Summer Encore
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Release date: August 7, 2024
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Summer Encore
Mel Walker
Chapter One - Laredo
“This is more like it,” I mutter to myself as I step into the impressive, sparkling, large conference room. I resist the temptation to press my nose against the clear floor-to-ceiling windows as my scuffed Converse sneakers tap the floor to a beat only I hear. Tall skyscrapers fill my view, but none of them are as high as I am. I soar above them all—right where I belong. Sixty-three floors up, in the rarified air reserved for top executives and their VIP rock-star clients.
It’s about to happen.
“The team should be right in, Mr. Williams.”
I push my hands deep into my ripped jeans pocket to hide the shake. “Laredo,” I say, spinning to face Alice, the attractive administrator in the navy two-piece power suit. Blonde curls, red lipstick, and a cute button nose would normally be enough to distract me, but not today. “You can call me Laredo, even after I become rich and famous.” I give her my well-rehearsed rock-star smirk, the one I typically serve up from the stage after nailing an impressive guitar solo.
I spot the humor in her eyes behind the cloud of doubt. She’s heard it before. But not from me. “Of course, Mr. Williams.”
I nod, and she disappears down the hall. She’ll learn. Before all is said and done, they all will remember my name. And it all starts today.
I’m in Chicago, summoned from Indiana to meet with the executives at my record label. My record label. I still can’t believe it’s taken me this long to land a deal. Rather, this long for someone to recognize my greatness. About freaking time.
For the last few months, I’ve been working on my debut solo album and have been sending tracks to my handler one at a time. He’s provided notes back to me, which I’ve generally ignored. He’ll understand the theme and what I’m doing when he listens to the entire album from beginning to end.
The fact that he’s summoned me to Chicago to meet with the extended team must mean he’s shared the tracks, and they recognize my genius. I’m sure I’m here to learn they’ve assembled a marketing team to rush production and discuss a release date. A tour is destined to follow.
“Today’s the day.” I pump my fist and tug on the rubber wrist bracelet from my brother, Adam.
Lead with kindness. His words, not mine. Adam is a kind soul who also happens to be my twin. We swapped matching bracelets at a bar when we celebrated my signing the record deal months ago. Both of us agreed to wear each other’s bracelets until my album’s release. Something about me needing to spread kindness into the universe to lay the foundation for a happy life or some crap like that.
His arm now sports the words Bow in my presence. He absolutely got the better of the deal.
“Two more minutes,” the sweet voice of my office escort returns, and I wonder if she’ll be joining us at the bar this evening to celebrate. I spin, anticipating a way to pass the time with her until my team joins us, my curiosity is immediately piqued by something even more captivating. Resting in her hands is a tiny bowl with a vibrant betta fish, its sunshine-yellow color catching the light. High school memories flood my head, same fish, in electric blue.
“Friend of yours?” I flirt with her—occupational habit.
As she looks down at the bustling fish, a smile of delight spreads across her lips. “This? No. My colleague is going out on vacation, and she asked me to fish-sit for her. I have a red one just like it. One of our clients gifted it to us last week.”
I close the distance between us, striding around the ginormous conference room table so that I don’t need to shout.
“My poor fish looks so lonely. I figure I’ll put the two of them together so he’ll have a playmate.”
I shake my head to warn her, but her attention is diverted by activity down the hall. I look through the sparkling glass walls and see what she sees. My team. Rather, my team multiplied by three. Nine people, only three that I recognize.
The corners of my mouth rise in anticipation. They’ve pulled out the big guns for me. Next stop, top of the charts.
Jonah, my A&R rep, is the first one through the door. I lift my hand for our usual high five and am met with his extended hand for a formal handshake. I twist my neck and shake his hand. Must be an office protocol thing, whatever.
“Laredo, take a seat, and let me introduce the team.”
