DEACON

"This day is going to the middle of buttfuck nowhere rapidly and I don't have the patience for it after the monstrosity of a surprise, so 'fess up, old man..." I hurry him along with a monotone, exasperated voice.

"Message received," Trace clips curtly. Taking in his demeanor, I detect traces of nervousness to continue. No pun intended, by the way, I'm still feeling too miserable for that.

This time, the indestructible titan seeks encouragement from his wife. "Go on dear," she lays her head on his right shoulder and squeezes his bicep with her opposite free hand. It's a silent, powerful showing of togetherness. A united front. My place in it, uncertain. The earlier mention of 'family' is making me fidgety. I'm reading Quentin's face for clues. He moves his bottom lip and shoulders upwards.

Cluelessness, just what I need. Great.

Mrs. Cohen doesn't move a muscle. That's years of exposure to jurors or Botox. More power to her. She sneezes. "Bless you, Ma'am," I give her a crumpled napkin that I've found in the pocket of my jeans. It has an unreadable, forgotten phone number on it. "Never thought I'd see the day where I'd snort ink," she deadpans. "Line is disconnected..." The joke is so lame, that it's actually good. I stand up to high five her.

"That's your redemption in my book, Beatrice. Way to go." She curls her fingers around my raised hand and tugs it a little. It conveys warmth and trust. As if to say, 'All will be well'. The gesture is nice.

"Speaking of lines... I've called in reinforcements."

"Oh for God's sake and my sanity," I swivel to Trace, "Spit it out."

"After your thirtieth birthday party, I've arranged a meeting with Harrison and Louise Nichols..."

You can hear a pin drop. Three people in this office have their mouth shaped in a perfect round O.

"Once upon a time, Harrison and Louise were family. We entrust you with the best. The best is what we want for you. To continue a flourishing career you need to have backing by Nickel Recording and Publishing and all that it'll bring you." Maurin underlines her husband's ridiculous statement.

I'm fighting a flight response by clenching and unclenching my hands next to my body. I'm trying to find an appropriate reply. I think it has disappeared into thin air, because I can't articulate one. I can't bring myself to stay seated anymore.

"Hold up, hold up," I wave some agile fingers in my mentors' faces.

"Let me get this right. You want to present me on a silver platter to the man, who after years of being your brother from another mother, forgive me for the choice of words, relentlessly tried to poach your successful supermodel wife from you?" I point at Maurin.

"Which went up shit creek without a paddle so ludicrously bad, she miscarried the only precious baby that ever nestled inside of her!" I bristle. "Douchebag Harrison was so empathetic and anguished towards the two of you, he immediately turned around to go on the prowl for the next eagerly awaiting pussy. To really rub salt in your wounds, he decided to look not very far. Didn't he? The bastard put his efforts and let's not forget, his lousy fertile dick, in you guys' remaining bandmate, Louise..."

The peanut gallery gasps. If they didn't already know, they do now.

"Her pregnancy automatically meant the end of Music City's Triptych, and that's still not the end of the story," I heave. "To top it off, the motherfuckers named their daughter after themselves; H A R L O. The W and E are added for show!"

I'm beside myself with rage. "You want to offer me to that man, Mr. President? This idea might infuriate me more than selling the the whole of True Tone to Merle fuckin' Corbin! Where's your sense of marital loyalty? Unbelievable..."

Mighty Trace Ellis looks like he's been beaten to the canvas after a heavyweight bout.

Good.

"Oh DJ, my sweet boy," Maurin sniffles while she carefully angles my face so that our gazes lock. "It's been years... You're holding onto resentment that isn't yours to carry... Not the one you feel for Trace, but certainly not the one you feel for the Nichols family."

"Momo, I wish I could believe you, then I'd be alright. But now, everything you told me really doesn't apply to the way I feel inside." I kiss her forehead to express my genuine worry about what this is doing to her.

"Darling, it was my idea to reach out to Harrison after the sale of our label. I'll swallow every emotion I feel towards him and Louise if it means you'll keep progressing and succeeding in taking the next step. Let me help you get a foot in the door, since I'm also the reason we've sold True Tone Records and messed up your immediate future." I give her forehead another kiss as confirmation that I'll go to the damn meeting.

"I'm sure that the last word hasn't been spoken on this matter, but son, your phone is buzzing like an eager alarm clock. It irritates me to no end. Please answer it," Trace huffs. 

Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, Quentin flashes me a quick peace sign and a shrug of his shoulders to indicate he has been called twice as well.

Hmm...

"Will Harlowe be at this reunion powwow?" Quentin unceremoniously asks. I'm fully aware why he wants to know. He could've been more subtle though. I glance at him, but Hix doesn't pick up on its meaning.

Beatrice arches an eyebrow at my non-verbal communication while an oblivious Maurin answers the lingering question.

"I'm not sure. From our side, everyone in this room will be at that meeting. Why?"

"Oh, nothing..." Quentin whispers under his breath.

Here we go... Damn him.

"You asked for a reason. In the decade that you've been employed by my husband, I've never known you to be a liar. Don't start now, Quentin Jack."

