Page 125 of Loaded

“Mom and Dad have a few more boxes in the attic. A lot of them aren’t very good.”

She tries to bend over and lift the lid.

“Focus.” I shove the box with my foot, sliding it under the edge of the piano. “I said I had anewsong.”

“Right, but I want to see what those look like.”

“They’re crap compared to the song I just wrote, I promise.”

She drops her hands on her hips. “I will sing this song with you if you agree to let me rummage around in that box for half an hour.”

“Ten minutes.”

She arches one eyebrow. “Half an hour, or I walk.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Half an hour.”

She beams, and it’s totally worth it. We’re just finishing the initial run through when Jake breezes through the door. It’s strange, because he’s supposed to be filming. But even stranger than Jake being where he shouldn’t is Jake bringinga friend.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“Adam Forrest, this is my sister, Bea, and this is their lead vocal, Octavia Rothschild.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Adam says, extending his hand.

“Wait, Adam Forrest, as in the producer?” Octavia looks like someone just slapped her. Her eyes are round and her good cheek is bright red. I wonder whether the burned side doesn’t flush as well. It makes sense, I suppose.

“The very same,” Adam says. “We had to come to the City for a scene in Central Park, and this joker convinced me I had to meet you.”

“Me?” I ask.

“Both of you,” he says. “He’s pretty persuasive when he wants to be.”

I stand. “Why did you need to meet us?”

Adam shoots a pretty crusty look at Jake. “You didn’t tell them?”

“Tell us?”

“You do a better job at all that,” Jake says.

Adam looks ready to spit nails. “Look, he says you’re talented songwriters and musicians, and he wants you to do the music for the movie. On top of that, he wants us to push our production company a little—we have an affiliated record label.”

I blink.

Octavia exhales in a large whoosh.

“Just sing your song,” Jake says.

“Which one?”

He scowls.

“It’s way better on a stage,” I excuse. “It’s not the same in the middle of a living room.”

“Make do,” Jake says, widening his eyes and mouthing something I can’t quite get.

“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.”

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