“I like the sound of that—the team.” I’m floating. This is a high I’ve only experienced before on the stage after nailing a difficult guitar solo in front of a mesmerized audience. Bow down in my presence, indeed. I march to the head of the polished mahogany table and feel like I’m the chairman of Waystar Royco in Succession.
Jonah shrugs at one of his colleagues in a suit as my team slips into the crisp leather high-back seats. “Right, let’s get right to it.” Jonah leads the conversation, and I press my elbows to the cool tabletop. I give him my complete attention, ignoring the sound of cash registers ringing in my head. He quickly runs through introductions. The table is staffed with members from market research, legal, sales and promotion, artist development, and a vice president.
“Looks like I have the A team,” I joke to relax the room. Five of the nine are wearing suits and look as if they could use a drink.
Jonah lowers his gaze to the top of the table, immediately shifting the tone of the room. A room that is now completely stone silent.
“Laredo, we haven’t met before. I’m Dale Anderson, regional vice president for our Midwest and Central Division. We called you in to discuss your album. I won’t mince words—we’re placing it on hold.”
“Hold?” I scratch three-day-old stubble on my cheek and wonder if I should’ve followed Adam’s advice and shaved. “How is that your decision? It’s nearly complete. Have you listened to my tracks?”
“We have.” I pivot to face another skeptical face, another matching gray suit. At least this one belongs to a person not born before they invented the internet. “I’m in charge of our pop and rock categories. What you’ve sent is not releasable.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I turn my attention from him to Jonah, who continues to stare into the top of the desk. “Would you even recognize what a great rock song sounds like?”
“I do, which is why I recognized tracks two and six as poor derivatives of songs by Trains on the Tracks and CloudFlare. We don’t like being sued,” he bites back, nailing both.
“It’s called inspiration. All the greats do it.” I return his attitude in hopes he doesn’t see my confidence faltering. After signing my contract, I spent a month celebrating. I hit up every bar and club within a fifty-mile radius of my hometown. By the time I got to work on the album, I was weeks behind. Those two tracks were put together in one afternoon—a riff on rock songs that fans would find familiar.
I wave a hand. “They were filler tracks. I can have them replaced within a week.” I scoff at the words as if their criticism means nothing. “You must admit, track three is a hit. No one’s heard anything like that since Hendrix.” My voice fills with the confidence I always project. Track three is the gem of the album.
“An eight-minute and thirty-seven-second guitar solo.” The soft voice of the lone female in the room captures my attention. I lean forward—finally, someone who understands music. She fingers a stack of papers in a manila envelope in front of her. “Unmarketable.”
Her one word is like an anchor smashing through the soft underbelly of the deck of a sinking boat. “It’s brilliant,” I counter.
“No one in their right mind would release that,” Mr. Market Research chimes in to defend Miss Mouse, and I suspect the two of them must be an item.
“Says who?” I swing wildly.
She pushes the stack of papers to the center of the table. Pages fly out from the force of her shove. “Says every person we conducted market research with.”
“Laredo…” Jonah says my name as if it’s taken every ounce of strength. “That was the one song I thought was original and might have promise. I asked you for weeks to shorten it. Make it more accessible.”
“Accessible? It’s music. It’s art. I don’t write music based on approved guidance from a committee of nameless, faceless, soulless bureaucrats.”
Jonah ignores my targeted slight at him and his team. His short nod gives me hope. “Which is why I fought for it. It costs the firm nearly twenty thousand dollars to conduct the market research.”
I snatch a handful of pages that landed near me. Quickly scanning the yellow highlighted items. What is this crap? He’s no Lynyrd Skynyrd. I’m filing a lawsuit. You’ve just stolen ten minutes of my life from me.
A shaky breath escapes from my parted lips as I lean back in the chair.
“It’s not all bad news.” A preppy kid with excited eyes leans forward. Jonah gives him a short head shake that I don’t miss.
“Don’t,” he whisper warns.
I lift a hand. “I’d like to hear it,” I say, and Jonah drops his head to his chest.
“Hailey Williams.” He utters my sister’s name with the sinister grin you’d associate with a stalker.
