Page 61 of Embracing the Beat
“I’m psychic,” he teases, pressing a kiss against my nose. “Not really. I’m not saying it because you need to hear it, I’m saying it because I mean it. I’m not giving you up again.”
??????
The ringing of my phone has me nearly slicing a finger instead of the carrot I’m cutting. It’s a Philadelphia number, and I bobble the phone in my haste to answer it.
The attorney. Finally.
“Hello?”
“Ms. King?” The man’s voice is clipped, like he’s in a hurry. So am I, considering what he charges per hour.
“This is she.”
“This is Curtis Rawlins from Lloyd, Rawlins, and Smith. We met to discuss your current record contract.”
“Yes, Mr. Rawlins, I was concerned when I didn’t hear from you last week.”
“Yes, I received your messages. All of them.” He makes it sound like I’ve left more than three.
“Were you able to review the contract?” I try to keep the defensiveness from creeping into my tone. What a jerk.
“I did. I had both of my colleagues review it as well.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe there is anything we can do to help you terminate it.”
My stomach rolls. Up until now, I’ve been hoping for a loophole in the contract since I haven’t been able to connect with anyone who matters at Reverb.
“Oh.” Tears burn behind my eyes, and I nibble on my lower lip as the reality becomes clear—I’m stuck at Reverb or I need to quit.
“The contract is very well written.”
I want to snort out a laugh at his less than helpful comment.
“Okay. Well, thank you for looking.”
“Of course. Sorry we couldn’t be of further assistance. My office manager will run the card you gave us and will send you the receipt.”
Great.
He can’t help, but he can easily charge the emergency card I found in my guitar case. Mom and Dad are going to have a fit.
“Thank you for calling me back, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Goodbye, Ms. King.”
The phone beeps in my ear, and I shakily lower it to the counter, putting the knife down and taking several breaths.
I can’t go back to Reverb. The thought of spending any more time with Brad has bile rising in my throat.
I can’t.
But I have to go back or quit. Either way, I fail. Because apparently that noncompete is rock solid.
“What am I going to do?” I whisper to the empty kitchen.
West is still at work for another hour or so. And since he doesn’t know the full story, he wouldn’t understand why I’m so upset anyway.
You could tell him.
As quickly as I have the thought, I shake it loose. No way. I remember his face when he found out about Tucker. I don’t even want to imagine if he found out about Brad too.
