The Maverick

AVA

With his arms spread wide and his venomous grin, Charlie Albrecht crossed the boardroom, headed in my direction.

“Ava, sweetie, you must be devastated,” he crooned, seeking to pull me in for one of his uncomfortable grabby hugs.

I was devastated, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to touch me. I put both hands up in front of me, making contact with his pecs as I smiled and said, “Remember, not a hugger, Charlie.”

Anger flashed behind his eyes, but when it came to being the worst kind of entitled bastard, Albrecht was phenomenal at maintaining his composure.

“Why do I always forget that?” he asked, shrugging jovially and then added, “I guess having preconceived notions about the warmth of Latin people is really a thing, huh?” He pouted slightly, feigning something akin to forlorn. Then, glancing at the other members of the LSA board of directors, he shifted his head quizzically and rhetorically asked, “Is that the politically correct term for Hispanic people now? Latin? It’s not, is it?” He turned back to me. “Jesus, forgive me. Always putting my foot in my mouth. What is the best way to discuss your heritage? What should we call you?”

Fucking cocksucker.

I hated Albrecht since day one. His father was a decent man—but when he died he left his shares of LSA to Charlie and ever since, this man had been trying to undermine my position and make a fool out of me.

“I prefer Ms. Childs; that would be absolutely perfect,” I said tightly, clearly less capable of maintaining my composure. Honestly, nothing to do with stupid Charlie Albrecht’s nasty attitude, my insides were all churning acid and too many Tums because I had no idea how Bruno was going to react to his parents’ will.

In the movies, families gathered in some posh-looking library-like room and they read the last will and testament of their loved ones. In real life, someone is chosen as the executor of the will and when a person or people die, the will is entered into public record. The people involved get a phone call.

I got a phone call and basically the Difrancos’ will was my nightmare. They left Bruno all of their money and a twenty-five percent stake in LSA Records with two stipulations. One, I was promoted to COO of the company and couldn't be fired under any circumstances. And two, I had to sign off on all his decisions. If he violated either stipulation, his twenty-five percent stake in LSA would revert to me.

In addition to my promotion which came with a hearty salary, they left me the apartment I already lived in, some paintings and jewelry I loved or complimented in my time with them, and a twin twenty-five percent stake in LSA Records. I also had control of their remaining one percent of LSA Records, which I could either keep or give to Bruno as I saw fit. In other words, it was my fucking job to decide who would be the majority stakeholder of LSA Records, Bruno or me. What were they thinking? Who did something like that? Left an employee—albeit a very faithful one—in the position of deciding if their son deserved their company. It was insane.

I got the call on Friday. And I expected to find Bruno banging at my door by midnight. He and his friends had moved into the apartment he grew up in a few days after his parents’ plane went down. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the night I informed him of their deaths, but even before I knew about the will, I couldn’t go outside without feeling anxious that I’d run into him. And after, it was like I was paralyzed. I didn’t leave my apartment all weekend, in fear that he’d be waiting to ambush me in the lobby or on the sidewalk, but nothing. Not a call or a nasty text. Nothing, just radio silence. There was no dramatic blowout where Bruno foamed at the mouth and screamed in my face because he had discovered that I was basically his warden.

And then on Sunday evening, I received a call from Andrew Warner, a good and kind albeit somewhat reclusive member of the LSA Records board of directors, notifying me that the board wanted to meet the following morning to discuss the future of the company. At first, I thought Andrew called just to relay that message, but then he paused before what would have been the natural time to say goodbye and instead said, “It’s a big job they gave you, Ava.”

My hands started to shake. I knew he was talking about the shares, not the actual COO position. All I could say was, “Yep.”

His voice was warm and heartfelt when he said, “Not that it’s any of my business, but if I were you, I’d try to remember who you were to them.”

I was so unhinged about the whole thing that I said just a little too much in response. “Who am I exactly? I’m not their daughter. I’m just an employee that they trusted. I can’t understand why they left this to me.”

In response to my borderline hysteria, he peacefully asked, “What was it they trusted you to do? What was your job?”

“Everything,” I lamented. “I make sure everything at LSA goes smoothly. And if it doesn’t, I fix it.”

“I’m just a human, Ava. I learned that the hard way—but I’m guessing that if that's what they’ve trusted you to do in the past, then that’s what they are expecting from you now—to fix it.”

I got it that he was trying to be wise, to manage me in some guru-esque way. I’d been managing other people my whole life, but for the first time, I wasn’t sure what the play was. I didn’t see the solution.

That terror was what had me practically growling at stupid conniving Charlie Albrecht in the LSA Records boardroom, just down the hall from my old office and my new one. A handful of other board members were already gathering around the table. They were all men in suits. Rose, Bruno’s mom, used to joke that if it weren’t for her, LSA board meetings would be mistaken for really stuffy and boring stag parties

Her job was my job now, to be a lone woman in a sea of men who might or might not see my presence as justified. Taking a deep breath, I rolled my shoulders back and walked around Charlie so I could face the other men when I said, “Morning, gentlemen.” There were some smiles and head nods before I continued. “Obviously, I am in a new role, but I’ve yet to hire my own replacement, so while we wait for Bruno and a few others, I’m going to go ahead and make sure those who are out of town are patched in on Zoom.”

The men nodded at me.

“Glad to see you don’t suddenly feel anything is beneath you,” Charlie chided just as Bruno and his posse of friends walked into the room. They looked like who they were, all rebel and rock 'n' roll. No suits among them, just denim, worn cotton, punky haircuts, leather, and studs. Well, except for the tiny blond. If I remembered correctly, her name was Meredith and she always looked like a sunny sweetheart just off the bus from band camp.

