August set the pad and pen in front of her on the table, ready to just listen for a while instead of asking questions that she might be able to fit into an article. Sometimes, she had to put the journalist side of her away and bring out herself. A human, with a heart and feelings, because people needed that more than they needed the views, clicks, and engagement she could bring to the table.
“What did your friend say?” she asked.
Hayden let out a hard laugh, the frustration bleeding through when he muttered, “That I should be grateful. Exposure, and all. A fucking joke, really. Like Tay-J putting my art on his shit—without even asking if he could—is gonna pay the bills. How? The guy didn’t even credit me. That’s not the kind of exposure I want, anyway.”
“Is this? Because you should consider that, too. If you don’t want the exposure of problems from his side of things, be ready for the backlash this will cause. Either way, it’ll happen. It’s just a matter of what you control while it happens.”
That made the man pause.
“What options do I have from here?” he asked quietly. “Because from where I sit, it all looks like one big uphill climb.”
That was the real question, right? At least, he knew what he was looking at. It was a step in the right direction. Better to know than to be hit from the side with it.
“Going a legal route is a good start,” August said, “and so was contacting me. Because I can get you and your work into the public eye before Tay-J’s team even has a chance to respond in any meaningful way. If we can spin the court of public opinion in your favor rather quickly, then I can almost guarantee it’ll be settled faster than you could blink. Likely without much spotlight because they’ll have enough to deal with as it is. It’s just a matter of setting you in the right position to do these things. You understand?”
“Not really,” Hayden muttered. “I just wanted to make some art.”
August smiled, knowing that feeling all too well. “Thing is, you’re still making art. This isn’t going to stop that, regardless.”
“You think I should defend my copyright?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’re willing to help with ... publicity and—”
“I wouldn’t have flown from Chicago to here if I wasn’t willing to leave Los Angeles with something tangible to hand back to my editor,” August replied. “Something that will help you, for the record. I’m not in the business of selling my morals for clicks.”
Hayden nodded. “Okay.”
“Really, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Let’s do this.”
That was all August needed to hear. Grabbing the pad and pen, her gaze scanned the questions she had already prepped for this meeting. Already, she could see the article-style interview forming in her mind, and how she wanted to open it.
What happens to art when the artists are forgotten?
It felt like a good headline. One that could catch attention. She could already see the bold, black, block font taking shape across the page, leading the reader into the opening paragraph where in just a few words, she would already have them ready to devour the rest of the article. At the end of the day, the writing was still August’s passion.
What she did best.
Because the truth that followed would certainly make everyone think; when artists were forgotten, they stopped making art.
“All right,” August said, feeling the buzz of her phone down below in the bag at her feet. “Let’s circle back around to when you found out they had stolen your art for the album. We’ll go from there. Sound good?”
“Sure,” Hayden replied.
As he drudged up the details of an event she knew had to be traumatic for an artist that was still relatively unknown in his industry, she reached down to pull her bag into her lap. Digging through it to find her buzzing phone, August was entirely unsurprised to see she had three missed calls.
All from her husband.
Beni’s contact, with the three black hearts she’d put beside his name, lit up the banner on the home screen. The last notification wasn’t even a call, but a text.
Love you, babe, catch up later, okay? I know you’re busy, he’d written.
She was always busy.
So was he, lately.
No doubt, he wouldn’t pick up if she called back. A quick glance at the time told her that he was probably on the south end of Chicago like usual. Doing ... whatever he did.
She learned not to ask. Things worked better that way, but this was their life.
God knew she loved it.
And him.
She loved him.
That’s what mattered the most.
28.
Beni
THE one regret Beni Guzzi had as he pulled up to the private airstrip on a mid-January evening? That he’d told his wife to go ahead to Los Angeles without him. Not that LA was his thing or that he had anything to do there while she handled work of her own, but hell ... he bet it was a lot warmer there than it was when he stepped out of his black BMW Roadster.
The car—a gift to himself for his recent twenty-sixth birthday—would be parked in a nearby jet hangar owned by his uncle, the Outfit’s boss. Until he returned from the business trip, anyway.
He’d miss the car.
Barely even had time to drive it so far.
God knew winter wasn’t the best time to have it on the road, and he would pay for it come spring when it would need a touch-up anywhere that the salt on the road dared to touch the paint ... but hey, it was still worth it.
Mostly.
“What are you doing taking that car out in this weather?”
Beni chuckled at the question, turning away from the driver’s door to see the familiar figure approaching through the falling flakes of snow. “Can’t help but take it out, can I? Look at it.”
Tommaso did, his cousin humming an appreciative sound the closer he came to the Roadster. With all its sleek lines, the blue accents he had done on the top and mirrors of the car certainly added to the sexy appeal. Beni still loved his superbike but even he wasn’t crazy enough to bring that out in the winter.
“Certainly draws attention,” Tommaso replied. “And you know how everybody feels about that, Beni.”
“Not you, too.”
Tommaso gave him a look. “What about me?”
“Listen, I get enough shit between my father, your father, and every other made man who thinks I’m too flashy for their liking. You can’t give me all this money and expect me not to do anything with it because people will stare. That’s all I’m saying.”
And he was sticking to that, too.
Fuck what the rest thought.
“Well,” his cousin drawled, eying the car again.
“Yeah?”
“That’s fair. The car is ... a bit much, though. I mean, for winter. Let’s be fair, Beni. Nobody is foolish enough to take a vehicle like that out on the roads this time of year. You’re asking for trouble, and I don’t mean just from the mob. How do the tires even stick?”
He had a point.
Not that Beni would say so.
“You just worry about what you’re driving. How about that?”
Tommaso rolled his eyes and turned with a wave of gloved fingers. “Whatever, come on, you’re already late. Theo’s waiting.”