Side Trip(48)

Fred “Grips” Merrick is a master engineer Dylan’s been trying to wear down and win over to Westfield for months. Only problem? Grips has a sweet setup at Atlanta Records.

“Did you get a chance to meet with him?” Chase asks.

“He had to leave town last minute. Got a call lined up with him tomorrow afternoon.” He shows Chase crossed fingers. “He should take our offer more seriously once we sign the lease and we let him pick out his tech.”

Right now, though, all Dylan wants is to go home and crash in his Santa Monica condo. When he wasn’t in meetings while in New York or being towed around to view available space, he was hitting music hotspots late into the night because that’s what he does: watches and listens, all the time. The next PJ Harvey or Bon Iver is out there waiting for him to flip them his business card.

When he wasn’t doing any of the above, he should have gone back to his hotel suite and slept. That’s what any sane person would have done. But noooo. He just had to case the streets. He just had to spend his nonexistent free time looking in the shop windows and restaurants she’d tagged on Facebook on the off chance he might run into her. Because he hasn’t been able to get her off his mind or out of his system. Trust him, he’s tried. Women, whiskey, and work. No matter the all-nighter, he can’t shake his thing for Joy.

“What about Nigel?” Chase asks. “He still on board?” The producer Dylan wants on location in New York, that is, until he got a better idea when he was there.

“We didn’t meet.”

“Talk?”

Dylan shakes his head, yawning. He rises to his feet, tosses his empty cup into the waste can, and goes to the window.

“What the hell, Dyl? How do you expect us to produce albums without a producer?”

“Oh, you’ll get your producer,” he tells Chase over his shoulder and smirks. “The best.”

“You?” Chase guffaws. “What about LA?”

“Sharon’s ready. I’m promoting her.”

Not to pat himself on the back, but he’s trained her well. Her style and vision for their artists is aligned with his, and she’s a phenom at not only guiding them through the recording process but doing so within budget.

Chase stares at him and Dylan scratches the scruff on the underneath side of his chin. He can’t read his cousin’s expression. “What? You don’t agree?”

“Who’s Joy?”

Blood surges through him, making his skin hot. That came out of left field.

He plays innocent. Pulls a straight face.

“Who?”

“The woman with you in that photo you keep on your phone. The one you look at all the fucking time.”

His mouth falls open, then clamps shut. Has he been that obvious? And how the hell does Chase know her name?

Dylan shakes his head. Denial. Best policy.

“Cut the bullshit. You’re obsessed with her.” Chase stands, stabs a finger in the air in Dylan’s direction.

“Am not,” Dylan objects with an internal wince. He sounds like a complaining teen.

“When was the last time you stalked her Facebook profile?”

When his plane landed and he powered on his mobile.

Dylan grinds his jaw. Chase is always looking over his shoulder when Dylan is on the phone. Nosy bastard. His cousin must have picked up her name from Facebook. He then connected her to the photo on his phone. He’ll have to be more careful around his cousin.

“Who is she?” Chase pushes.

“No one.” That’s the way he should think of her. Hasn’t worked yet.

“She lives in New York, doesn’t she?”

His mouth pinches. He turns back to the window.

“Hell,” Chase swears behind him. “Please tell me she’s not the reason you’ve been pushing for a studio there.”

“She has nothing to do with it. I’ve been pushing for New York long before. It’s still the heart of music. It’s logical for us to be in the center of it. Our presence demonstrates Westfield Records isn’t a fly-by-night label. We’re sticking it out. So much of the competition is gone that there is a demand for studios. They need us. We can do this smart and on budget and come out way ahead.”

Chase raises his hands. “No need to pitch me. I’ve read the location analysis. I’m sold. But your head had better be in the right place. On your shoulders, not between your—”

Dylan cuts him off, knocks his own forehead. “It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”

Chase sinks back into his chair and digs an elbow into the armrest, taps his chin. A slight frown darkens his expression. Dylan can hear his brain whirring.

“What?” he snaps, exhausted. Pissed off he’s been called out. He really needs to stop checking her profile, wondering when her relationship status will change to married, when she’ll update her last name. Maybe she just forgot or doesn’t care. Maybe she kept her last name.

Or maybe he just needs to delete the damn app from his phone.

Chase takes a breath. “I’ll agree with your transfer to New York on one condition. You commute between studios. Sharon’s good, but I don’t want to lose your vision here. I still want your hands on every project.”

That he can manage, and even prefers. He grasps Chase’s hand. “Done.”