Bracing for Battle

Vice was not surprised when Aaron called with the news that the label wanted a meeting to discuss their progress on the album. They were nervous, Aaron suggested, about two producers so new to the role handling such a major album for the label and just needed some reassurance. Vice had other thoughts.

“Mr Rich is causing waves,” he said to Victor.

“Well, we are prepared for that, aren’t we?” Victor was not flustered. “So, we will go, let him try to bring us down, and show him up.”

Mirage spent half an hour on the phone to her lawyer, and then another twenty minutes talking to Aaron when she was told. They leaned against the kitchen bench and watched her pace the patio, on the phone, her body language growing tenser by the minute.

“Something went down,” Vice murmured. “What do we know about Mr Rich?”

“Leans more towards popstars, seems to like young women as artists,” Victor replied, bracing his arms against the bench, and leaning into them. “Solid results as a producer, but Mirage would be one of his bigger artists. Came from a background as an artist himself, low level but respectable, member of a band, bass.”

“I wonder how many of his stars suddenly go through a bad patch when they are due for a contract renewal?” Vice observed coolly.

“That would be interesting to find out,” Victor agreed picking up his phone. “I will message Raven, that sounds like something down his alley.”

Raven, their friend, had dropped out of law school shortly before Vice and Victor had done so, and over the last few years had started a PI business. Whenever they could, they threw work his way – and it was surprisingly frequently now that they had become celebrities. The PI performed everything from background checks to finding out the dirty secrets of paparazzies for them. Forewarned was forearmed after all.

“I think we have to coax the story out of her,” Vice said.

She opened the door stepping into the room. “Hey,” she came to a stop upon seeing them. “All set.”

“Alright,” Vice said tilting his head to the side. “Do you know how to box? Victor and I were just debating doing an extra workout. It always helps us clear our heads and get into the right mind set for these meetings.”

Her eyes narrowed and she inclined her chin. “I know my way around a pair of gloves.”

“Good,” he grinned wolfishly. “Ten minutes?” They both watched her leave to change into work out wear. Victor’s phone vibrated and he flicked the message open.

“Raven is onto it.”

“Right, well, let’s see how well Mirage knows her way around a pair of gloves.”

She came in wearing skin-tight pants and a crop top, barefoot. “Have a pair of gloves?” She asked.

“Got you,” Victor passed her a set of wraps and gloves. She unravelled the wraps with a flick and strapped her hands and wrists with the speed of practice before shoving her hands into the gloves. “I have mainly worked with the bag the last twelve months,” she commented. “So, start slow. I would hate to mess your pretty face up, Vice.”

“Aww, she thinks I am pretty, Victor,” Vice crowed, stalking over to stand before her with the pads. “Alright, then, princess,” he said. “Have at it.”

She began a series of straights, moving into hooks and then uppers when he shifted the pads. “She has a good punch,” Vice commented offhandedly to Victor. “Let’s see how she handles a bit of a shake-up. Two jabs, hook and upper.”

They let her settle into the pattern before Vice added kicks, and then throwing random orders at her. “Not bad,” Victor commented from the weight bench, lowering the bar back into the brackets and sitting up. “So, what happened with Mr Rich?”

She faltered, and Vice only just managed to avoid striking her with the pad. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Victor replied calmly, his eyes steady.

She turned back to Vice and put her aggression into her punches. Vice raised his eyebrows. “That bad, eh?”

“I don’t have to discuss it with you,” she said under her breath.

“No, but it would be helpful,” Vice stepped to the side, forcing her to pursue him. “Seeing as we suspect he will be at the meeting tomorrow.”

“And so do you,” Victor added.

“My contract is solid,” she said. “I wasn’t signed exclusively to Mr Rich, but to the label. As long as I use one of their producers, it is okay. The label has used you for artists before, that puts you on their roster of producers, what is more, I got their go ahead before I engaged you.”

“Mr Rich called us,” Vice timed it so that he caught her kick, pinning her ankle against his thigh.

Her eyes were wide. “Did he?” There was an edge of fear in those green-blue depths, Vice thought, and was sorry that he had placed it there. He released her ankle.

“We are not easily intimidated,” Victor said quietly. He leaned his hips against the weights bench with his long legs stretched out before him and his arms crossed over his chest, displaying his biceps very nicely, she thought, her blood heated by the physical activity and pent-up nerves.

“But that he tried is interesting,” Vice continued. “We have a theory.”

“Oh?” She pulled the gloves from her hands, tucking one under her elbow as she took a drink from her water bottle.

