Jake Wethers is one of the few people who has ever gone up against my father and walked away clean.
Rally is a shark, and he takes no prisoners. Nothing and no one gets in his way. That’s how he became the youngest ever CEO of AME—American Music Entertainment—which he ran for fifteen years and then left on questionable terms for an undisclosed sum.
That was when he started Rally Records, and it got big, fast.
Just not fast enough for TMS.
TMS was the first act to sign with them. After that, I don’t know much, besides what the press detailed, which was that TMS outgrew Rally Records. Apparently, Jake and Rally had a difficult relationship, which I can understand because my father is not an easy man to get along with.
Jake and Rally’s relationship disintegrated, and the band walked away mid-contract, buying themselves out.
Immediately after, Jake and the late Jonny Creed—TMS’s lead guitarist who died a few years ago in an automobile accident—set up TMS Records, putting themselves in direct competition with Rally Records.
That didn’t sit well with Rally.
And me signing with TMS Records won’t sit well with him either.
But I don’t care about that. All I care about is that I might have screwed this up because I wasn’t honest with Jake from the start.
“I know I might seem like a wayward daughter doing this to piss off her father, but believe me, I don’t even care about Rally enough to bother. I signed with TMS Records because you care about your acts.”
“That’s good to know.”
“And I kept it from you because I was worried you’d judge me based on him.”
Jake says nothing more.
I’m biting on my nails, dying in the stretch of silence. Finally, I ask, “How was Rally when you spoke to him?” I’m trying to gauge as to where this is going because, so far, I have no clue.
“He was a total dumbass.”
I let out a laugh, but that’s quickly cut off by his next sentence.
“Rally wants you off my label, Lyla.”
And there it is.
Bye, bye, tour bus. It was nice while it lasted.
Have I said how much I hate my father?
The guys are going to be gutted.
I know Jake is a hard ass, and he hates Rally, possibly as much as I do, but this is hassle he could do without. He doesn’t owe me anything, and keeping us on his label will be nothing but trouble for him. Rally won’t drop it until he gets what he wants.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “about Rally calling and giving you a hard time.”
“Lyla, it’s not your fault you got a shithole for a dad. You said you didn’t tell me about Rally because you wanted to prove yourself, to let me see what you’re capable of, so I could make an informed choice. I’ve seen, and I’ve made my choice. I told Rally he could go fuck himself. Vintage is my act, and you’re staying put.”
My hand goes to my chest as the breath I was holding whooshes out.
I could kiss Jake Wethers right now.
And he’s not done either. “I don’t care if it’s the King of fucking England. No one tells me how to run my business. Now, under normal circumstance, I’d say to you that he’s your old man, so it’s on you to pull him into line and tell him to back the fuck off, but this is Rally Brochstein we’re talking about. I wouldn’t put you in that position. You say your relationship with him is non-existent. Was that his choice or yours?”
“Growing up, his. Now, mine.”
“Okay. I’ll deal with any shit that Rally might pull. You just concentrate on the tour. But I need you to tell me now if there is anything else I need to know. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”
Taking a deep breath, I say, “My mother was Joni Summers.”
“That I know,” Jake replies. “I knew Rally had a kid with Joni Summers. You come from good stock, Lyla, and I’m talking about your mom when I say that.”
That raises a smile.
“Must be where you get your pipes from,” he adds.
“Thank you,” I say genuinely. My mom was the best.
I hear a female voice in the background.
Then, Jake says to me, “I have to go. Good luck with the tour. Relay that message to the rest of the band. Don’t worry about Rally. Nothing is going to change your position with TMS Records, no matter what he says or does.”
“Thank you, Jake, for understanding and for sticking with us.”
“Don’t thank me. Just make this album and tour score big. Earn me back all the thousands of dollars that it has cost me,” he says with a humorous tone.
Nodding, I smile. “That I can definitely do.”
Sixty Seconds After—Tour Bus, LA
I’m just pushing my cell back into the pocket of my denim cutoffs, pondering my conversation with Jake, when I hear a commotion coming from the bus.
Sounds of cheering and loud laughter.
I look across at the bus, but I’m too far away. Even if I were close, I wouldn’t be able to see anything due to the heavily tinted windows.
All thoughts of my conversation with Jake left behind, my feet carry me quickly back to the bus. I jog up the stairs, turn into the galley, and halt in my tracks at the sight before me, my breath leaving me in a rush.
Tom Carter.
Well, it’s the back of him anyway. I know it’s him because he’s impossible not to recognize. His huge size eats up the small space of the bus. His muscular arms are sleeved in tattoos. Gone is his trademark shaved head¸ and it’s now covered in silky brown hair.