“When he told us we were a distraction and threatened our contracts over the rings, I recorded the whole thing on my phone. So I would have evidence.”
Tate let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded like victory. “Goddamn, Cal, that’s huge. It changeseverything. But we still need institutional leverage. You said Presley threatened your production future? Said you’d never get behind the scenes?”
“Yeah, said the ring was all I was good for.”
“Right then, here’s the play. You need to reach out to Jim Dallas. Right now. Don’t wait for the morning. Call him the second you hang up with me. I know for a fact Jim is absolutely disgusted with the things Presley’s done since he took over the day-to-day operations.
“Jim’s all about the integrity of the writing team. If Presley is threatening to gate-keep production roles based on personal vendettas, he’ll take it as a direct insult to his department. Let Jim know, Cal. We need to get this train in motion, and preferably before you two leave because of this bullshit suspension. No more letting Presley freeze you out. We fight this now.”
“Alright. I’ll call him. Thanks, Tate.” I breathed, a newfound fire in my gut flaring to life with a calculated purpose.
“Watch your back, kid. We’re going to war.”
The line went dead, and I didn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a second. My call to Jim rang twice, and when the line clicked open, the background noise instantly filled my ear. It didn’t sound like a quiet hotel room. There was the distinct echoing clatter of production crates being loaded into trucks and the low murmur of tech crews bustling around. Jim must still be backstage at the arena. Probably sitting in his leather chair, staring at dark monitors and refusing to leave until the last cable was packed.
“Cal?”
“Jim, I’m sorry to call you this late,” I started, my voice tight. “But Tate told me I needed to talk to you right now, before we leave Boston.”
“Okay, talk.”
For the second time tonight, I didn’t hold back, spewing everything that had been happening behind the scenes for Silas and me. When I got to the part regarding tonight and Presley’s direct threat to my future, I quoted his comments verbatim. Only milliseconds after the words stopped flowing, I heard the sharp sound of a clipboard hitting a metal desk violently through the receiver.
“He said that to you? That entitled little corporate punk. You know, I watched Presley grow up. I was at Mark’s wedding. I love that family like they’re my own blood. I’ve even protected the Murran name through scandals that would have destroyed any other company in this country. But I cannot, and I will not, stand the arrogant jackass of a man Presley has become. He thinks because his name is on the marquee he’s allowed to play God with the production side? Creative belongs to the people who bleed for it, not the pampered kids who inherited the checkbook without having to lift a finger,” he ranted, his breath huffing like he just finished running a marathon.
“Give me a couple of days. I’ll reach out to a few people on the roster as well as the writing team regarding their own issues with Presley. Because I know for a fact that you and Silas haven’t been his only targets over the last six months. You’ve just been the most public ones. He’s been bullying the younger talent, manipulating scripts to punish the top guys, and playing games with people’s livelihoods just tosatisfy his own pathetic need for control. He thinks he’s some genius because he made some flashy digital changes, but the metrics don’t lie. Television ratings are dropping, house show loops are down, and this ridiculous manipulation of the championship storyline to settle a personal grudge is the final straw. The Board is already twitching. I’ll reach out to Tate myself tonight, and we’ll coordinate on this. I’m hoping that if Tate and I go to Mark first as a unified front we can ease into the situation. After all, Tate and I are two of Mark’s original old reliables in this business. We were his top guys, his champions-turned-management. That should still hold some weight with him. That, and his son’s arrogance is single-handedly causing irreparable damage to his legacy. Go home, Cal. Take care of your husband. Let us handle all this old-guard bullshit.”
“Thank you, Jim,” I whispered, a profound sense of relief finally releasing the tension in my shoulders. “We’ll be waiting.”
“Don’t let him see you sweat, son. We’ve got your backs. Goodnight.”
The line went dead. I lowered the phone, staring out at the dark Boston skyline. For the first time all night, the suffocating knot of anxiety in my stomach loosened completely.
Silas and I had spent our entire lives fighting alone. We were used to bracing for the hit because nobody was ever coming to save us. To have titans of the business, men whose legacies were untouchable, willingly put their own careers on the line just to protect ours? It was a profound kind of loyalty that rarely existed in this industry.
Presley thought he could bury us. He thought he could throw us into the shadows and leave us entirely isolated. He was dead wrong. We had an army behind the curtain now, and I had just drawn up the blueprint for his execution.
The baseline atmosphere between Silas and me was a blanket of defeat. We navigated the airport like two ghosts, our street clothes pulled tight against the chilly morning air, our eyes fixed firmly on our boots to avoid the double-takes from fans who had undoubtedly seen the news of the suspension on the website at dawn.
Silas was a nervous wreck for the entire duration of the flight back to North Carolina. Every time the jet engines roared, or the plane hit a pocket of minor turbulence, he flinched, his fingers picking frantically at his cuticles until they were raw.
Going home to the Reed land meant being immediately, inescapably faced with the inevitable questions from Scott and Maverick about what had happened in Boston. Regardless of how good Silas’s relationship with Maverick was currently, the deep, historical dread of having to face his father after having been suspended and stripped of his crown was a gut wrenching prospect. He was terrified of the old-school backlash. He was terrified of Maverick throwing his own failures back in his face, telling him he hadn’t protected the business, that he’d made a spectacle of the gold.
I knew telling Silas about my talks with Tate and Jim right now would only spark more anxious calculations in his head. He needed rest, not more strategy. I wasn’t going down without a fight, and Presley Murran was about to learn exactly how lethal Deadlock could be when he was backed into a corner.
The initial shock of the suspension had faded, leaving behind a thick, heavy lake of profound depression that seemed to completely submerge our home. Silas was hurting. He was deeply, visibly depressed to be back on the property under thesecircumstances. He refused to leave the house. He spent most of his days staring blankly out the windows at the marsh, moving
around the rooms like a shadow of himself. He didn’t want to train, he really didn’t want to do much of anything at all.
Even my attempts to entice him with sex had completely failed.
That broke my heart more than any corporate suspension ever could. In our entire relationship, sex had been our primary language, the one connection that never failed. For him to reject it meant the darkness in his skull was suffocating him.
It was dawn when my eyes fluttered open. The light bled through the bedroom blinds in a soft, pale pinkish-orange while casting long, cinematic shadows across the carpet. I rolled onto my side, and my hand reached out automatically for Silas’s warmth, but the sheets were frostily cold.
My heart skipped a beat, hyper-vigilant adrenaline instantly booting my system. I sat up fully to check over the room. The bathroom door was wide open, but the lights were off. I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a pair of soft grey sweatpants, and walked quietly through the house. As I rounded the hallway, I noticed the front door was unlatched. When I pushed it open and stepped out onto the massive wooden porch, I saw him.
Silas was sitting on the top step of the porch, his massive frame completely wrapped in a faded flannel blanket. His knees were pulled in tight to his chest as his head rested against his arms. The morning air was crisp, a heavy dew clinging to the tall grass of the yard. The fog rose off the marsh in thick blankets. As Iwalked silently closer, tiny puffs of breath blew out in front of Si’s face, followed in turn by a jagged hitch. He’s been crying.
