Page 104 of Embracing the Beat
“You don’t,” I warn him again.
“Fuck.” He blows out a breath. “Fine. You don’t want to talk? I will.”
He pulls out his phone, messes with it for a second, and tosses it on the bar.
“What is this?” I ask, bending closer to review the image.
“That,” he gestures to the phone. “Is Brad Russell’s employee file from Reverb Records.”
“How the hell did you get that?” I pick up the phone and enlarge the image.
“My contact.”
“The guy who used to run security for them? He sent you this?”
He scoffs. “No. He sent me a list of names. And I took the list of names and started digging. All seven names are women who have been signed by Reverb in the last ten years. All had shown initial promise, but, after a year or two—although one was five years—they were reported for breach of contract and sued by the label.”
“Like…” I can’t bring myself to say her name. Doubt creeps in around the edges of my anger, and I don’t like the rock growing in my stomach.
“Like Mikey, yes.” He takes another sip of his drink and continues. “Every single one of these women was assigned the same label rep.”
“Brad,” I whisper.
Fuck.
“Brad Russell,” he confirms. “Of those seven women, three still live in the LA area. Rachel Baker, Lauren Flynn, and Evelyn McBride—although she’s changed her name since being signed by Reverb. Evelyn is the one who was there for five years before being sued for breach of contract.”
“You talked to them?”
“Yep.” It’s more a grunt than a word, and he signals the bartender for another beer while mine sits nearly untouched in front of me. “Each one of those women finally opened up to me and told me that Brad made their lives a living hell. Costumes better fitted for strippers, sexually explicit comments, with the final straw being an attempt at sexual physical relations. In Evelyn’s case—and I only assume this is why she lasted five years—a coerced sexual relationship.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I drag a hand through my hair as my mind starts to replay every word I flung at her.
I all but accused her of having sex with Jax, of cheating on me. I didn’t say the words out loud, exactly, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Fuck.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he agrees. “So, I asked these women why they never reported this douche dick for what he was doing.”
“What did they say?” I already know the answer though.
“They did. Reverb did nothing with the information except bury it so deeply it was almost impossible to find.”
“But you found it?”
“Barely. The statute of limitations has expired in every instance. I didn’t know if I had any options and called an attorney friend of mine. Showed her Michaela’s emails and texts. I don’t know exactly how, but she managed to subpoena the employee file. That’s how I got that. Now, what were you and my sister fighting about?”
“I, uh—” I stutter over how to explain my stupidity, and, in my hesitation, Sawyer’s expression turns shrewd. My heart gallops in my chest, my palms sweaty against the scarred wooden bar. “I-I fucked up.”
I suddenly realize I made the biggest mistake of my life by laying Ashley’s sins at Michaela’s feet.
“What do you mean you ‘fucked up’?” He hasn’t moved, hasn’t raised his voice, but the calm demeanor is coiled power.
The word “positive” circles my brain like a shark sensing blood in the water.
Fuck.
“She—I—fuck.” I’ve made a massive mistake.
