Page 107 of Sing Your Secrets

thirty-two

Reese

Ipull up to The Garage and spot Miles sitting on the curb under a bright lamppost. Now that we’re a week away from being an operable business, I guess the city finally decided to replace the bulbs in the lamp that was broken for years.

I throw my car in park, then I join Miles under the dusky hue lighting up his solemn expression.

“Well, hey there.” I give him a half smile, trying to feel out his mood. I nod toward the takeout bag sitting beside him. “I know I’m not exactly high maintenance, but dinner on the curb?” I turn up my nose. “Come on.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he rises to his feet and wraps his thick arm around my back, yanking me into him. His kiss is different. Desperate—like he’s trying to decide something from the taste of my tongue. He groans into my mouth like he’s relieved.

“I forgot how good you feel.”

“Oh really?” I ask. Letting my hand trail down his hard stomach, I dance over the bumps of his abs. I look for his eyes when I land on the waistband of his athletic sweatpants. “Would you like more of a reminder of how good I feel? Let me take you home.”

With a quick kiss on the top of my head, he steps away. “Stop tempting me,” he says with a playful smile. There he is. That’s my guy. His dimples deepen, accentuating his five o’clock shadow. His beard is long gone, but his stubble is in full force. My face is still warm from the friction of his cheek against mine as he kissed me like he was trying to swallow me whole. “I recreated our first date.” He points to the bag with Out West’s logo.

“I think our first date involved not dancing, me watching you puke, and a pretty gnarly migraine.”

“Hey,” he says with a glower, “what came after the migraine more than made up for that shit date.”

I turn up my lips and shrug my shoulders. “So you say…”

“Woman.”

I laugh. “Kidding. You’re the best I’ve ever had, baby. Do you want me to play that Drake song and serenade you right now?”

His chuckle is genuine but falls short. “Sit down and eat with me.”

I’m not remotely hungry, but I have a feeling this isn’t about an actual meal. Miles is trying to remind himself of something. I wait patiently as he unwraps the French dip sandwich and tears it in two. He pulls out the cardboard container of au jus sauce and of course doesn’t touch it.

“No kettle chips?”

“They were out.”

“They can run out of kettle chips?”

He takes a bite and rolls his shoulders. “Apparently, they only make them fresh, and they turn off the fryers at eight. I’ve never actually been to Out West at night.”

“Me either,” I say before dunking my half into the beefy broth. No kettle chips but the sandwich is so good as usual, my appetite kicks up a bit. I take another small bite before I finally urge Miles to speak his mind.

“Is the paperwork getting to you?”

Dropping his sandwich on the wrapper that’s laid out between us, he blows out a long, deep breath. “I’ve chased this for so long, I didn’t even realize what they were asking for.”

“Does my dad think it’s a good deal?”

“He explained to me what a 360 deal is.”

“Shit.”

“You’re familiar?”

Very.It’s a stress-inducing, mental torture chamber of a deal for most. I can’t speak for all artists, but I know what it did to one. Petey would’ve been in severe debt to his label if he wasn’t smart enough to keep Depth a completely different entity. Everything he created outside of his first album was fair game. He could’ve sold lemonade on the side of the street and Elite would’ve wanted a cut.

“I thought they didn’t do those kinds of deals anymore.”

“I guess it’s the only deal Elite offers to new artists. It’s a security measure. When you work out the math of the advance, and the royalties they want, I’d be the richest broke dude on the planet…”

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