strut's vibe with Trace and Leed. Riley is single-handedly keeping the rest of the suit entourage occupied, and Bodie is entertaining Arabella, and her uncle Randall Burns is chatting me up.

I'm doing my best to play the industry game, Nashville-style with the old-school country star, as I watch Mac. She's shooting me desperate looks and again, I feel like I can't read her. Does she need something from me? Is she feeling crowded by these people, who apparently are her new "team?" Is she having an anxiety issue? Does she want me to come over there and rescue her from the style jackals? Or is she just trying to gauge where I am with her revelation that she's planning to step-out on the band, break away and do her own thing? Are her glances pleas for me to help her, or simply to understand and forgive her lies of omission?

I don't know what the fuck Mac needs from me right now. My instinct screams at me to err on the side of caution—to cut Randall Burns off, to wade into the middle of the people crowding her and make a space with my body. Not-so-subtly give them all the signal to back the fuck up off her—especially Dawes.

But yesterday, she acted like I was an overbearing asshole for protecting her space with the guys. And the truth is, I don't trust my own self-control right now. I'm fucking pissed. Stepping into her space might cause more problems than it solves, especially if Dawes starts some shit.

So I settle for a slow nod of acknowledgment to my wife, whom I love but with whom I am angry, and she gives me a weak, sympathetic smile before her attention is called away by Dawes, who is patting her belly with the back of his hand casually and asking her a question as she sucks in.

Seeing him dismissively smack at our child, makes me want to stalk over there and twist his fucking fingers back until they snap and he screams. It takes all my self-restraint to stay where I am.

I know he must be talking with the stylists about concealing her pregnancy for...what? Performances, I guess? Or a few live appearances? If she's planning to feature for other artists, there will be videos. They will have to be done quick, if they want to capitalize on Mac as an available hottie, every dude's porn fantasy, and not as a married, expectant mother.

My stomach roils at the thought of Mac with some rapper or pop star with his hands all over her on a video set, and again I'm struck with the desire to cross the space. Not to break Dawe's hand, but to pull her to me, claim her, demand she not do this.

I stand my ground—stand apart from her in my anger and in the knowledge that I don't own her. I answer Randall's questions about the mixing of our last album.

Strut finishes their practice and Moran tells them he'd sign them on the spot but Matt has put out an industry wide warning that Strut needs six months to develop before he will entertain offers. Row protests that Matt is not their business manager and Moran pats her shoulder and tells her she's unfortunately wrong about that. Unbelievably, Row doesn't scream or break anything, she just stomps off to a bottle of vodka.

Then, like Moran's bitches, Soundcrush dutifully takes the stage as our roadies scramble to unpair the girls' guitars from the amps and connect our instruments. Mac by-passes all of us without a word and takes her keyboard platform.

"What the fuck is going on?" Trace mumbles to me and Leed as we fine-tune. "Who the fuck are all those people around Mac?"

"Look, you need to be cool right now," Leed says, his voice low, urgent. "What Mac is doing, she's doing for the band."

The tightness in my gut bottoms out. I'm hollowed by realization. I stare at Leed, and he stares back with his cool blue eyes, and rakes his hair defiantly.

"You fucking knew." My voice is loud with shock. A garbled echo of my words is picked up by Leed's mic and echoes into the stadium.

Leed snatches his mic and turns it off, pretending there's some problem with the connectivity. "Chill the fuck out, Adam. Keep your voice down. Of course I knew. She's my sister," he says quietly.

"Knew what?" Trace hisses.

Leed sighs and swings around to the kit, to get close to Bodie. Trace follows on his heels, and I hold up a finger to Mac, a signal to give us a second, as I follow Trace.

"W'sup?" Bodie asks casually from behind his kit, sucking on Arabella's lollipop and eye-fucking her.

"Alright, listen up. Mac should have told you a long time ago but this ain't the time for blame bullshit, so I'm going to say this straight. So nobody is blindsided when Moran calls us to the table."

Bodie's eyes snap to Leed, all distractions forgotten. "What the fucking fuck?" Trace growls.

"You will not fucking blame her for this, because she didn't seek it, didn't want it," Leed face is stern, defiant, daring any of us to push back against his warning. "But the label pushed Mac into signing a feature and a solo contract. Way back at the beginning.Soundcrush came out so strong, she's been able to push back on it for years without much static. We ain't strong right now. Mac is doing what she has to do. Her part. Now fucking smile at the suits and let's play a damn song," Leed says, irritation evident in his voice.

