Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Shit.
I like her way too much. But that is beyond the issue at the moment.
I tune back in to Frederick's boring pitch.
"Do you want to keep your image as a soulful guy?" Frederick asks. "Or do you want to break into the mainstream? People might talk shit about you, if you land on DeuxMoi because you slept with two models, but they'll talk about you. With all due respect to Ms. Steele, she's a little idealistic. Your diehard fans are a small group compared to your potential reach. If you write the album to incorporate this idea of a party boy looking for something real, a dalliance could work with your image, not against it."
"Do you agree, Tinsel?" Bryce asks.
"In theory, yes," Tinsel says. "But as a fan, I don't really see it. I'd hate a threat to my belief you're a romantic. And, yes, you want to reach new people, but you need to bring your fans along. They're the people who are going to spread the word about you. They're the ones making TikToks and begging influencers for gossip."
"All press is good press," Frederick says. "If you hook up with a lingerie model, people will talk shit about you, but they'll talk about you."
"Yeah, but that will change things forever." I surprise myself with my stance. "Once a woman sees you as a player, she doesn't let go of that image. Even if you fucked around to ease your pain. Even if you had a threesome as a desperate attempt to save a loving relationship." I shoot Frederick a smile.
He frowns.
Fucking victory.
That feels way too good. Better than sex. The sex I've had.
Sex with Cassie—
Not going there.
Bryce notices the friction, but he doesn't mention it. He just laughs. "Don't worry about my image, ladies. I don't share." He turns his attention to Cassie as he shifts back to serious artist. "But I like the triangle. The heartbreak. I'm the man who wants a woman who chooses someone else. Unrequited love. Tell me more about it."
Cassie falls back into that place where it's just her and the music. She doesn't even notice her ex-boyfriend glaring in her (my) direction. "The way I see it, you start brokenhearted and betrayed. You pretend it doesn't bother you. Then you let it in. You feel the pain. You let go. You find someone else. Maybe that's an implication. Maybe it's the final song, the denouement. Either way, the album is one big emotional arc. It forces you, and the listener, to confront their pain, to really face it."
Bryce hangs on every one of her words.
She continues. "That gives us space to meet all your goals. We can bring the emotion and wit your fans love, we bring in that rock and roll sound, and we can stretch your image to include sex or drugs. We can do an inverse of a party song, one about how the party fades, and you're trying to fake it till you make it, but you just can't. We always come back to the same thing, you're a guy who wants something real. And the woman just couldn't see that. She couldn't appreciate you for who you are." Cassie takes a deep breath. "It's not the only way to go. But it's the way I'd go."
Bryce nods. "I love it." He turns to the other couple. "Now. What about you two? What do you see?"
But it's clear, from the look on his face, he's not really listening. He's fixed on Cassie. Her idea, her passion, her green eyes.
He wants to collaborate with her. But not just on lyrics. On something else too. Something a lot more horizontal.
Cassie would do anything for music.
Does it include fucking her way into a job? I don't believe it. But I do believe in the Cassie who mixes love and work, who falls in love with the image she's crafting and confuses that for who Bryce is.
I want to protect her from that, but how the fuck can I do that?
Chapter Seventeen
Damon
We take turns fleshing out our pitches. By the time we're finished, the sun is sinking into the horizon, and the air is cool. It's past happy hour, but no one has suggested a drink. Yet.
I swallow my discomfort. It's not a big deal. No, it is a big deal, a huge deal, but I know plenty of ways to fake participation. I can throw a shot, I can pretend sip, I can fix myself a mocktail.
It requires an extra layer of planning and deception, sure, but we're already lying here.
None of my techniques are necessary.
No one suggests a drink. We're too tired. And Bryce has plans with someone else, plans that take him elsewhere.
He pulls us into a huddle. "I love all four of you. I can't decide here. I can't decide at all. There's a party tomorrow. In Hollywood," he says. "For a new record at the label. Or an artist. Fuck if I remember. A friend of mine will be there. She's a genius with this stuff. I want her take. Party starts at seven, but I never know when she'll show up, so plan to be there until midnight." He shrugs with mock self-deprecation. "Musicians, you know?"