Reputation (Mason Family 2)

The setting sun casts shadows throughout my bedroom. It feels like a projection of my emotions because whatever Meadow is hem-hawing around about isn’t good. For me, anyway.

“Your label, Heater Records, is merging with Arturo Records at the end of next month. I was just informed this morning,” she says. “They also told me that they want you to deliver an entire album by June.”

“That’s impossible.”

“They also want to pull all funding for videos—”

“What? Why?” I ask before she can finish.

She sighs. “Videos are not profitable. They haven’t been for a long time, but they used them as a marketing tool regardless. Bob is stepping down from Heater after the merger, and there will be a lot of changes, I do believe. He was your biggest champion.”

I pace the room and try to convince myself this will be okay.

“I can get over the video stuff, but I can’t deliver by June, Meadow. You know that.”

“There are other things, Coy.”

“Like what?”

“Well, Arturo Records has a lot of the old-school artists in your genre. They’re trying to shift their schedules around to accommodate both company’s contracts. That could bump yours to a second-tier priority because they’re less willing to go all-in on your brand now. Their options just widened.”

I stop pacing. “They realize what my two albums have accomplished, right?”

“Yes. But Arturo may not be as committed to putting a lot of energy behind you like Heater.”

“This is a bunch of horseshit.”

She smacks her lips together. “It’s how the business works. I’ve seen this before, and I’m doing all I can. I’ve sent a copy of their suggestions to your attorney. I’ve forwarded it to your email as well. We’re going to need to be flexible and keep our eyes on the overall prize.”

“That’s good to hear since you’re making a cut from this.”

“I know you’re upset. Please just stay calm and trust the process. I’m doing everything I can do to fight for you.”

Trust the process, my ass.

“I’ll get back with you in a few days,” she says. “As soon as I hear anything, you’ll be my first call.”

“Thanks, Meadow.”

“Talk soon.”

“Goodbye,” I say before ending the call. I toss my phone onto my bed.

My stomach twists as I try to come to terms with what Meadow said.

I hate this. I hate this so fucking much.

Why can’t I just make music and make people happy? Why does it have to be so damn complicated?

My guitar sits in the corner of my room, and I pick it up. It instantly brings a smile to my face.

I strum the chords and remember when music was my lifeline. It was the one thing I was good at because I was good at it. It wasn’t like baseball—something I’m also good at, but my talents can be attributed to the thousands of dollars my parents spent sending me to camps since I was a kid. I wasn’t a bad wrestler, either, but I spent a week every summer at a camp in Ohio to sharpen my skills. My parents’ connections and money helped me get a step ahead in nearly every arena … except music.

Music was fun. There was no pressure to compete or follow a protocol or do it the right way. I just picked up the guitar or sat down at the piano and did whatever I felt.

It was my true love.

But now? It’s tarnished. Creative control has been compromised to get the music made. My style has been sacrificed, the joy of it singed with the smell of dirty money.

But what can I do? Nothing.

I set the guitar down and almost grab my phone but think better of it. Instead, I head downstairs and into the kitchen.

My mom looks up from the stove. Her face breaks into a wide smile.

“I will never get sick of seeing your face around here.” She motions for me to kiss her cheek, so I do. “Hungry?”

“Yeah. Smells good. What are you making?”

“Garlic butter chicken with egg noodles.”

“Sounds good,” I say, sitting at the table.

I take a deep breath and try to keep my spirits high for my mom’s sake. But, being the mother she is, she side-eyes me from across the room.

“What?” I ask her.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just got off the phone with Meadow. My contract is held up.”

She keeps stirring as she watches me. “Everything okay?”

I shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

She turns back to the stove.

“I mean, it’ll be fine,” I tell her. “We’re talking about an insane amount of money and crazy opportunities either way you cut it. But I hate dealing with the business side of this shit. I don’t know how Holt and Oliver do this all day.”

“And Boone.”

I laugh. “Mom, Boone doesn’t do shit.”

“Boone plays a role in things that you all don’t necessarily see.” She taps the spatula on the side of the pan. It makes a ringing sound. “This family has a lot going on at all times. You have Holt and Oliver running a multi-million-dollar company. Wade runs his architecture firm. You have a music career. Boone’s niche in this family is providing support.”