My fist pounds on the desk. “Hell no!”
A threatening silence hangs in the air like a dangerous ocean foghorn during a storm. Eight pairs of eyes find their way to Dale.
“One song.” He says it as if it’s the answer to world hunger. “A duet. Hell, we’d even entertain having your brother play bass if that’s what it takes. You need your sister on your album.”
I bite my lower lip so hard I’m shocked I don’t taste blood. This is the opposite of everything Jonah and I have ever discussed. Every other label that I contacted started the conversation with the mention of my sister.
Most of my life, I played in a family band. Me, my brother Adam, and my sister Hailey. Six months ago, at a summer music festival in Oregon, Hailey performed a solo song at the closing night concert. She was signed to a record deal that same night, her song and album fast-tracked. The album is already double platinum, with two top-ten songs and another single releasing next week. Her fans’ appetite is insatiable. Her label is throwing together a tour for her next summer, while mine is giving me the deep freeze.
I won’t get ahead by standing on the shoulders of my sister. She’s sacrificed so much already to make sure Adam and I were taken care of. I will not distract her from the spotlight she’s worked so hard to earn. Jonah said he understood this when I signed.
I press both elbows hard onto the tabletop and lean as far forward as I can, knowing they’ll see this is a nonstarter. “Next option.”
Dale doesn’t break eye contact with me. He doesn’t scan for input from his team. He’s the big dog. “Mr. Williams.”
I grit my teeth and bark back, “the name is Laredo.” Dale isn’t the only dog in this yard.
“Mr. Williams … we are at an impasse. We can’t afford to invest any more time or resources with you. You are under contract. Feel free to work on your own time. Jonah has more promising clients that deserve his focus. I think we’re done here.” He dismisses me as if I’m a piece of annoying gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
My fingers snap the rubber wrist bracelet. This team does not deserve kindness. “Dale, you’re married, right?” I point to the gold wedding band on his finger. “Happily married, I assume you believe.”
Fire appears in his eyes, which is the reaction I’m seeking. I stand and tug on the bottom of my denim jacket. “I won’t be put in the back of the discount rack at K-Mart. You may not see my greatness, but others will recognize it, and you will regret this day.” I tap the back of each chair as I approach Dale. “You will release me from my contract.”
Dale scoffs, still not connecting the pieces. His colleague from legal leans toward him, but Dale lifts a hand to halt him. “Why would I do that? We own you.”
“Wow, you went there.” I mask my shaky voice behind laughter. “You obviously don’t read your contracts. You guys insisted on putting in a morality clause in my contract based on my reputation.” I twist my neck to Jonah. When he recruited me, he took me to a different club every trip. He’s nearly as wild as me. “I saw it as a badge of honor.” I tower over Dale, pushing into his personal space.
He leans back uncomfortably in his seat. “And I believe if I sleep with your wife, that might be grounds for breaking that clause.” When he doesn’t flinch, I wonder whether he even likes his wife. So I double down. “Or maybe your daughter.” He squeezes the armrests as if it’s the only thing keeping him from tossing me out the window. Direct hit. “Yeah, definitely the daughter.”
“I will kill you!” He hops to his feet, and his legal colleague pulls on his arms.
I spin away from him, my arms sweeping wide like I’m in a freaking musical. “Eight witnesses. Not very smart, Dale.” My voice drips with contempt. I push buttons as a side gig. Bullies and boyfriends have all taken swings at me, and I’m still standing. “I think I have enough for breach of contract. The top executive has threatened to kill me. When he realizes that he might wind up in jail, he decides to murder my career by putting my album in purgatory.” I resurrect my junior high school production skills, my voice shifting to an annoying falsetto. “Hey, mister lawyer man, do I have enough? Is this contract terminated, or do I really need to sleep with his daughter?”
“I will rip off your head. I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast.” It takes three people to hold Dale back this time. It doesn’t matter because I’m on the other side of the desk. Dale would need to run the equivalent of a quarter of a mile to catch me.
