Songbirds

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stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are under the age of
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An Excerpt From: SONGBIRDS

Copyright ? KJ REED, 2010

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.

Something made him pick up the
photo one more time, rotate his chair to the left so that the natural
sunlight from his floor-to-ceiling window hit the glossy paper. Cross
wondered what the man was smiling at. He looked like the type who smiled
often. What had made the woman laugh, throw her head back, baring her silky
throat?

They looked so young, though they were probably in their
late twenties. Not that Cross was over the hill at thirty-five. But he just
felt so damn old. He dropped the photo on his desk.

Yeah, well, building an empire will do
that to ya. Get the fuck over it, Strickland.

He swiveled once more in his chair,
turning to look out in the fading afternoon light, the sky no longer blue
but shades of pink. The city was at his feet. Chicago?his city. A man?s city. And he had
conquered it with the same tenacity and grit that had helped him triumph in
the music business.

Ironic, that. He tilted his chair back, propped his
heels on the desk and grabbed a file at random off the never-ending stack
waiting for his attention. Cross didn?t play an instrument, couldn?t read a
note of music. And yet he was the king of his industry, because he knew
what would sell, what would be the next big thing. Anticipating the market
was his main strength, knowing the buyer, and manipulating their
subconscious into wanting his product.

And he was good. Damn good. He
didn?t give an inch, he was still on top of his game at every
turn. So why did everyone act surprised when he expected the same from
those who worked for him? If it took tough love?without the love part?to
get shit done, then that?s what he would dish out. He wouldn?t leave
the fate of his company to chance, to hope. He would do his damndest to
make sure things ran as close to perfect as possible for as long as he was
able.

Failure was never an option. Not in his world. His
legacy was to be one of unerring triumph.

Looking down, Cross forced his fists to unclench around
the file he was choking. With deliberate movements, he set the papers down
and smoothed them, eliminating wrinkles caused by his frustration. He
stood, flicked his wrists and shrugged his shoulders, settling the
impeccably cut suit jacket around his six-foot-two frame. Cross knew there was
only one thing that would ease the tension that had settled into his gut,
tightening his muscles and locking his jaw. He needed release, and since it
wasn?t going to come in the form of a woman?between women as he was?he was
destined for the gym.

He grabbed the bag he kept stocked and ready in one of
the office cabinets and headed out the door. His heavy footsteps sounded a
warning it seemed, and people scurried the other way, ducked in offices or
slid up against the side of the hallway to avoid getting in his way. Good.
He had places to go and he didn?t want to deal with anyone right now.

He made his way down to the company
gym, noticing but not caring that people all conveniently finished their
workouts almost as soon as he started his. He glanced over at the treadmill
one of his agents had abandoned. He?d only been on for seven minutes,
according to the screen. Pansy ass.
Cross set his treadmill for a blistering pace, unable to go anything but
full speed ahead. He ran until he felt less like he was being chased and
more like he was chasing?something. Always something.

His gray t-shirt was drenched,
turning the material a darker hue. He hit the weights next, benching
without a spotter. No point in counting on anyone. Leg presses and squats
followed, all done with his max weight. Moderation was for assholes.

In the end,
release was bittersweet. Cross wasn?t so in denial that he thought one
workout?or good fuck, when the opportunity presented itself?was enough to
last. But for the moment, it was good enough. It would have to be, he had
shit to do, an empire to rule.

* * * * *

?Who wants us??
Knight pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, leaned his forearms on the
bar he was standing behind. Ava stood on the customer side, ready to run
beer and appetizers to the ungrateful collegiate crowd. She couldn?t stop
staring at the short, middle-aged man in the suit who stood out in the mess
of frat boys and sorority ?hos.

?Mr. Strickland, Imperial Records.? When Knight
continued to give the man a deer-in-the-headlights look, he sighed and
turned his balding head to Ava. ?Ms. Monroe, do you speak English??

Ava wiped her hands on her jeans, thinking that the loud
music in the college bar had permanently ruined her hearing. She set her serving
tray next to Knight?s arms on the scarred wood. ?He wants us for what,
exactly??

?Mr. Strickland has asked that we fly you out to see
him, meet with him, give him a taste of your music
and style.?

Knight found his voice long enough to ask, ?Why??

?Because I said you were good. And you are,? he added,
looking between them. The scout waited, apparently understanding that the
information had yet to sink into their heads. And thank God, because it had
a long way to go before it took root.

A record company. Wanted to talk to them. Two college
dropouts who just wanted to serve beer for the chance to play and sing on
Tuesday and Friday nights. Ava?s head was swimming, feeling as if Knight
had poured a pint of Guinness in there to slosh around.

Apparently, the scout was done waiting. ?Look, it?s a
good opportunity. I?m not saying this because he?s my employer,
I?m saying this because it?s the truth. Cross Strickland may be a son of a
bitch sometimes, but he damn well knows what he?s doing.? Leaning in conspiratorially, the man lowered his tone,
his voice almost drowned out by the crappy generic rap playing through the
speakers. ?You?d be an idiot to pass up the chance.? He settled back in his
chair, a satisfied look on his face, as if knowing he had done everything
within his job description to convince Knight and Ava that this wasn?t an
opportunity worth missing. The cherry on his persuasive campaign sundae
came in the form of a business card slid across the bar, nudging Ava?s
fingertips until she picked it up.

Glancing at the card in her hand, she felt overcome. She
and Knight had never expected to be discovered, never dreamed of making it
big. If the duo had wanted a shot at the big time, they would have moved to
L.A. or New York
or some other Mecca
of industry long ago instead of pulling beer and being groped every night
of the week for minimum wage and maximum frustration.

?Look,? the agent cut into her thoughts, standing as he
spoke. ?I wrote my own cell number on the back of the card. I?ll be in town
until tomorrow afternoon. If you want the opportunity of a lifetime, gimme a call before two p.m. tomorrow.? With that, the
man was swallowed by the collegiate crowd that bum-rushed the bar on a
Thirsty Thursday night.

And just like that, Ava was forced
to get her head back in the beer-serving game. A Thursday night crowd was
something to contend with. But between running drinks and collecting cash,
her mind wandered back to the scout?s words.

You?d be an idiot to pass up the chance.