Page 31 of Filthy Beautiful
He raised an eyebrow. “You going solo?”
“Yeah, for sure. Everyone wants to hear a drummer play a full album by himself.”
Trey laughed. “I can hook you up, baby. Hot lineup, best writers, best producers around. Toastin’ singles like fresh bread.”
“Sounds dope. Speaking of hot lineups, though…” I hadn’t told him yet, but now that I was off tour… I’d already mentally split with my band, would soon split with them for real, and I was officially seriously considering the only worthwhile professional offer I’d received lately—and I definitely wanted his take on it. “Ashley Player asked me to join his new band. He’s putting something together with DJ Summer. He said they’re bringing in Brody Mason to manage.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Alright. So here’s what you do. Before you sign any shit with Brody Mason, you bring it to me. Let me look it over with you.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“And if you do that deal with Brody, and you wanna bring me Ashley Player and DJ Summer, I’ll sign you guys to Brick House Records. We bring Cary in, get him producing down at Little Black Hole, and off we go. Number one shit, straight out the door.”
“Sounds great.”
I knew Trey meant it, too.
These days, there was street Trey and there was office tower Trey, and anytime you talked to office tower Trey, street Trey was in there too, calculating the best way to alleviate you of whatever he could leverage out of you. Music. Talent. Money. The man was brilliant at making money, even more brilliant, maybe, at connecting, marketing and distributing talent.
Everything I’d need with my new band.
I was done with caving in, letting my bandmates choose our management, our record label—choose every-fucking-thing, when I knew in my gut they were getting it all wrong. Just because I was the drummer and I sat in the fucking back didn’t mean I was taking a backseat to that shit anymore. I’d done that for years, to try to appease everyone the fuck else, and look where it got me.
Starting all over again, at the age of thirty. Like the last ten years of my life, drumming my ass off all over the world, amounted to little more than nothing.
“Don’t know if Cary’ll be on board with that, though,” I told him, honestly.
He looked at me for a moment, considering. People almost always got awkward when Cary’s name came up.
Even people as smooth as Trey.
“How’s my blond brother doing?” he asked.
“Not so fucking good. We, uh, got word last week from the lawyers.” I cleared my throat. Always fucking uncomfortable to talk about it. “Joseph Fetterman—you know, the guy who set the fire… He died. In prison.”
“Damn, Xan. That’s dark shit.” Trey eyed me sidelong. “Not good news, though, I guess?”
“I don’t know. It’s news. Cary’s kinda… I don’t fucking know. He never talks to me about that shit anymore.”
“Right.”
Silence fell.
Even Trey seemed to come up short. No one really knew what the fuck to say about Cary’s… situation… anymore.
“Well,” he said, “when you see him, you tell him I said hey. Tell him to swing by and check out the tower, maybe we can work something out. New studio space… whatever he might be looking for. I can set him up in an office. You know, change of scenery. Might do some good?”
“Thanks, man. I’ll tell him.”
Sure, I’d tell him. It wouldn’t do any good, though.
As far as I knew, Cary hadn’t left his property in four years. He barely saw anyone besides me and his sister. His mom and dad, on occasion. His housekeeper. The occasional persistent friend who managed to sweet talk their way behind the soundproofed doors.
Even the bands he’d produced these last four years never got to actually meet him. They recorded their albums at Little Black Hole, he produced the albums from his home studio.