Bodie gives a kind of shocked laugh. Trace's Rock Star Face is far too firm to give away what he is thinking, but he cuts his eyes to me. "You knew?" he asks.

I just nod. I'm not telling Trace that Mac just told me fifteen minutes ago. I'm not getting into my feelings of betrayal with Trace. That's between me and Mac.

"Fuck you, man," Trace spits coldly.

"Yeah," I say. Fuck me is right.

A roadie hands Leed a new mic, and Leed is on, talking to Moran casually in the mic, telling a bullshit made-up story of how the song Priestess evolved—not the real story where she slapped and clawed Trace and he and I ended up brawling on the floor—and then Bodie is beating the count on his sticks and we are all playing Mac's song for an audience for the very first time.

We will probably never play that song like that again—like animals all rattling our cages.

Feral.

Raw.

Dangerous.

On edge.

Fearful.

Fearsome.

A pack of snarling wolves, circling each other, wanting to tear each other to pieces, but held in the power of our Priestess, high above us on her magical throne. All of desperate for her secrets and her murmuring assurance. All in love with her, all in hateful resentment of her, too. All wanting to command her power for ourselves, all knowing she is a power beyond our command.

When Bodes and I bring the rhythm to an abrupt and dramatic end, there is nothing but silence.

Moran walks out onto the stage, rubbing his clean shaven, pale jaw. "Goddamn, I wish we'd recorded that. Automatic Grammy for best live performance," he says with reverence. He looks around at all of us. "You guys...you're something special. I want you to know, I know that. So let's go get this bullshit settled."

He gestures to Riley to lead the way. The whole group of thirty some odd people file into the green room, which is nothing more than a curtained, open-air section of the backstage with some mid-grade patio furniture. The entourage stands, the players sit. As people arrange in seats, Mac is suddenly at my side, looking up at me with uncertain eyes. Silently, I guide her to a two-seater. We don't hold hands, but our thighs touch as she sits rigidly, and I throw an arm over the back of the seat and kick a booted foot up on my knee, trying not to look as torqued as I feel.

Riley calls the meeting to order with surprising command. "Angelo...Soundcrush's label management no longer serves the needs of either party. Soundcrush recognizes the contractual breach they created by dismissing Dawes services, but feel that their...artistic needs are better freed in a less hostile management scenario. Of course, I'm sure, your primary concerns as head of the Alt-Rock division is Soundcrush's ability to express themselves creatively, and continue to deliver artistry like you just witnessed."

Riley is fucking good. His speech was code for: Don't fuck with us or we will throw out some mediocre shit for the next album and wait to be released from the label, saving all our good shit for an independent effort.

Angelo's face is expressionless as he regards Riley, but then he gives a broad grin. "Riley Eddison. Kel misses you, you know. Got drunk with him a while ago, and bragged that you were on one of my bands' teams now. He told me the worst mistake he ever made was not promoting you to A&R, but you made yourself invaluable to him as his assistant."

Riley shrugs. "Told him for a year I was going."

"And lucky for us, because Riley is invaluable to us, now," Trace says smoothly. "Riley Eddison is our new manager. Not negotiable."

Angelo waves a dismissive hand. "Not a problem. Dawes is needed...elsewhere." He inclines his head at Mac.

I didn't think it was possible but Mac's spine straightens further. "I would like to be the one to tell them, Angelo. They don't know."

He blinks. "Oh. Didn't see that coming. Okay, then."

Mac looks directly at Trace. "I have a solo artist contract. Five features and an EP. Signed the same day Soundcrush signed. It's never been my priority. It wouldn't be now, except that it's a way to compensate the label for backing us in canceling Europe.

Trace's reaction is typical. Shit-cool rock star. "Well, that's convenient." He turns from Mac and focuses on Moran. "So does that mean we are square? You guys buy off the promoters and Mac does a couple of studio sessions, then business as usual?"

Angelo grins. His smile is just as vampire as the rest of him. "Not quite. Even if she completes her contract in full, we are in still way in the red for your tour."

"Okay, what else?" Riley says.