“Did you hear that? Your fearless leader eats doggie doo for breakfast.” I can’t help but poke the bear. The big bear with the power to release me from my contract.
“Enough, Laredo.” Jonah finally finds his backbone and speaks up. “What do you want?”
I pause next to the door. “I think I’ve made myself clear. Cancel the contract. All rights and materials revert to me, or the next time I call Dale will be from his daughter’s dorm bed.”
My hand frames the door, and I lock my gaze with Dale. I don’t flinch. Dale has no clue what I’m capable of. All they have to go on is my reputation. A disruptive force that doesn’t play well with others and who picks up women in every town he’s ever visited. Good. That narrative is a positive for me, for once.
“Dale?” Jonah squeaks from across the table. Neither one of us reacts.
The corner of Dale’s eyes tightens, and his face begins to shift to an angry shade of red. He doesn’t like to lose. No one who chases success does.
“If I ever see your face…” Dale blinks first.
I don’t wait for the rest of his scolding and push out the conference with my feeble victory. I steal a final glance through the glass. Dale is shouting, fists raised, fingers pointing, mumbled shouts through the glass. I’ve just given them their most interesting meeting of the month.
I pace past Alice’s cubicle, pausing when I see the matching fishbowls. Two beautiful betta fish, one yellow, one red.
“Mr. Williams. That was quick. Must’ve been good news.” Alice looks up from her keyboard.
“One for the books. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.” I divert my attention to the fish. “Don’t put the two of them in the same bowl.” With a slight stretch, I extend my arm over the cubicle barrier and grasp one of the fishbowls, the sound of water sloshing filling the air. I place it atop the filing cabinet, which spans the length of the corridor. “They shouldn’t really be in the line of sight of each other. They’re stunningly beautiful, much like you. And just like you, they are deadly dangerous.” Her eyes fill with a look of curiosity I know well. “They’re called betta fish, but they have another name, Japanese fighting fish. If you put them in the same space, they will attack. They don’t exactly play nice with others.”
Alice pushes back from her desk and stands. She glances down the hall at the sound of raised voices as people filter out the conference room. “Sounds like you speak from experience, Mr. Williams.”
“Ask Dale.” I give her a wave, push back my shoulders and stride head high to the exit. With her words of "Mr. Williams" still lingering in my ear, I press the elevator button.
That’s fine. Next time our paths cross, she’ll call me Laredo.
Someday soon, everyone will know my name.
***
CHAPTER TWO - BETTY
Three Months Later
“There’s one missing,” I whisper calmly to Mrs. Buchanan, the eighth-grade teacher, staring down at the gathering of school trip students at the bookstore. “Be right back.” I turn before she gives me any more attitude.
I navigate through the aisles I know like the back of my hand because it’s my job. Rather, new job as of three weeks ago. The sixth new job I’ve taken in the last year. After my world was upended. After I had a scare that still has me shaken.
Her snicker gives her away, the tall, thin brunette thirteen-year-old that I spotted the moment the students arrived at the bookstore. She towered above her classmates, a speck of makeup on her cheek. The minute I saw her, I knew she’d be trouble. Game recognizes game. That was me at that age.
Hell, that was me all the way up to last year.
“Your teacher is looking for you. They’re about to start the program.” I approach, careful not to crowd her. Her finger pushes the hair hanging in her face as she looks up from a book I recognize. A book she has no business reading at her age: a steamy romance novel with a bare-chested man on the cover.
Her wide eyes do not show any hints of embarrassment. “My mom has this book at home. She hides it when I come into the room.” Her squeaking voice is filled with curiosity. I was raised to believe it to be a good trait for a young woman. At least, I used to believe that. “Why?”
I pause, resting my hand on the shelf to my right. I extend my other hand, taking the book from her. “You really should talk to your mom about that. The books in this section contain topics that…”
“I should have known.” Mrs. Buchanan’s tone is filled with accusations and anger. The young lady’s shoulders clinch, and her hands shoot down by her sides as if she’s in the military and her commanding officer just entered the room.
