Surge

I walked off feeling sticky and imagined this was what flypaper must feel like.

But I had to help Drake.

I knew a partner would take over Drake’s case eventually. I also knew that this case weighed as much as an amoeba. It had no credible basis. Where Drake and Jason had never had a written agreement in the first place, both parties were allowed to use any music created between them.

At Uyu, Drake had alluded to very little evidence either party could muster for proof of ownership. So, in several weeks, there would be some inconsequential settlement, an agreement drawn up between parties to prevent further damage and draw borders for the path going forward.

But there were two things that bothered me. One, was that for several weeks while Drake dealt with Hunter, he’d have no faith that he’d come out the other end alive. I could feed Hunter speeches he could read from that might, just might, relieve Drake.

And two? I wanted revenge. Jason had cut Drake deeper than money. He’d betrayed him. I wouldn’t let Drake and RI pay out a Judas. It would be easy to get this over and done with the way we usually did with settlements and payments. Not only did I intend to erase this case with no cash settlement, I intended to turn the tables.

“Hey, hey…”I entered the kitchen and rubbed my raw eyeballs stinging from too much blue light after my long day at the office.

“Hey, baby girl.” My mom cooked at the stove. “I only need a few more minutes on these grits.”

They said when people got out of rehab and tried to beat addiction, transferring addictions could take place. Something like that seemed to be happening here, but Dixie’s new obsession with cooking was a hell of a lot healthier than alcohol, and selfishly, I wasn’t going to explore whether having home-cooked meals every night required another bout in rehab.

“Smells amazing.”

She tasted something from a pot. “Mmm. I thought you’d be home later or I would have had it ready sooner.”

“How’s your neck?”

My mom had gotten her halo off today and wore a soft brace instead.

She rubbed it. “Yeah, not bad.” She stopped stirring and turned my way. “I have a pretty hot little physio. Marco…”

“For you or for me?” I joked.

She wagged her spoon at me. “For you…”

I wasn’t interested, and my mom knew it. I’d tried to hide my sulking in the shadow of a mountain of work but I was pretty sure she could tell, in spite of how hard I tried to hide it from her, that I still ached over the breakup with Drake. I’d had no appetite for weeks. Maybe that’s why she kept trying to feed me. Maybe it had nothing to do with tricking her brain with a new addiction.

“Did you finish up early?” she asked.

“Just thought I’d bring some work home tonight instead.” I took an aloe vera drink out of the fridge then sat on a stool as I opened it.

I didn’t really want anyone catching me looking over Drake’s case in the office. Equally, I didn’t want my mom catching me with it. But honestly, my mom was so dialed in to the ins and outs of the music industry after years of being with my dad that she would be a good sounding board. Maybe hiding the case at home would be to my advantage.

I tried to make her ask me what I was working on. Casual-like. “So many new cases came in last week.”

“Cases? I thought you were still on contracts.”

“Yes and no. In the changeover period between contracts and litigation. Actually… I just got the paperwork for a copyright case.”

“Those can be interesting.” She pointed a spatula at me. “Those are always better if the lawyer is an actual musician. You should have stuck with those piano lessons. Would have made you a better lawyer with the copyright stuff.”

“There are experts for that.”

She stuck her nose in the oven and pulled out a tray of roasted veggies. “True.”

I wandered over to the stove, pretending to peer into a pot. “I just kind of wondered about cases where it wasn’t just about the music, though. You know, like…” Damn, I was an awkward liar. “I mean, these cases are always about tempos and key changes, but I’m thinking there might be more to explore. Just want to keep learning, that’s all…”

My mom shooed me out of the way as she put her culinary designs on two dinner plates. I followed her around the corner to where she’d put candles on the dining table and ambient music played in the background. A smile bubbled from within. She’d been putting on these dinner dates for us since getting out of rehab, and I probably needed them as much as she did.

We sat, and I let the case stuff drop, tucking in to the most perfectly seasoned grits my mom had ever made.

She closed her eyes in order to savor the sensation on her tongue. ”MmmmMMM.” She opened them again. “Now I don’t want to toot my own horn, but those grits are better than my grandma’s.”