Chasing Legacy | ONC2023

Chapter 3: Resentment

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..."