Mrs. Buchanan glances at the book cover in my hand. “Stay away from my students.” She directs her anger at me. Pushing past me, she grabs the student by the hand and drags her back in my direction. “You haven’t changed one iota. You think I haven’t forgotten.” She pushes the girl toward the other students in the back of the store and turns to face me. “My husband used to go to that sleazy bar of yours. You in your tight tops and skimpy shorts. I see you’ve moved on from poisoning the minds of the men of this town and are now working on the next generation.”
I take a long inhale, recalling my many sessions with my therapist. The hours and hours of mindfulness videos. I bite my tongue while I fight the internal battle of giving this woman a piece of what’s left of my tattered mind.
Don’t.
I’m no longer that woman. I can’t afford to be.
I stand there like a door mouse, quiet, timid, and let her rail on about past injustices that reveal more about her than me. It’s amazing the power quiet has over a person. The fire in her eyes flickers away when she realizes she will not get the reaction she wants from me. “Hmmmpff!” she scoffs. “I guess I’ll have to speak to the owners and let them know the type of person they’ve hired here.”
“Feedback forms are next to the register.” My voice fills with a sweetness that my former self would have punched right in the face.
Her lips pull tight, and a heavy silence fills the surrounding air. We stand there in a staring contest worthy of her middle-grade students. Three long beats. I ignore the murmur of the author starting the children’s program in the back of the store. I ignore the chime of the shop bell indicating a customer has entered. I ignore everything except the cold daggers being tossed my way from the furious eyes of a woman who only sees my past.
The heavy hand on my shoulder can’t be ignored. “Hey, Mrs. Buchanan.” Olivia. My former coworker and my best friend. Her warm hand gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze and lingers. She knows my history. She knows everything.
Olivia steps into my periphery, her gaze lowering to the book in my hand. She snatches it. “Mrs. Buchanan, didn’t I see you reading this on the boardwalk last weekend? I hope you aren’t recommending it to Betty. Haven’t you heard she’s a good girl these days?”
I want to hug and shove Olivia at the same time. I know what she is doing. And I love her for it. But this isn’t her battle. This isn’t her journey.
“Tssk.” The sound of Mrs. Buchanan tapping her tongue against her teeth draws our attention. The fire returns to her eyes, but she does the math, two against one, and turns, giving us her back.
“Must you?” I snatch the book from Olivia’s hand. “You’re not helping.” I slide the book back onto the shelf and walk toward the front of the bookstore. The quiet half.
Olivia paces behind me. “You’re welcome.” I shake my head. “The Betty I know would have never tolerated that before. You would have put her in her place in two seconds. Had her regretting her life’s choices and bowing in your presence.”
“Really? You went there.” I pray she hears the anger in my voice because all I hear is the hurt. “Regretting my life choices” were the exact words I used when crying on Olivia’s shoulders at the end of last summer, a time when I had to face the consequences of my reckless actions. “This was a mistake. Just like the last five jobs.”
“You got that right.” Olivia hops on the counter, pressing her hands next to her ridiculously tight jean shorts. It’s inappropriate, but it’s Olivia. She pulls a bookmark from the jar, wagging it like a flag. “It’s time for you to come back to the bar. It’s summer, our busiest season. You know Buddy will take you back in a heartbeat. You were always his favorite.”
What she says is all true. I worked for Buddy for eight seasons. He keeps tabs on me. It’s not that difficult in our small town of Seaside, Oregon. Each time I left a job this past year, I would get a text from Buddy the next day, reminding me he would always have an open spot for me back at the Driftwood.
I shove Olivia by her rear off the counter, and she stumbles dramatically with a fake laugh. She pushes back her strawberry blonde hair and squares her shoulders, pushing out her boobs, which threaten to pop out from her tight tank top. Her requisite cutoff jeans, which she lives in each summer, complete her ensemble. “You can’t hide out in this place all summer. There’s an entire world happening out there.” She sweeps her hand toward the door.