“Last album of the current contract, successful artist,” Victor stood up and took the gloves from her. “Sudden reputation change, a bit of intimidation of other producers, and suddenly he has got wriggle room to negotiate a renewal more favourable to the label, perhaps with exclusivity for himself as producer thrown in. Label is happy, he is happy, and the artist is just grateful to get resigned.”

“I don’t think you are wrong,” she admitted lowering her water bottle. “But I can’t ignore the possibility that they might also just not resign me. They have made it so no other label will come near me. If they don’t want me, they don’t want a competitor to make money from me, either.”

“Is there more?” Victor asked it gently.

She froze and a muscle ticked in the corner of her jaw. “I am going to destroy him.”

“Alright,” Vice accepted the statement. “But, why?”

She began to unwind her straps. “Why doesn’t matter. But I could use your help with something else. I will pay you direct - this is not through the label.”

Victor raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

She hesitated for a long moment, thinking it through. It took a lot of trust, to let them know about her secret weapon. “I want to re-record my first album,” she explained cautiously. “Mirage’s version, as rock, same style, and as pop, close to the original.”

“Hmm,” Vice tilted his head. “The label holds the masters?”

“Mr Rich and the label jointly own the masters,” she said between her teeth. “I didn’t understand when I signed what that meant, not owning my own masters. I wrote the songs, so I get royalties, of course, but an artist should own their own music.

“There is a re-record clause in my contract,” she said with an edge of malicious enjoyment. “But it is written to limit re-recording for five years after the album’s release. In six months, I am free to re-release my original album, which went diamond, and every twelve months the next consecutive album is freed for re-recording.

“Hopefully, my fans are loyal enough that they will buy my re-releases over the older versions,” she sat onto the weight bench next to Victor. “If the label tries to renegotiate the contract with unfavourable terms, or to boot me, I plan to hit them with this clause. They will have to decide to either re-sign me under my terms and make money off the new releases or take the hit to their profits.”

“Ouch,” Victor was grinning as he thought it through. “What is the bet that after this, they adjust that clause?”

“Something to bear in mind when you re-sign,” she pointed out.

“We are not planning on re-signing,” Vice met Victor’s eyes. She had trusted them with her secret plans, they would return the favour. “We are planning on starting our own label.”

“Ah,” she considered Vice and by the expression in her eyes, she was already recalculating her future with that information in mind. “Well, isn’t that interesting?”

“Isn’t it?” Vice agreed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. If he wasn’t mistaken, they had their first artist.

“Perhaps we can work out an arrangement,” Victor began to wind the straps back into rolls. “About the re-recordings of your past albums.”

“Perhaps,” she was careful not to commit. “Once my lawyer looks over your contract.”

“Of course,” Vice smiled, amused.

“Have you attempted to buy back your masters?” Victor asked. “It has been done in the past.”

“My lawyer has suggested the same, and that is an option as well, but I suspect,” she sighed. “That they will make that very difficult.”

“It is worth an attempt in any case,” Victor pointed out. “It would be nice to possess your own masters.”

“Do you own your masters?” She asked them.

“Yes,” Vice and Victor exchanged a look. “We were law students before we became successful, so we were a little more pedantic about our contract than they were used to when we first signed. I think,” he smiled at the memory looking at Victor. “They were taken by surprise and not expecting us to come in so aggressively.”

She laughed. “Ah, of course you were. I am not even surprised. I bet that gave you the upper hand in quite a few dealings.”

“It certainly does give an inside edge,” Vice agreed. “Though being a student versus being a lawyer are very different things in regard to experience, knowledge, and ability to actually practice law.”

“Vice’s uncle is a contract lawyer, so anything we need, we go to him for,” Victor added.

“Nepotism again.”

Victor shrugged with a rueful grin. “If it works, it works.”

“Are you going to spar?” She wondered, and then laughed wryly, looking between them. “Ah, it was a ploy to get me talking.”

“In part,” Vice admitted. “But you also looked as if you would like to punch something.”

“Thanks. It did help.”

“We exist to serve,” Victor slung his arm around her shoulders, and she did not pull away.

In the morning, the Mirage that left the bedroom was straight off one of her album covers, her hair scraped back into a high pony-tail and accentuated with extensions, and her shoes bringing her up to eye level with Vice, something that both men found incredibly sexy.

“Where is Mirage?” Victor drawled with appreciation. “Or are we just meeting her?”

“No doubt there will be photographers today,” she pointed out as she accepted a coffee, black, from Vice. “If I don’t look like I am ready to perform, I dread to know what tomorrow’s covers will be like. This is damage control via Louboutin.”

