My phone buzzes. Roman, probably wondering where the hell I am.
On my way. Coffee in hand.
You better have more than coffee. Your ass is grass, Malone.
I head toward the arena, already planning my charm offensive for whatever punishment they’re about to hand down. But part of my mind stays with the copper-haired woman who laughed like she meant it and walked away like I was just another guy buying coffee.
1
GOLDA
I’ve recordedthis smoothie commercial seventeen times, and the client still isn’t happy with how I say “acai.”
Acai. Ah-sigh-ee. Ah-kai. I could summon demons with this word if I tried hard enough. Maybe that’s what the marketing team wants, a cursed fruit to go with their overpriced health elixir.
The LED display on my mixing board reads 5:47 AM, and I’m starting to think the problem isn’t my pronunciation but the fact that no one actually knows how to say this word. Including their marketing team.
My home studio feels impossibly small this early in the morning. Sound-dampening panels line the walls, professional equipment gleaming in the pre-dawn light that sneaks through the thermal blackout curtains. This space cost more than my car, but it lets me work while my kids sleep. Most days.
“Take eighteen,” I murmur, adjusting my headphones.
“Mom?”
Blythe’s voice, small and scared, cuts through my headphones. I’m already moving, muscle memory guiding me around the corner and down the hall.
She’s tangled in her sheets, hair wild around her face. “You guys were fighting again.”
My throat tightens as I gather her close, breathing in the lingering scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Just a dream, baby.” The same one she’s had since she was four. The one where raised voices echo through closed doors and things break in other rooms. The one where she hides in her closet counting to one hundred, hoping the silence will return before she reaches the end.
“Can I have water?”
“One small cup.” I untangle her from the sheets. “Then back to bed, okay?”
In the kitchen, my phone lights up with Evan’s name. My fingers hesitate over the screen before I swipe to read.
Can’t do this weekend. Got pulled for a special task force. You’ll take the kids.
Not a question. It’s never a question with Evan.
I set Blythe’s water down harder than I mean to. She doesn’t notice, already half-asleep against my side. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I walk her back to bed.
Court-approved schedule requires 72 hours notice for changes.
This is notice. Department needs me.
Ah, the ‘Department needs me’ excuse. It’s Evan’s go-to, right up there with “critical stakeout” that somehow results in Instagram photos of him at a basketball game.
Back in my studio, I roll my sleeve down, covering the small constellation of tattooed tally marks in my elbow crease. Myfingers linger over them as I adjust my mic, find my place in the script. “Start your morning with sunshine in a?—”
“Mom! Tyson’s hogging the bathroom again!”
“Am not! I was here first!”
I close my eyes. Count to three. “Five minutes, guys! Then switch!”
My phone buzzes again.
You’re being difficult. I’m trying to do my job.
