Page 1 of Juliet's Echo

Prologue

Echo Everette (15 years old)

“Why the fuck does it smell like this in here, and what is taking so long?” I said angrily as I paced back and forth. Everything about hospitals triggered my anxiety. The smell of antiseptic and some metallic shit sat heavy in that space between my nose and throat, refusing to move.

“Fuck, man.”

After damn near biting my fingernails until my nail beds bled, I did the only thing I could do—plop my ass back into this uncomfortable chair and wait.

“It’s cool, bro. Mommy will be fine,” my little brother Zion reassured me as he slid into the seat next to me and rubbed my back.

His attempt to comfort me failed tremendously. My energy was so off-kilter that his touch felt more like an electric charge than a cool-down. It was as if I were a bull being taunted, waiting for the flag to signal me to charge—and the glass on the vending machine in front of me was my target.

“Yeah, ain’t like she’s the one doing any of the work,” the youngest, Mylo, added.

Little did either of them know that my mother wasn’t the one I was concerned about.

I was the oldest of three, and soon there would be a new addition to the Everette tribe—as if I needed another life to be responsible for. We didn’t know if the baby would be a boy or a girl, but did it fucking matter? Either way, it would require love, protection, and whatever else living things needed to grow. And this kid? This kid would require more of me than Zion and Mylo ever could.

I took my role as the oldest and big brother very seriously. Everywhere my two feet landed, I made sure my name carried weight. From the riches of Havenbrook, Rosemoor, to the trenches of Newark, New Jersey, “Old Man Echo”—a name given to me because of my unnecessary seriousness—was known.

The smartest? I outsmarted him. The best dressed? Well, I reinvented swag, so there was no competition. And if a nigga paraded around like he was tough, I’d beat his ass for no good reason, just to set the tone. That last one often got me slapped upside the head by my pops, but it was worth it—as long as folks understood me and mine weren’t to be fucked with.

And no, I didn’t sell drugs. No gang affiliations either. Although the permanent scars on my hands would say otherwise, I had the mannerisms of a perfect gentleman.

Music was my pleasure. I lived and breathed the mechanisms of sound—from the creation of a beat to the recording and editing process. The sound of someone’s voice laid over my beatwould forever be the only drug I ever needed. At only fifteen years old, I had my own studio with top-notch equipment and had already made almost three million in net profit by producing for some of the hottest artists on the Billboard charts.

So why the bad boy demeanor, you ask? Well, because the best talent didn’t come from the top of crystal stairs; they were mostly found in scary basements. Meaning, the toughest hoods were where I searched for the next musical superstar. And you could paint the picture of the stance you needed to take coming into someone else’s hood. Now, don’t get it twisted—I knew the game, the protocols of the streets. I’d always get permission from whoever ran whatever territory I ventured into, but the others knew to talk to me nicely while I was in town. Oh, and occasionally in Havenbrook, you’ll run into the average asshole, rich kid, and need to pop him in the nose or slam him on his shit to remind everyone who’s big dog.

My parents—my father, Axel Everette, a retired NBA Hall of Famer and now head coach of the Rosemoor Lions, five-time NBA champions, and my mother, Olivia Everette, a three-time Oscar winner for Best Actress—provided the funds to start HUSH.

Heard Under Silent Hours.

The name came from my late-night mixing sessions, when the house was supposed to be quiet. My mother would yell down the hall, “Echo, you betterhushthat shit up.”

“Everette family?”

A small but clear voice snapped me out of my trance. The woman it belonged to was tall and fair-skinned, with dark brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. A cluster of tags hung from a badge reel on the upper right side of her scrubs. Her ID read: Nathalie, Labor and Delivery Nurse.

“Yeah, that’s us,” Zion spoke up.

“Follow me,” she said with a smile. “Your mom is all settled in, and your new baby sister is ready to meet you.”

A girl.

It’s a girl.

I sprang up from the chair so fast I forgot my phone was on my lap. It crashed to the floor, but the sound did absolutely nothing to break the tension in the perfect square Nathalie, my brothers, and I had formed.

Who told this kid to be a girl? Where do you even get girl stuff from? At what age is she going to want a boyfriend, get a period?

“Fuck,” I muttered, bouncing lightly on my toes, practicing my jab. “I gotta make sure my right hook stays sharp, and my left puts them on their ass.”

“Hold on, killer,” Nurse Nathalie chuckled. “No need to stress yourself about any of that right now. Why don’t you just start with hello?”

My mother’s hospital room looked more like a suite at the Ritz-Carlton than a room built for fluids, screams, and trauma. I slowly stepped inside, barely moving over the threshold, and gazed at Mrs. Everette resting with something small and wrinkled on her bare skin.

My mother was a vision of beauty. Perfect smile, beautiful, even deep-brown skin, and a head full of gently curled microlocs—she’d put you in mind of the late actress Suzanne Douglas. Still in my militant stance, I glanced over at my pops, who didn’tembody my mother’s calmness and grace. This nigga looked like a nervous-ass Iman Shumpert—the high-top fade version, not the braids.