Bookstore on the Shore sits on a pier across from the ocean here in Oregon. Hidden between a coffee shop and a surf store, we sit on the quieter end of the boardwalk. I sneak a peek over my shoulder toward the rear of the store to confirm there aren’t any prying ears. “Maybe I should leave Seaside.” I wave a hand in Mrs. Buchanan’s direction. “There’s always going to be someone like her still judging me for who I once was.”
Olivia flips the bird toward the back of the store. “You were a freaking badass. Always have been. Don’t you dare think otherwise. Remember, I was right there next to you every step of the way. You have nothing to regret. Sure, we get out of hand sometimes, but it’s all in the name of fun and living life. That’s what our twenties are for.”
“I turn thirty next month.”
Olivia pumps a fist to the sky. “And thirty is the new twenty.”
I shake my head. “It’s time for me to grow up. I got the memo. The very loud and scary message.” I lift my hand shoulder-height high in front of her. “It’s still shaking.”
She steps to me, taking my hand in hers and pulling it to her bosom. “That’s your inner freak trying to shake this wet blanket you’ve wrapped her in. Set it free. Come out with me tonight. The music festival is starting soon. Some of the artists have already arrived. I’ve heard from a reliable source that Lana Ramirez is going to crash the open mic at McDaniel’s.”
My pulse races with the mention of the Seaside Music Festival. It’s one of the largest festivals in the country. Every summer, the top up-and-coming artists flood our small town. What makes the festival such a draw is the number of music industry insiders and executives who conduct workshops and scout for new artists.
For a little more than a week, our little town becomes the center of the music industry. It had always been my favorite few weeks of the year. That is, until last summer. “That’s this week already? I didn’t realize…”
“Yeah, because you’ve had your nose buried in a book.”
I squeeze the edge of the counter so hard I fear I’ll crack a nail. “I should leave town.” My breath shortens, and I close my eyes to center myself. My therapist has me picture waves lapping on the beach, but all I see is the handsome face of the man who I spent the last festival with. A guitarist with talented fingers and the lips of a god. It was the most intense festival fling I’ve ever experienced. A mutually agreed-upon week and a half of sunshine, music, and fun. A one-and-done, don’t-look-back moment in time that would only leave us with happy memories. That was the plan, anyway. But actions have consequences.
Olivia’s voice fills with the compassion of a best friend. “He’s not coming.” She knows my history. “I’ve already checked. I have your back.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “It’s not that.” It most certainly is.
“Good. So, you joining me tonight?” she probes. She pushes. She won’t let me disappear into a cave alone. Olivia has been by my side every step of this journey. From the shock of the news, the roller coaster of emotions, the tears, the anger, the resignation, to this. Me wandering around clueless, shifting from job to job in search of what, I’m still not sure. I’m trying to escape my past. Attempting to not repeat those same mistakes. But people like Mrs. Buchanan refuse to let me forget it.
As if reading my thoughts, Olivia gives me what I need. “I got you, babe. We’ll persevere. Tell me what you need, and I’ll go rip it from the claws of a mountain lion.”
She steps around the counter and pulls me into a tight hug. “Musicians can go suck it. That’s why I prefer a man in uniform.”
She provides the levity that I need. “Thank you.” A tear rolls down my cheek, and I bury it in Olivia’s shoulder.
“We’ll get through this, and I’ll never mention his name.”
I nod and wipe away the tears. The problem with having a past is that it’s always there. Others don’t have to call it out, not when you’ve decided to torture yourself daily. Olivia doesn’t have to say his name. The festival doesn’t have to list it on the program or have it blasted on three-foot-tall lights on the billboard.
His name is always on the tip of my tongue. It plays on repeat in my head every day. The one name that changed my life and has me questioning everything.
Laredo.
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