“The Louboutins look like they will inflict damage,” Vice replied with a laugh.

“To my toes, for sure,” she grimaced. “I have gotten a little too accustomed to ballet flats and runners, the transition back into heels is a harsh one.”

“Suffering for your art.”

“Don’t even start,” she sipped the coffee. “You guys have been feeding me too well, I had to lie down to get these jeans on, and I am not entirely sure I can sit in them. I might be like that reality star who had to hire a bus to the awards because she couldn’t sit in her dress and have to lie flat on the limo floor.”

Victor took a sip of his coffee to forestall the comment on the tip of his tongue that he would volunteer as a mattress, and met Vice’s eyes as his partner smirked, knowing that he was not alone in the sentiment.

“But you two are looking very unlike your normal selves, as well,” she added, stroking her hand along Victor’s arm admiring the fabric and the man beneath it. “The suits are nice, and I like that you have resisted the temptation to match each other.”

Vice looked at Victor and then himself and laughed. “We don’t share a closet, but we do share a stylist so sometimes it amounts to the same thing. It often happens that we look at each other and thing, shit we are dressing like a couple again.”

“They are nice suits. Your stylist has taste. And it is a good move to put Victor in blue with white and you in black on black.” They were, she added to herself, as sexy in the suits as half-dressed around the pool and filled them oh so well, their shoulders and arms stretching the suit fabric very nicely.

Damn it, she had to find a way to buy batteries. Would it be too obvious if she snuck AAAs onto their grocery list? She snickered to herself, hiding in her coffee cup.

“Would you like something to eat?” Vice asked her, buttering toast.

“God, no,” she said emphatically. “Then the jeans will definitely be a no go. But thanks. Probably not enough time anyway,” she checked her phone. “You had better eat that quickly.”

Vice shrugged and took a leisurely bite.

“Don’t rub it in,” she fixed him with a mock-glare. “I will not succumb to your carb-loaded temptation.”

“Not even a bite?”

“No,” she turned her back on him, her hair extensions swinging out behind her.

“The limo is here,” Victor added when the intercom sounded. He activated the release on his phone.

Vice finished his toast and brushed the crumbs from his fingers, before throwing back the last of his coffee. “Right,” he swung his laptop case over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Aaron was in the limousine and slid over to admit them. Mirage sat gingerly and saw Vice and Victor watching her out of the corner of their eyes. They sniggered.

“Don’t laugh,” she told them severely around her own smile.

“Do I want to know?” Aaron enquired lifting his eyes from his laptop.

“Mirage is testing the durability of denim,” Vice told him, adjusting his suit pants, and leaning back comfortably so that he could drape his arm along the back of the seat, which also placed his arm around Mirage’s shoulders, something, she told herself, that she should find invasive, but it was actually rather comforting.

His thumb idly stroked the skin of her shoulder bared by her top and she could feel the callous on the pad which she knew came from playing guitar as she had one of her own. She had to resist the urge to lean into him. It would feel entirely too natural, she thought, to do so, and lay her hand along the inside of his thigh, just within the boundaries of socially acceptable, but so that he was very aware of how close her hand was to his erection.

She didn’t doubt, having grown to know the two guys much better, that Vice would be sporting a hard on.

Aaron raised his eyebrows but did not pursue the conversation. “How are we positioned for the meeting today?” He asked.

“Solid,” Victor replied comfortably.

“So, not expecting surprises?” Aaron seemed dubious.

“We think we have covered most contingencies,” Vice answered.

Aaron raised his eyebrows. “We shall see.”

They lapsed into a silence interrupted only by the clack of keys as Aaron answered an email on his laptop.

Mirage turned over in her mind the meeting that lay ahead.

She was almost entirely sure that she would see Mr Rich for the first time since their confrontation. The thought had kept her awake, tossing in the bed throughout the night. He had become in her mind a spectre of nightmare, a creature of unimaginable power, and she had begun to doubt her own ability to save herself, let alone defeat the monster.

But she was not alone, she told herself. She had Aaron, and Aaron, ultimately, worked for her and not the label. And, tucked between Vice and Victor, with the warmth of their bodies against her, and the stroke of Vice’s thumb on her shoulder, she had the feeling that she had Vice and Victor’s support, too.

Of course, producing her work was a major career step for them, she told herself, so they would fight for the right to continue to do so.

She tensed as the limousine pulled up outside the glass tower of the offices of the label, bracing for battle.

“We have got you,” Vice murmured so quietly that she doubted that Aaron heard. She met his eyes and believed him.