Mama Murthi was especially busy this year—her legal-aid docket completely jam-packed. She recruited Creed to do administrative work for her. Which freed up her time to visit with clients while having the side benefit of keeping hertrouble childout of mischief.
Well, that was the intention.
It mostly worked.
Still, Creed was spending an inordinate amount of time in my basement studio. Ostensibly working on new music. In reality, he was hiding out from his mother.
I was supportive. To a point.
On the evening of the twenty-first, he and I jammed while Spencer sat on the sectional black leather sofa with his laptop. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He also wore his reading glasses—newly prescribed by the optometrist I’d insisted he see. The glasses hadn’t helped with the migraines—which were still too frequent, as far as I was concerned—but he had fewer tension headaches. Likely from less squinting.
Score one for me.
He rode me hard about getting my shit together music-wise and to stop focusing on social media. I’d written three more songs.
Score one for Spencer.
Creed stopped drumming.
I stopped strumming.
Spencer gazed up. He met my eyes, nodded as if realizing everything was okay, then went back to his laptop. He’d tried to explain it to me—some new legislation. He was tearing it apart and sending copious emails to his Member of Parliament. As if she, one of three-hundred-and-forty-three, could somehow impact the legislation. He was prepared to email all of them if it meant he got his way.
I both admired him and was terrified of him. I had a business lawyer who had never steered me wrong. I had an estate attorney who worked her ass off to keep everything running smoothly.
Still, I trusted Spencer more than both of them combined—even though contract and real estate law weren’t his specialty.
He also loved hot chocolate, so I made that for him frequently.
I sipped my water as my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I glanced at the screen and nearly dropped the phone.
Pauletta Magnum.
“Holy shit.”
The panic in my voice must’ve reached my companions.
Creed was up from his drums and at my side in the space of a ring.
Two more and Spencer was on my other side.
“Dude, you’ve got to answer that.” Creed pointed to my phone. “It’s Pauletta Fucking Magnum. You do not want this call to go to voicemail.”
I met Spencer’s gaze. While his eyes were wide with confusion, he pressed himself against me—offering unspoken support.
I pressed to accept the call, then put it on speakerphone. “Hello?” My voice cracked. Because of course it did. I cleared my throat. “This is Malik Forestal.”
“Oh, good.” A strong voice carried through the line. “I never know when I track down a phone number if it’s the right one. You’re not an easy man to find, Mr. Forestal.”
If I’d knownyouwere looking for me, I wouldn’t have hidden myself so well.
“Apologies.”
“No worries. When you’re famous, you’ll be glad you’re tough to reach.”
“Famous?” My voice came out as a croak.
“Well, bigger than you are now. I have plans for you. First, though, I should introduce myself. My name is Pauletta Magnum. You might know that I rep Grindstone.”