"Arabella, come here, Sweetheart," Angelo motions her forward. She comes easily and sits on the arm of his chair. He puts a hand at her back. "Arabella has had a...break with her former label and management."

Ahhh. Her Disney series is played out. And if they didn't retain her, it means she's not ready for the next step in their golden formula. Mousketeer to Teen TV Queen to Pop Star.

"Arabella has a lot of potential," Randal says earnestly. "But she needs...development. She's a damn fine musician, but we didn't do right by her. We trained her to play country music, and obviously, she's a pop star...and with alt coming back into main-stream..." To my surprise, Randall is looking at me.

Angelo sighs. "Right. So here's the deal. Arabella needs to cross-over. Adam, I've never seen a Nashville musician recreate himself like you have. And you are great in the studio and we want to develop you as a producer as well. So you will develop her style, co-write her songs, and produce her debut album. As a favor. No compensation, of course."

I'm speechless. "I...I...fuck. Can...can she even sing?" I blurt.

She grins but before she can answer, Moran interjects. "You'll find out for yourself, because she's going to be with Soundcrush for the rest of the tour."

"No fucking way," Trace growls. "We are done with unproven openers mandated by the label. Strut is our opener."

"She won't be opening for you," Moran says coolly. "She's a competent keyboardist, and she's been working non-stop for the last forty eight hours, learning your music. She's playing keys for you, for the remainder of the US tour. It's a win-win. She'll learn how to improvise beyond the country genre, and she and Adam can begin working on her own songs. MacKenna is obviously needed elsewhere."

Mac and I both hiss "What?" at the exact time.

Dawes kicks off the giant roadie case he was leaning against. "Mac, you said make a deal. The deal only works if you are marketable. You have six, eight weeks tops before you're round as hell. You'll never be a teen dream again. You've got two months to make your mark, and make the label not regret you."

"Fuck you, Dawes," I growl.

Mac ignores both me and Dawes, looking at Moran. "What do you need me to do, Angelo?"

"The whole contract, Sweetheart," Moran says. "We've got two of the five features nailed down, and I need three sellable pop songs layed down from you next week. You have something for me?"

She nods.

"Good girl," he says earnestly. "You're coming back to LA with the team. We need to record videos and appearances, immediately, and we will feed them out in increments while you pregnancy advances. Hopefully, we can create enough advance material to cover your..." he sighs, gesturing at her mid-section... "your convalescence."

"Pregnancy is not a disease," I snap. "She's beautiful. She'll be beautiful every day she's pregnant and beyond."

"Adam," Mac says quietly, putting a hand on my leg. "He's right. It has to be done now, while I have the stamina and the time."

I twist in the seat to look at her. "Mac..." I take her hand that's on my thigh. "This is one of those times. Where you and I need to talk. Just the two of us."

Pain flits across her face. "I know you think that," she says softly, "But it's not going to change anything this time, so I need you to respect my decision when I tell you this is what I have to do. I need you to be on board with this."

I shake my head in disbelief. "You can't...Mac...you can't ask me to be ok with this."

"Tamara's coming with me. LA is home. You don't have to worry about me."

"I don't have to worry about you? My pregnant, morning-sick, fatigued wife with PTSD being worked to death, pushed to the limit everyday in the studio, on shoots, being paraded around to clubs every night, and then farmed out for late-night tapings? No, of course not. No, no worries. I'll just hang and chill," I say bitterly, slinging my hand at the guys.

"I'm not an invalid," she protests. "Touring is just as hard. I'll be fine."

I rub my hands over my face. "Mac, we just got married two days ago. We need time..."

"You think you are the only two people in love that have to make sacrifices for this band?" Trace interjects. His words are cool, no bitterness, but they pack a punchful of sincerity. Then he leans forward and gives Mac all his attention. "Look, the truth is...I was really pissed for a minute at the idea that you cut a side-deal, but the more I think about it...maybe this isn't a bad thing, Macaroni." His face opens up a little when he looks at her. "You and I will always write the best music for Soundcrush together, but we both know, you've got a gift for hip-hop and pop. Music that you should get a shot at fronting, that doesn't fit our style. Seven Minutes is some of the best work you have done, but it's the wrong direction for us. I didn't fight it because I was proud of you, proud of your work, but we all know it's not our sound. I'm cool with you doing your own thing. I know you'll come back to us, Priestess," he smiles.