He slouches under Maurin's stern gaze. The fact that he's seated next to a lawyer doesn't help either.

"If she's there, it'll get interesting. Deacon's chances might not be so favorable with her parents..."

In no time at all, I bang my fist on the conference table. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH, Q! IF I GO DOWN BECAUSE OF THIS... I'M TAKING YOU DOWN WITH ME, ASSHOLE!"

"Boys, boys... Can one of you explain what's at play here? What does it have to do with Harlowe and why should we care?" Maurin blocks my view of Quentin, who'd be dead if looks could kill.

"Deacon might've misjudged, no misbehaved last night. On the receiving end; Sweetheart Harlowe Nichols." He pipes up from behind her back.

"DEACON JUDE!" Trace bellows. "I'd like to echo my wife. Why!?"

"Hold your horses! Quentin better takes his responsibility in this! Yesterday, during the Do Good Gala, he got me sloshed on a new concoction, just because he thought he... we could get away with it. I was royally three sheets in the wind when Harlowe came around asking for some quotes to support the Heartland Foundation. Especially because I'm the reigning Song of the Year Award winner."

"Which is why you were there, Dumb & Dumber. For charity!" Trace grovels.

"Yes," I acknowledge him. "But, because of my severely inebriated state, I patronized her. I was really dismissive of her. She could've taken it up the ranks..." I wince, reflecting on my behavior.

"She could have?! Well, it's abundantly clear she did! Your phone is red hot, Deacon! I'm guessing I don't have to inquire about Quentin's phone. All because of misguided misconduct at a charity event for an esteemed foundation. What the hell were you boys thinking?!" Trace drums on.

"You may count your lucky stars, guys, that the meeting is already secured. However, it can always be canceled," Beatrice chimes in.

"Maurin, do you want a say in this?" I ask her.

"Don't be snarky with me, DJ. On top of this freaking mess, you know you lied to me. You gave me the impression, no, you told me, you were hitting your stride after the liveshow for the Awards. Is this what it means for the both of you to be an adult? Quentin, Deacon, please go home. We love you. Nevertheless, it's safe to say, Trace and I are disappointed. For the love of God, don't drink before the birthday bash."

"Are we even having it with all that's going on?" I whine.

"Yes, Deacon. You're turning thirty. You deserve a celebration. Show that family of yours what they're missing out on over there in Lexington. Besides, your milestone birthday will be True Tone Records' farewell party, darling. Although nobody knows that yet."

"Neither did I, Momo." I quip.

"Get outta here, Dumb & Dumber, before I strangle ya..."

"Bye Trace. See you this weekend with Mr. Dolph, Mrs. Cohen. Be sure to invite Honey!"

"I'll ask. She has a boyfriend now, Mr. Blye..." 

Bummer.

I walk out of there without acknowledging Quentin. He's my partner in crime, but he can sweat it out for a while...

Bye Felicia! What a shitshow of a morning!

---

By the time I returned home I couldn't resist torturing myself some more. In my oldest boxer and my rattiest T-shirt, I reminisced about the last couple of days.

Winning the coveted award for Definite Scar is a feat to be proud of. God only knows how many times I could still sing that song. If ever with this catalog or special clause shit hanging over my head. There's absolutely no way I'd change my mind about a clown like Merle Corbin. You have to give it to him, buying yourself a new hobby for ten figures is next level business. Money makes the world go 'round.

My thoughts drifted off to some words Beatrice said earlier. That I could ask my father Jonah for help. Not in a million years would I even consider it. He took enough from me. This way at least, I don't owe him anything. Not a penny, dime or nickel.

HA!

My mind is playing tricks on me and if that isn't enough, Harlowe Nichols is gliding around in my thoughts like a godsend. Something compelled me to pay attention and look at her when she showed up in front of me yesterday. She wore a ball gown that could have only been made in an enchanted forest. The blush color made her skin resemble liquid gold. Her high neck and long sleeves draped in delicate flowers. 

Her high neck and long sleeves draped in delicate flowers.

Here and now, it makes me fantasize about her possible smell... The train of her dress complimented the vision she was. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a fashion or a dressy kind of guy, but I know my colors and fabrics. As a singer and a songwriter, you learn to pay attention to these types of things.

I'm captivated by this woman's elegant beauty. Why didn't I notice it earlier? Was I really that far up my own ass? The most beautiful thing she wore though; her moss green eyes and her self confidence.

I've tainted it with my drunken haze, shortsighted assumptions and my rock steady ego. I've tainted her. Burnt myself in the process. I might have to bear the consequences. I need to repent for my sins. Acknowledge my wrongdoing before this totally blows out of proportion for the Heartland Foundation or myself. One glance on my homescreen confirms that I need to return their call tomorrow. It's fair to assume I've stirred a hornets' nest.

My God, if I was a father like Harrison Nichols or Trace Ellis for that matter, I'd have my balls for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I'm discovering deep rooted resentment is a dish best served cold. Shuddering cold.

I murmur the lyrics to Andrew Peterson's I Want To Say I'm Sorry while slowly drifting off into a restless sleep.