“I know it because you’re there. And you’re not going to let him.”
Poppy groaned, shoved a frustrated hand through her hair. “That’s your big strategy? Throw the mess over to me and hope to God I can sort it out?”
She could all but hear the shrug in her brother’s voice when he said, “It’s a sound strategy. You’ve never let me down before. Besides, think of how much it will stick in Dad’s craw if you get Wyatt back and find a solution to the bassist problem? He’ll have to take you seriously then.”
“Dad will never take me seriously. I think we both know that, don’t we?” No matter how hard she tried.
Still, her brain whirled as she tried to gather her thoughts. As she tried to figure out all the rapidly changing pieces of this puzzle and how they fit together.
At least Caleb’s explanation made everything that happened in the studio today make so much more sense. The look on her father’s face when Caleb asked for her opinion and he realized Shaken Dirty actually listened to her. The grandstanding that she saw now was as much for her benefit as Wyatt’s. The fact that he was suddenly digging his heels in on this issue when she’d thought they’d gotten past it months ago.
He was pissed that she was the one with the band when he had always refused to let her take the lead in situations like these. Of course, the fact that everyone on the call probably knew exactly why she and Wyatt had been late hadn’t helped her case—if anything, it had cemented his opinion about women and musicians. About her and musicians. And, maybe, that was what had set him off about Wyatt.
Just the thought made guilt stir sickly in her stomach. If her father had gone after Wyatt because of her…damn the man. Just once in her life it would be nice if he could give her a reason to trust him. A reason to think he wasn’t out to screw her.
“You know, maybe if you’d given me some warning, I would have done things differently,” she said as she continued skimming through Shaken Dirty’s contracts. “And then maybe Dad wouldn’t have pushed Wyatt so hard and we’d be in a totally different situation right now.”
“It’s going to be fine,” Caleb assured her. “The guys will chill Wyatt out, or you will, and tomorrow we’ll go back to finding a bassist for the band.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not feeling nearly as optimistic on that front as you are.” It had been four hours since Wyatt had sent her on her way. Four hours when she didn’t know where he was or what he was doing or who he was doing it with. She’d tried texting him, had even tried calling him, but there’d been no response. He’d gone completely silent. Maybe that meant he was hanging out with the band somewhere… She hoped that was what it meant. But if she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she was afraid his silence was for a much more ominous reason.
Not that she was going to tell Caleb that. The last thing Wyatt or Shaken Dirty needed was for the label to freak out about him going off the rails right now. Her brother wasn’t her father, and he seemed to have the band’s best interests at heart…but at the same time, he was a businessman. And the label’s bottom line was his business. Not to mention the fact that she still wasn’t sure she could trust him, still wasn’t sure he hadn’t thrown them all under the bus with her father today.
Two days ago she probably wouldn’t have hesitated to confide her worries to Caleb. For a very long time, he was the only person she’d been able to trust. But that was before she’d realized just how many of their father’s Machiavellian tendencies her brother had inherited. Before she realized that trusting him was almost as foolish as trusting her dad.
So now she just had to wait for Wyatt to turn up, all the while silently hoping that he wasn’t out doing what she was so deathly afraid he was.
A hell of a babysitter she turned out to be…
“Look, Caleb—” She broke off when the apartment’s central intercom buzzed. Hoping, praying, that it was Wyatt, she dashed across the room to answer it.
“Hold on, Caleb,” she said, putting her brother on mute as she depressed the button. “Wyatt?”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?” she asked impatiently.
“This is Rudolfo, the doorman from downstairs. I have a gentleman here to see you by the name of Quinn Bradford. Is it all right if I send him up?”
The bubble of hope inside her deflated, replaced by a crushing sense of distress. If Quinn was here to talk to her, it couldn’t be good. Especially since she was positive this visit had nothing to do with the band’s social media presence and everything to do with its drummer.
“Of course, Rudolfo,” she answered as dread settled in her stomach. “Send him right up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she waited for Quinn to take the elevator up, she switched back to her brother. “I have to go.”
“Is Wyatt there?” he asked, voice rich with satisfaction.
“That’s none of your business,” she retorted.