First Comes Love (Love Comes To Town)

“We already suspected that,” I say.

Landon holds up a hand. “That’s not all. Somehow the media has gotten wind of it, and it’s going to be in the papers by the end of the week. Dad’s old journalist friend Barry Millow did us a solid and let us know in advance. Said that was all he could do, though. It’s a big story.”

“Shit,” I say. I want to sit down—it’s where I think best—but I don’t want to be sitting with my brothers standing all around, their uncertain looks drilling into me.

There’s no magic fix for this. It’s going to look very, very bad for Storm Inc. There’s no way around it.

“We can issue a statement,” I say, speaking as I’m thinking. “About Dad’s tax evasion. Today.”

“Today?” Nolan sputters.

“We have to beat them to it,” I say. “That’s our only play. If an outside source is the first to print this… it’s going to look even worse on us. Plus, you know what Dad always said—”

“If you don’t like the play, make the play,” Emerson says grimly. “I still can’t believe…”

“That bastard,” Nolan mutters fondly.

“How did he ever expect it to work out?” Landon wonders.

I resist the urge to shrug again. “You know Dad. He didn’t think that far ahead. He just took things as they came, damned be the consequences…”

I trail off, realizing what this is making me think of: Harley, and what we have, whatever it is.

“What about the bills themselves, though?” Landon asks. “Paying even half of them could topple the company. We can’t afford it.”

“This new TV series could give us the boost we need,” I say. “But you’re right. Even if it’s a big money maker, the cash won’t come in on time, and we can’t afford to delay payment any longer if we’re going to make this announcement and make things right. There’s no other choice, then. We’ll have to sell the music portion of the company. That’ll give us more than enough to settle our bills.”

Emerson groans. “But my CD…”

“We can have that as a stipulation for whoever buys Storm Music,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way.”

“You’re right,” he grumbles. “I just wish there was another.”

“So do I,” I say, finally sitting down.

Landon looks relieved, but not entirely. “We may just get by with this.”

And yet, from the look he and Nolan share, I know there’s something else.

“What is it?” I ask them.

“Well…” Nolan begins.

A knock at the door has him practically bouncing over. “Ah, they’re here: the donuts!”

I glare at him as he brings them over.

“What?” he says, already biting into one. “C’mon, humor me.”

So, I do. I eat my chocolate dip donut, shoot the shit with my brothers, even agree to appear in Nolan’s next comedy skit. And then, once that’s done, I ask them again, “What is it?”

“It’s just…” Landon reaches for another donut, then pauses. “This tax evasion stuff, even with us releasing the information, is bad PR. Really bad PR. Maybe not really, really company-ending PR, but it still looks really bad on us.”

“And?”

“And—we can’t afford any other bad PR. And I mean any.”

He gives me an odd look, and suddenly I understand.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” I say simply.

“No?” Nolan raises an eyebrow.

“Harley is a professional,” I say. “And so am I.”

“No one ever doubted that,” Landon continues, “but if your relationship gets out, and worse, if it continues and that gets out…”

I rise. “I told you. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“It’s over, then?” Nolan asks.

I clench at the edge of my desk. “You’re overstepping, little brother. Don’t come in here and tell me how to run my life.”

“You’re not Dad,” he snaps back. “You can’t just bang whoever you like and get away with it.”

“He’s right,” Landon says quietly. “Times are different, too.”

“You two have no idea what you’re talking about.” I turn to face the window, take a breath. “You can leave now.”

No one moves. The gilt gold clock on the wall ticks and tocks and ticks and tocks.

Finally, Emerson heads for the door. “Just—consider what they said. They’re only trying to help.”

Nolan and Landon leave after him.

I stare at the window and the cityscape beyond for a very long time.

For whatever reason, I couldn’t say it, tell them what I needed to: It’s over.Chapter 22Harley

“You OK in there?” Hannah asks, poking her head into my room.

Slumped on my stomach in my room, aimlessly scratching Anchovy under his little chin, I shoot a glare at my laptop and mutter over the announcer chirping about workplace safety, “No.”

“God, it’s been like five hours.” Hannah comes in to sit beside me, her blue eyes wide with astonishment. “The videos are still going?”

“They’re still going,” I intone, hardly believing it even as I’m saying it. “Before, I thought I’d do anything for this job, but this… is literally the most pointless thing ever. These training videos are from the 80s, and they’re just talking about how not to pour poison on your arm and BS like that.”