Tom glanced at Jamie’s father, who nodded. “It’s not really flowin’. Let’s try it again.”
Melvin, a stocky Nashville veteran in his 50s with leathered skin, hadn’t spoken directly to Jamie even once. He had worked with all the major players but rarely as a ghostwriter. That, apparently, was another string Jamie’s father had pulled to ensure this album came together exactly as he wanted. He whispered something to Tom, who laughed dryly, which pissed Jamie off.
“If you ask me—and I know you didn’t—what if it’s the lyrics? This bridge feels inauthentic,” Jamie said. Was there a diplomatic way to sayI’d rather my balls catch in a zipper than sing these words?Cringing,he read aloud from the lyric sheet. “You want love/But I need space/Baby my heart beats/At a different pace/I can love you right/But only for tonight.I wouldn’t say anything like this to a woman.”
He didn’t want a serious relationship, but he wasn’t intentionally trying to be a dick either. “This is my chance to talk about my life and really say what I’m about, right? That’swhat all the best artists are doing now—peeling back the layers.”
Before he released his debut, Jamie showed his father a few songs he’d written for the first time. They represented what hethoughtbeing in love felt like. Of course, he’d never experienced it himself, but he liked the idea of connecting with people over something universal. So many artists he admired did it seamlessly, including his father. He wanted that too.
But Jamie was devastated when his father laughed in his face, calling his lyrics “a dogfight of clichés.” So, he stopped trying. Then he won the Grammy, which became an unexpected push to un-suck his life. He had no idea if his writing had improved—nobody had seen or heard it.
The men were quiet.
“Lyrics are fine and work with your personal brand,” Jamie Sr. said, finally. “We did thirteen songs like this for your debut. Now, you got a Grammy.”
At the reminder, Jamie’s chest tightened. He closed his eyes, hoping to block out his inadequacy. “I’ve been working on something that feels more…like me.” He held up the brown leather-bound notebook atop his stool. “How about we lay it down and see?—”
His father didn’t let him finish. “Dammit, Jamie. I’m not paying for studio time to ‘lay it down and see.’ Do it again, and let’s move on.”
Adrenaline snaked through Jamie’s veins, and he wrung his hands to stop himself from slamming the easel against the wall.
“Why don’t you take five? Rest your voice,” Tex said with the skill of an FBI hostage negotiator. “Come back, and we’ll lay it down again.”
Usually, Jamie would have sucked it up and shut his mouth. But then he remembered what Brinton had said: heput himself in a specific hole, this damn early grave. He had to stay vigilant with his plan to break free and needed a platform with some credibility.
What if he leaked the news himself on a burner Instagram account his team couldn’t access?
Gracious, that wasn’t what he wanted at all.
It was egotistical to admit, but he wanted people to take this announcement seriously and for it to have some permanence beyond an algorithmic feed. He wanted to point back to it, years later, with pride. ALandmarkarticle would’ve done it in spades, but now, that was out of the question.
Jamie exhaled, his breath acidic against raw vocal chords. At least this was the last album he had to make with his father’s cronies. He’d get through this, then figure out a new, feasible way to start over.
“I’ll miss working with you, Melvin,” Jamie grumbled into the mic, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t lost in translation.
His father chuckled, low and easy enough to make Jamie’s spine straighten. “Actually, the label loves the early cuts we’ve sent, as I knew they would. And theLandmarkarticle is icing on the cake. So I’ve extended Melvin and Tom’s contracts for the next two albums. You’ll have your new papers to sign tomorrow.”
Ain’t that some shit.
Jamie flexed his fist as his pulse jabbed his temples. “The nexttwoalbums?”
“Gotta strike while the iron’s hot. You understand, son?”
Jamie shouldn’t have been surprised. This was always the way with his father. He was the boss—the big man with big plans. Jamie spun his gold ring around his pinky, each revolution revving his agitation. “Yeah, I understand.”
He understood, now, his father would never stop playing these games. He had two choices: do nothing or, for the first time, go against his father. And it had to happen that night.
Brinton inhaled through her nose,filling her belly with positivity, and exhaled negativity from her parted lips. Yet, somehow, there was no drowning out the nagging buzz filling the space between her ears.
Nerves. Butterflies.
Either way, she felt the vicious sting nearly every waking moment.
She inhaled positivity again but caught a glimpse of her puffed, reddened cheeks in the white wicker-framed bathroom mirror and felt ridiculous. Brinton paused the aggressively woo-woo meditation app on her phone and yanked out her earbuds.
The party started an hour ago and she was still at the guest house, sitting cross-legged on the cold marble floor. Not only was she forced to attend this party, with this crowd of strangers, but she had no viable angle for her article other than Jamie was sorry for embarrassing her. That wouldn’t work.
Her mother would have said she was being too hard on herself, but Brinton knew what was on the line: her dignity. Earlier, she’d scoped out the patio, mapping out escape routes back to the guest house in case she got too overwhelmed. The absolute last thing she needed tonight was a panic attack.