Bruno winked. “Stop trying to get us to picture Ava beneath you, Charles. No one wants to gag before they’ve even had their coffee.”

Over the speakers that I’d just connected, Andrew choked on a startled laugh and followed his chortle with, “Bruno, so glad to see you are still as unruly and obnoxious as your father used to be, although I’m sure Ava would rather begin her day by avoiding the world of the #metoo hashtag.”

Bruno, who still hadn’t looked at me, spoke toward the screen that was projected on the wall behind me and smiled. “Andrew, lovely to see your effigy. Please send Summer and Bella my well wishes. Also, congratulations again on your nuptials.”

Bruno seemed almost joyful. But I wasn’t buying it. At any minute, he was going to set my house—and his—on fire. This was the calm before the madness. He turned to me and there was no hello, just a tip of his chin as an acknowledgement before he said, “So sorry you have to deal with endless flirtation from Schmucky Chucky over there, Aves.”

Charles, who sounded reasonable, but was betrayed by the fuming redness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, signaled to Bruno's entourage and said, “We don’t usually allow strangers in board meetings.”

Making it completely clear that whatever power Albrecht possessed didn’t scare him, Bruno winked condescendingly. “Well, Chaz-Matazz, as CEO of this glorified teenybopper factory, I am going to make an exception today.”

Looking at my shoes, I swallowed a giggle.

All game face, Bruno boomed, “These men and women behind me are the future of LSA Records.” His demeanor shifted and his voice tightened as he looked to me and through clenched teeth and said, “That is, if Ms. Childs sees fit to sign off on my decisions.”

The men at the table became incapable of direct eye contact as they shifted in their seats and sporadically attempted to throw off their own discomfort by clearing their throats.

I made a big deal of putting my attaché case on the table; it was a gift from the Difrancos, and I always carried it to work. Then I used the time it took to pull out my chair, sit down and awkwardly adjust and readjust my seat, to breath deep and attempt to conceal the cauldron of discomfort brewing in my belly. Finally, I looked up at Bruno. Seemingly confident, I smiled and said, “I’m excited to hear your ideas.”

His nostrils flared and his lips twitched, but he did not explode. Again, he just tilted his chin, a tiny nod of resigned acceptance. I didn’t even begin to understand his behavior. The Bruno I knew was not like Charlie Albrecht—he didn’t conceal his real emotions. He raged. He came at the world swinging, fighting for what he thought was right. So, this calm acceptance of his parents’ seemingly heinous and careless will seemed bizarre.

Composed and in command, Bruno laid out what he had planned for LSA. He wanted to take the company in a new direction.

“I want to bring us back to our roots. My parents started this place in their first apartment on the Lower East Side because they loved music, and then they got lost, caught up in the desperation to outride the ever-changing industry.” He spoke passionately as he paced back and forth at the far end of the table. “Most of you have been involved with music your whole lives—and I know you know that we can do better.”

I loved watching him like this. This was the Bruno who captivated me when we teenagers. This was the fuel behind the only kiss that ever made my lips tingle. This was the wild heart that ran up the subway stairs to take the fall for some idiot girl—just because he knew his outcome would be better. This was the man the boardroom needed to see—not the boy who frivolously spent his parents’ money and knocked out paparazzi. This version of Bruno was inspired and inspiring. One interaction with him like this and his love for music and the industry that distributed it would never be in question.

Honestly, I’d been around a while and it was always clear that when it came to the Difranco name, Bruno was the most talented. He could spot the magic. He just knew which musicians had the talent to go all the way, even when we were kids. As a parlor trick at parties, his parents would play unreleased songs for him and ask him to predict if the musician would be a success. He was always right.

He continued. “I want LSA to be the place where musicians think their artistry is of utmost importance. I want us to earn our Grammys again. I want this to be the place where we nurture the next great phase of music history. I want them to write about our studio and our people as the space where the greats of the twenty-first century were produced and recorded.”

As I sat there watching him, everything Andrew said started to make sense. I knew he could and should run LSA—at least the creative side of things. His parents knew that too. I knew they did. But Bruno was wild and unpredictable. He needed me. He needed my help. Together we could make LSA bigger and better. I couldn’t just hand him the keys to the castle—he had to earn them by recognizing that running this company wasn’t just about vision. It was also about image and numbers and finances. That was why the Difrancos left that last one percent of their company to me. They trusted me to help Bruno find his way.

Responding to Bruno’s impassioned rant, Charlie rolled his eyes and patronizingly snapped, “So, let me get this straight. We should let you take a perfectly functional company and change it into some bohemian hippie commune where musicians feel happy.”

Bruno didn’t back down. “Chippy, let’s be honest, I’m not counting on your vote. I’m pretty sure that you’d shoot me down even if I was handing you wads of cash. But I see the point you're making, so let me clarify. I don’t want to undermine what’s already working; the bubblegum pop stars will stay, but over the next five years, the goal would be to not add more.” He emphatically argued, throwing his hands. “Our current roster of pretty, pretty princesses and boy bands more than pay the bills around here, but if you look at the last few years of billboard chart-toppers—genuine musicians and songwriters are capable of generating that kind of money and then some. I know that most of you are about the bottom line, but why not make us better and more profitable?”

Projected on the wall behind Bruno's shoulder, Andrew sighed. “Listen, kid. I love you and trust you, but even to me this sounds idealist.”

Bruno turned to look over his shoulder and said, “Let me prove it can be done.”

“How?” I asked, genuinely curious.