Mac is on her feet, and around Trace's neck in a second. "Always. No fucking doubt," she says and he slips to the side squeezing her into the seat beside him, patting her back, looking at me with a sudden ferocity. "Adam, this is the right call."

He wants me to say this is all okay. He wants me to do what's best for the band, but my first responsibility is not to the band anymore. It's to take care of my wife.

"Mac," I say, "Don't ask me to be okay with this..." I plead.

"Dude, Mac is fierce," Bodie says, letting us all now that he stands with Trace and Mac.

I look at Leed. He's watching Mac with something that looks like doubt. "I don't like it," he says slowly.

"Thank you," I exclaim.

Leed gives me an empathetic glance, and refocuses on Dawes, behind Mac. "But it's not my call. Mac, you gonna put yourself in Dawes' hands for this? You really trust him?"

Mac cuts her eyes over her shoulder at Dawes, and shrugs. "Well, I'd be dead if it weren't for him, wouldn't I? I owe him my life."

Cold horror runs down my spine at Mac's cavalier tone. "What?"

She and Leed stare at one another. Leed sighs. "Dawes is the one that told me Mac was in trouble with that fucker who hurt her in Portland. Told me he had a bad vibe about the guy, and the dude was coked out of his mind. He went with me to that room. He's the one that called 911, called the cops, and had security pull me off the guy before I killed him. He gave Mac CPR, forcing a little air into her lungs when she couldn't get any herself. I was too fucked up and freaked out to think straight. The paramedics said she would have died if not for him."

I'm warring with myself when I look at Dawes and he smugly returns my gaze. I can't reconcile the gratitude I feel for MacKenna's life with the extreme dislike I have for the fucker. He may have had a moment of decency and cool-headed thinking, but he's still an asshole that wants to use her for money and disrespects her without a second thought. At least now, I understand why she has a sense of loyalty to him.

"I didn't know," is all I can manage to say to him.

He shrugs. "Would it have changed anything?"

I don't answer, because I don't know. My gaze flicks back to Mac, and I feel...guilty. Guilty for always dividing her loyalty, making her choose between things. I don't know how to do this. What is love? Is love protecting her? Is love making her feel empowered to make her own decisions, even if I think they put her at risk?

Goddammit, I don't fucking know how to love her right, right now.

"Adam, we are married. Partners for life," Mac whispers. "Two months is nothing. This is the right thing. Please, understand..."

I nod at her, because I don't like to see her plead for my approval like this. "Yeah," I say quickly. "I know." I don't feel it, it's a lie I'm telling myself, but I don't know what else to do. All I can think to do is say something small, so she doesn't feel like I'm freezing her out. "Need you to take John, let him build you a detail," I say. She nods agreement.

"Actually Adam, what do you think about getting Mac a full-time PA, and a full-time driver? A whole team will make sure that she can focus on work and getting enough rest," Riley gives me an encouraging nod.

I raise my eyebrows to her "Mac?" She smiles at me gently. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Riley."

"Agreed," Moran says easily, with a smile, "See?" he grins around at the band. "I'm not a bad guy. We're a family, Soundcrush and the label. We look out for each other."

"So that's it, then?" Trace says dryly, and Moran laughs.

"Not quite. We're gonna be in two hundred million to the promoters for you, you know. Need you and Leed to take on a whole new slate of endorsements. Label takes the pay."

Leed's shoulders move to shrug agreement, but Riley puts a hand to stop him. "Label takes a quarter," he says.

Moran grins. "You do know your stuff, Eddison. Half."

Trace and Riley exchange a look, and Riley gives Trace a slight nod. "Done," Trace agrees.

Moran grunts in satisfaction. "Okay then. We're almost done. Just need one more thing."

"My first-born?" Leed says dryly.

"Nope, you can keep all the kids," Moran says with a grin. "But Arabella needs more social media exposure. She needs a a celebrity romance. A boyfriend with a big social media following. Which one has the biggest?" Moran asks Dawes.

"Trace," Dawes says automatically.

Trace rolls his head back on his seat and laughs, a lazy hand moving to his stomach. Then he pitches his head forward with stare that could turn Moran to stone. "No."

"It's a small thing to ask. Three months. Public break-up. Good exposure for you both."

