Page 42 of His Dad Will Do
I reach my study and close the door. Hopefully, I’ll have good news for Silas by the time he finishes his dinner. I doubt that James would be calling me on a Sunday if he wasn’t interested.
“So?” I ask after I reach my desk and sit down at the chair behind it.
“I love it! It’s fucking batshit, but it’s brilliant. It’s gonna be bigger than The Lion King!” James Cohen speaks mostly in hyperbole, but he knows the industry and his instincts are usually right.
“I thought you’d like it.” He’s been a client of mine for a decade or so and I’ve gotten to know him pretty well over that time.
“Where the hell did you find it? Who wrote it? Who’s their rep?”
“His name is Silas Mitchell. He graduated from NYU Tisch last spring. And I guess I’m his rep. At least for now.”
Fortunately or unfortunately, James knows me well, too, and his tone sharpens. “Wait, why are you representing some unknown composer and lyricist? You’re normally production counsel, aren’t you?”
I do normally represent Broadway producers or more established authors in the industry. Most often, I’m on the other side of the table from the young up-and-coming bookwriters, lyricists, or composers trying to break into the business. Not that I’m ever out to screw them, but my clients’ interest is typically in maximizing the return on their investment and minimizing to the extent possible within industry standards the advances or royalties paid to the talent and creative teams.
“He’s been working on this for a year or so,” I tell James. “It’s not quite there yet, but I knew you’d see the potential. Still, if you’re not interested, I can connect him with Jeffrey Seller.”
James and Seller have gotten into bidding wars before on new material, so I know that’s like waving a red cloak before a bull.
“Don’t you dare—I said I was interested! Just—Logan, who the hell is this kid? What’s your angle here?”
“I think the boy has talent, that’s all. He deserves a chance.” Jesus, that sounds lame even to my own ears.
“The kind of chance a recent theater grad would give his left nut for,” James says, and he’s not wrong. Still, this business is eighty percent who you know, as James himself very well knows. “Whose dick did he suck to get your attention?”
I don’t answer immediately and James takes my silence for a confession. “Oh, Logan. You didn’t! You dirty dog, you!”
“I’m not,” I protest, but I’m actually a terrible liar. I can keep a poker face when representing my clients and I have no trouble keeping their confidences, but I can’t actually lie, especially to my friends. And James is probably the closest friend I have.
“I— He— We—” Fuck. So much for my professional eloquence.
“When did you meet him? Last I heard, it was all one-night stands and Grindr hookups for you. You haven’t seen anyone more than a couple of times in how long?”
“I’ve known him for two years,” I say truthfully. “But we’ve only just gotten together.” Also true, even if us being together is supposed to be just for the weekend. But whatever happens between us, Silas deserves this chance to advance his career in ways that I can help.
“Wait, if you’ve known him for two years and he just graduated from Tisch…Jesus, Logan, how old is he?”
“Twenty-two,” I say. I let the phone fall away from my ear and take a sip of wine while James cackles loud enough that I glance at my study door to make sure it’s still closed.
I don’t tell James that it’s worse than me trading on my connections for a boy I’m fucking who’s young enough to be my son. That he was my son’s boyfriend first and that his ass is probably still sore from the pounding I gave it earlier today and that if I have my way, I’ll keep pounding that ass as long as he lets me.
“Wait a minute,” James says. “You said his name is Silas? Wasn’t that the kid at your firm’s holiday party? The one who drank the caterers out of Jameson?”
Shit. I forgot that I’d pulled Silas away from talking to James when I went to collect him and take him home. “Yes,” I admitted. “That’s him.” Christ, I hope I’d managed to reach him before he spilled the whole sordid story to James.
There’s a beat of silence, but James doesn’t reveal anything else about that night, just tsks at me on the other end of the call. “I hope you know what you’re doing here, friend.”
I’m doing this because I’m in love with him and to equalize our relationship as much as I can so that he has the resources to live his life without me if he wants.
“Well?” I ask James. “Are you in?”
“Fucking yes, I’m in. Don’t tell me I gotta find a new lawyer, though?”
“Call Adrienne.” She’s one of the other partners at my firm and James is right—I can’t represent him in this deal if I’m looking out for Silas’s interests. “I’ll give her a heads up to expect you.”
I need to get Silas his own representation, too. It’s not kosher, ethically speaking, to represent him while I’m fucking him.
We spitball a few more details—names of potential directors and general managers, a choreographer that James likes to work with but who might be busy with another show—then wind the call up. I send a quick email to Adrienne, giving her the bare bones of the deal and leaving out the details of my relationship with Silas, just that I’m conflicted out of representing James. She’ll find out why eventually, but for now, she can get started drafting the standard production contract.
