Page 3 of Synced to Us

Assistants talk. How do I know this? I used to be one of them.

I watch one such assistant toddle on her heels while she balances six to-go cups of coffee in her arms and tries to listen to her manager prattle on beside her. My upper lip curls.

I whirl around, my heels spearing the carpet as I stalk toward Dennis and watch his smile slowly fall. “I didn’t strategize my way out of obscurity and work sleepless nights just to have a frat pledge reject think he can outsmart me with his make-believe big, swinging dick. Since you know so much about me, you would’ve discovered one such account I brought into Larry’s eager hands was Emerald Spin Records.”

When I stop a foot away from him, my four-inch heels providing just enough height to look down, Dennis’s eyes grow small. His chin trembles with a retort.

It’s my turn to angle my head. “I can hear your wheels spinning, Dennis.”

“So what? It doesn’t matter who you brought in months ago, even if it was the fucking Queen of England. What matters is your future, and I’m about to piss all over it if you don’t give me what I want.”

“You want my hard work,” I say quietly, my mouth barely curving on the words. I’d worked half a year convincing the record company to try the cutting-edge opportunity of putting their artists’ intellectual property into an investment portfolio.

I say, “I don’t give that up so easily. Coming from nothing, I hold onto everything. Including Emerald Spin. Think it through, Dennis. Figure out why I’m throwing them in your face the moment you’re trying to screw me over.”

“Sweetie, even if you take them with you when you’re fired—”

“They’re Nocturne Court’s label. I will take them with me if I lose this job. They’re the largest music label in the United States. If they go, you’d be the one dealing with Larry’s volcanic ire, since I’ll make sure to tell him you orchestrated the move.”

“My make-believe dick shrivels as we speak,” he says. “Just because you have some has-been band connection Emerald Spin represented—what did you call them? I can’t even remember, they’re so done. Oh yeah, Nocturne Court. That doesn’t mean you have the power to influence an entire label. That ain’t clout, girlie.”

My mind whirs, I refuse to back down, even though Dennis is right. Nocturne Court disbanded two years ago, and although the label is desperate to get them to reunite, none of the boys seem too eager to get back into the fray. None save for one.

Buying time, I respond, “Don’t try me.”

Dennis laughs. He straightens from the table, his sudden proximity forcing me back a step. He senses the cracks in my hardened exterior because he smiles. “I don’t have to try anything. You’re finished, Dee Sparrow. Give me the goods or tweet tweet the fuck out of here.”

“You really want to test my power over the record label? And every other client in my books?”

“Well, you would know about the proper handling of clientele, wouldn’t you? Tell me, do all of them require a scrotum massage, or is it only the old, sweaty balls who like it?”

I ignore his too-easy jibe, because he’s right. If our more conservative clients find out about my past, I’ll be finished, and losing everything I’ve worked for sends my stomach plummeting. “I’ll take the label with me, Dennis. They only want me.”

“Please.” He scoffs. “Companies care about money, not sluts.”

I bristle. Despite being used to the word, I’m not used to it being uttered by a so-called equal.

He goes, on, “Unless you’re shacking up with one of their precious artists, you’ve got nothing.”

A light goes off in my head, but I school my face before Dennis can notice it.

“Actually.” I clear my throat and keep my eyes from darting away from his. “I am.”

Dennis’s brows scrunch and a snort escapes. “Are you for real? All this talk about working hard and using your brains and not your pussy, and you brought in the account with your tits and ass?”

I fist a discreet hand over my stomach to quell the slosh of bile in my gut. I didn’t come this far to continue to use sex as a powerplay, but I’m also not stupid enough to believe sex doesn’t continue to be the most influential currency there is—even at the top. “Not exactly.”

“Do continue. I can’t wait to hear how Miss Whorier-than-Thou will attempt to disguise her success as anything but sleeping her way to the top. Fuck, keep giving me ammo, girl. I live for this.”

“I’m engaged to one of them.”

I blurt it out so fast, my mind doesn’t have time to process the repercussions. All I want is to see shock ripple across Dennis’s Poindexter face while all the power he thinks he has leeches from his hands and flows back to me.

“Come on.” Dennis barks with laughter. “This last-ditch attempt of yours is pathetic. They’re all taken. Pussy-whipped and chained. There’s nothing tying you to Emerald Spin that I also don’t have.”

“Not all of them.” My hands are shaking, so I clench them at my sides, hiding them as much as I can behind my blazer and tote. “Wyn Riley.”

“Who?” Dennis screws up one side of his face so theatrically, he has to be faking. “Wait, the guy on the keyboard?”

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