"No, that's a deal breaker. I swear to fucking god, you can let the promoters take us to court. I have a girlfriend, and there's no way in fucking hell I'm asking her to swallow that shit."

"What happened to people in love making sacrifices?" I shoot bitterly.

"Fuck you. You know I can't do that do Kat. Not after Ash." He shakes his head, getting madder as he thinks about it. "Yeah, fuck you twice for saying that shit."

Mac elbows Trace as I'm coming up off my seat. She puts her hand out to me, pleading for me to stay in my seat.

"Trace," she says through gritted teeth. "Don't be an asshole. This is not easy, for me or Adam."

Trace and I glare at each other. Finally, he breaks eye contact and slings a hand up in apology to me, and I don't really want to brawl with him, so I give the gesture back and ease back into my seat, wishing that Mac would come back to me. But she stays put in the seat with Trace.

"Mr. Moran," Arabella suddenly pipes up, draping an arm around him, leaning close so that her boobs are practically in his face, "I'm totally down for achieving the exposure that the label wants me to have, but don't you think I should get a say in which fake boyfriend I have? I mean, you want us to have chemistry and look cute together, right?" she gives Moran a child-like smile that nearly makes me shudder. I've hardly given Arabella a second glance, Mac being my only priority in this whole deal, but there's something about her that's...alarming. Suddenly I have a real dread that I'm being railroaded into churning out a record for this girl I don't know a damn thing about.

Moran looks at Dawes with raised eyebrows. "They all have large followings," Dawes concedes.

"Fine, Sweetheart," Moran says. "You want the Lion or the Drummer?"

She bites on her finger and pretends to look them over. Leed's face is falling into a slow frown, apparently not liking the idea of a fake girlfriend nearly as much as he liked the idea of a famous fangirl f-and-f. Thankfully, Arabella puts him out of his misery quickly and winks at Bodie. "Hey Bodie, will you be my fake boyfriend?"

Bodie gives her the chin tip for an answer, and she winks at him.

"Fabulous," Moran drawls, rising, and his whole team rises with him. He shakes hands all around. "We'll be back for the show tonight," he says affably. "Mac, we'll be leaving from the venue. You are in the studio tomorrow with..." he turns his head and one of his people consults an Ipad, "with Dillinger."

"Dillinger?" Mac says with afrown. Moran snaps his finger at the assistant.

"Oh, uhhh...D-Thrills," the assistant elaborates.

To Mac, Moran says, "Say your good-byes before the show. We won't be staying for the after-party."

As Moran's team leaves, it becomes apparent that Arabella and Randall intend to stay behind. Randall is her manager, I guess. He immediately starts to talk to me about her album, but I cut him off. "I'm sorry, man. I can't do this right now." I leave him standing mid-sentence and cross to Mac.

I eat up the space between us, and I see her spine stiffen and her shoulders square. Like she braces herself against paps, or dubious throngs of fans. I stop, not wanting to cause her more grief, more stress. She reads my hesitation wrong, I guess, because hurt and rejection flash across her face.

"I hate this," she says softly.

I nod. I hate it too. But I don't know how to move across the space to her and honor her right now. This does not feel right. Trace thinks it's an opportunity for her, but to me it feels like MacKenna is being used, manipulated and exploited, and I want to tell her not to let herself be used, but I don't know what fucking good it will do except make things worse, because I think her mind is set on this.

I still can't believe she wouldn't even talk to me about it. She just decided. Shut down even hearing me. That hurts. That hurts bad.

This morning I thought we were on an unjumpable track and now our shit has gone all kind of sideways. I'm still spinning in the aftermath of the train wreck that just happened, and I don't know if I can help her right now.

Yet I see the anxiety in her eyes. I know I'm a big part of that. Fuck.

I just give in. Right or wrong, I don't fucking know, but I just give in to the need to make contact with her.

"C'mere," I say softly, opening my arms to her. I don't really have much else to offer right now, except the comfort of my embrace. She slams into me, wordless, but her body talks to me. She's shaking, every muscle tight, her breaths shallow. She's stressed out, on edge. I can't help but worry that she's going to be on this edge for months, and I'm the only person I trust to draw her safely away from it.

She'll be on edge, and I won't be there.

"It's okay. You will be. We will be okay," I promise, hoping like hell that it's true.