Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Cameron was our go-between when it came to the label. He fought for us and was a great manager, even though the label won out the majority of the time.
He’s like a father figure to all of us.
“Can you still call me kid when I’m almost thirty?”
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
I lean back in my seat. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve heard of this new guy on the scene. Lyric Jones.”
I almost drop my damn phone. Did Lyric finally send feelers out? “And you’re calling me because …”
“Rumor has it you produced his demo.”
My eyes narrow, my suspicion tingling. “Uh-huh.” I drag out the word.
“I was hoping to get my hands on it.”
I let out a loud breath. “Harley, you dirty fucker. Are you on the line too?”
Silence.
“Harley?”
“Okay, fine. I’m here.” His tone is defeated yet whiny at the same time.
“There’s the whiny diva I used to be besties with.”
“Used to be?” he exclaims.
“Yeah. I already told you. If you want Lyric’s demo, you need to track him down. I’m out. I like getting laid, thank you very much.”
“I think that’s my cue to tap out,” Cameron says, and we both laugh as he disconnects.
“Ballsy move, Harley.”
“I want that demo.”
“Yeah, and now Cameron will too. If my boyfriend were to choose anyone to help his career, it’d be him. Not you.”
“I don’t know about that.” His voice is pure cockiness. I wouldn’t expect anything different from him. “I have something he wants.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Well, if I love his music as much as I think I will, he’ll have an amazing producer he trusts and an opening set for the relaunch of Eleven.”
My mouth drops open.
“Thought that would get your attention,” Harley says down the line.
“I can’t give you his demo. I’m fucking dying to, but I can’t. He won’t sign with you if I have anything to do with the deal, and I promised I’d butt out.”
“I need him. Honestly, if he’s even half as good as what I’ve heard already, it beats going through a slush pile of demos trying to find a diamond. Lyric is my diamond. I can feel it in my gut.”
It makes sense that Harley heard the same thing in Lyric’s voice that I did. We’ve spent so much time together working on songs, on lyrics and melodies, that we’d pick up on the same talent.
It’s convincing Lyric that Harley saw it on his own that’s the issue.
“I won’t give you his demo, but you might want to go for a drink on Friday night at Cedar Bar. Randomly, of course.”
Harley huffs. “Randomly it is. Any random time?”
“After eight.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Later.”
I end the call and stare down at my phone, hoping I haven’t crossed another line.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lyric
At the beginning of my set, everything feels normal. I open with my usual song—a song I’m comfortable with. It eases my nerves and the adrenaline from being onstage so I can sink into my own little musical world.
But a few songs in, the energy in the audience changes.
Alex glares at me from behind the bar.
I push through the shift and the weirdness, but then I see him. Well, technically, I see his bodyguard-slash-boyfriend-slash-Goliath first.
Harley Valentine is in the audience.
My fingers stumble over the chords like they always do in front of label execs or anyone important in the industry.
Letting out a loud breath, I tell myself to calm down. I don’t want Harley’s contract anyway.
Keep telling yourself that.
I’ve been trying to force myself to send my demo to some labels, but whenever I’ve gone to do it, I’ve chickened out.
It turns out admitting your issues isn’t the same as fixing them, and that kind of sucks.
I may or may not have been holding out for a miracle cure.
Even though I can’t see Harley, I know he’s out there. Watching me. Listening to me choke.
Sweat drops off my brow.
Make like Taylor Swift and shake it off, Lyric.
For some reason, my conscience sounds like Ryder.
It eases me.
I think about him telling me to stop fighting everything and do what I enjoy.
After fumbling my way through the last of the original I’m singing, I pull over the stool from the corner of the stage and take a seat.
When I try to get out of my head, I imagine the last time I was truly excited about a song. Not singing a song because I thought it represented who I am and what I want. Not a song that has a meaningful message that I don’t connect with.
My fingers start plucking at the strings as if they have a mind of their own. It’s a melody I wrote, but when I start singing, it’s the words Ryder gave me.
It’s the original on my demo we wrote together.
I hadn’t let it out into the world yet. Not at any of my gigs.
I’ve been holding on to it tighter than I should have.