Page 3 of Filthy Sweet

Although the fact that he’s got this other side to himself does please me. Reggie’s worried before that Owen doesn’t date or have much of a social life, and I remember feeling bad for him when we were kids, since he didn’t have many friends. I’d try to talk to him when I could, asking about the books he was reading or telling him about my new favorite band, although he was always pretty quiet in return.

Hell, I was lonely back then, too. I felt like I got what he was going through, in a way.

But now, if those fuzzy pink handcuffs are any indication, Owen’s not so shy, and he’s probably having a few more adventures than his older brother realizes.

I find that deeply satisfying.

The Heavy Weather offices are busy, like usual. They’re a medium-sized indie label with a home base right here in Seattle, newer to the scene but already pumping out hits, thanks in part to me.

We are, I remind myself.Weare an indie label because I work here now.

When I left home at seventeen, I had no plan, except for getting the hell out of Yellow Pine, Idaho, and away from my miserable family. My cocky ass went straight to LA, thinking I could make it with my guitar, but the real world smacked me in the face. If I could have known back then where I’d land today, it might have been a little easier to bear all the shit I had to go through on the way.

But the fact is I did make it. Without any proper schooling or help, I produced a fucking album, nurtured a hit band, and landed a cushy job at a hot label.

Not that life is ever that easy. I sacrificed to pursue my career and clawed my way up. I fought like hell for every opening and opportunity and did things that I’d rather never think about again.

That’s why I keep my sunglasses on when I walk into the Heavy Weather offices. I’ve earned myself a lone wolf reputation in this industry, and it serves me well. After fourteen years of fighting, I know that the only person I can rely on is me.

I walk through the office, not greeting anyone, only stopping briefly to grab a cold bottle of beer from behind the bar. There are massive, framed album covers on all the brick walls and exposed steel beams across the ceiling, and everyone is dressed casually, like they’re at a dive bar instead of at work.

I find Decker with his door open, some noisy metal band pumping on the stereo. He’s theoretically my boss, but I try not to treat him that way. I came to the label with a hit band, Phoenix Sunset, who I lured away from a major LA label, and a condition of my employment was that I could remain largely a free agent.

Decker is squinting at his computer. He’s a rocker in his fifties, bald and with heavy bags under his eyes, the stress of running the nuts and bolts of the label for twenty years getting to him. “Fox,” he says. “Glad you made an appointment.”

I ignore his sarcasm. “I’m back from LA. I got the venue problem worked out.”

That earns Decker’s attention. “Phoenix Sunset will have the concert hall?”

I take a swig of my beer. “Phoenix Sunset is my band. I told you, I’ll take care of what they need.”

Decker shakes his head. “Fuck. How you pulled that off, I have no idea.”

I grunt. The truth isn’t that interesting. I called in some favors and leaned hard on the band’s success. But it’s better to leave Decker in the dark, make it seem like I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.

“I checked out a new band,” I tell him, and when Decker gestures to the seat across from his desk, I stay standing. “I might have found something.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, but I realized we haven’t talked about my bonus yet.”

Decker frowns, annoyed, but I don’t flinch. I know how much Phoenix Sunset is bringing in. I’ve got the weight, so I intend to throw it around.

“This new band,” he says, leaning back. “Are they going to make up for the mess with Skeleton Bomb?”

I pause, not sure why he’s mentioning a band under our rival label, let alone the band whose drummer I fucked last summer. “What mess?”

Decker grunts. “What fucking mess,” he repeats, then rummages around on his messy desk, finds a copy of Seattle’s local music rag, and throws it at me. “You trying to burn every bridge in this town, Fox?”

I glare at him as I scoop up the paper. It only takes me a second to find the article. It stands out because of the pictures of me, the drummer from Skeleton Bomb, and the up-and-coming actress Tracey Bellwether, all naked in a hot tub and in various states of groping each other.

I tense. Fuck. This isn’t good.

And it’s not even a flattering angle.

“Seriously, Fox? The daughter of the owner of the label?”

My first thought is that Tracey must love this. She wanted nothing more than to piss her father off, and this would do it.

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