The Happy Ever After Playlist (The Friend Zone #2)(14)

“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But I was supposed to write the music.”

“Well, we tried it your way. You haven’t written anything in six months and your label’s getting itchy. They wanna know they’re gonna get a return on their investment. You’re in bed with these people now, it’s time to tickle their balls a little. Lie to them. Tell them what they want to hear, that you’ll roll over and sing what they ask you to, then write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off and bait and switch them when you have it. Done.”

I dragged a hand down my face. “Fuck,” I mumbled. “And if I can’t write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off? Then what?”

“Then it’s two songs on an album of ten and you do whatever the hell you want with the rest of it. Look, you and your label have the same objectives. To sell records. If you can’t come up with the material to do that, they’re gonna come up with the material for you. It’s a partnership. I know you’re an artist and this is your medium and the very suggestion that you sing something that you didn’t write feels like picking which STD you want, but you went with the big boys and now this is big-boy time. It’s time to put on your big-boy pants.” Two swift honks. “You grin and bear it, and you know why? Because you are a goddamn professional.” Another long, blaring horn.

I stared at my reflection in the black TV on the dresser at the end of my bed. I couldn’t write. I was having some sort of lyrical performance anxiety. I’d never had to compose on demand before, and knowing they were waiting for it felt like an energy suck. I’d cranked out the soundtrack, but just barely, and the best stuff on the album was the three songs I’d written with Lola Simone—and that was mostly her. I’d taken those two weeks hiking in New Zealand hoping the solitude would kick-start my creativity again, but not even that had done it for me.

I wasn’t opposed to collaborating. I wasn’t even entirely opposed to singing something I didn’t write—but the song had to be great. It had to sound like me, and it had to be amazing. And that’s not what this was.

I pinched my temples. “I hate this.”

“Yeah, well, let the money and fame console you.”

I glanced again at the lyrics and cringed. I didn’t even like the idea of saying I’d sing this. But what choice did I have? I didn’t want to look uncooperative, and it wasn’t like I had anything else to give them.

“Fine.” I spit it out like the word tasted bad in my mouth.

“That a boy. Also, they’re adding pyrotechnics and fog to your concerts.”

“What?”

“I hope you like confetti. I’ll let them know you’re on board and you’re thrilled. Hey! Pick a fucking lane—”

The call ended.

I let out a long breath. I sang on stage with nothing but a spotlight, a stool, and a microphone. I didn’t do props and theatrics, and I sure as hell didn’t sing some pop shit I didn’t write.

Ernie had warned me about this. I’d known when I signed my record deal that this day might come, and I’d find myself compromising my vision for my work. But now it felt like more than that. It felt like I was selling my damn soul.

I tossed my phone on the bed and got up and took a shower. Then I made black coffee in the little coffee maker and went out to the balcony to drink it.

My room overlooked Marvel Stadium, where I’d play tomorrow. People walked around below like ants in the light drizzle, nothing but glass and wet concrete as far as the eye could see. No trees. Just the smell of damp asphalt.

This hotel was a nice one. All the amenities. Not that I was picky about where I stayed. I could sleep on a couch with my arm over my face. It was just a nice change—and one that came with having a big record label that had assigned me a personal tour manager. Per diems for room service, top-of-the-line recording studios, hefty advances, first-class flights—that I usually gave away, but it was a frill nonetheless.

I blew a resigned breath through my nose. Ernie was right. It was a give-and-take. I’d been an independent musician for so long, I just wasn’t used to being told what to do and how.

I’d have to get used to it.

Sloan still hadn’t texted.

I leaned on the railing and checked my phone again, wondering if it had chirped and I’d missed it. I double-checked that my last text had gone through. It was marked read.

She’d never taken this long to respond before.

When a text came through from Lola with a picture of her licking her nipple, I was doubly annoyed. She had a new number. Again. I’d already blocked the last two. I was probably going to have to change my number since blocking hers wasn’t making any fucking difference.

I deleted the picture, irritated, and decided to go to the gym.

I didn’t have anything on my schedule. I’d actually been looking forward to today, when I’d be free to bother Sloan as I saw fit. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d maybe not be available for that—or interested in it.

Between this, the Lola text, and the call with Ernie, my morning was a wash. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to sparring with Sloan every day until it looked like she might stop accepting my challenges. She was funny. I enjoyed talking to her. I also liked hearing what Tucker was doing, though it occurred to me I’d be checking in on him a hell of a lot less if he were still with Monique.