Page 285 of End Game

I look toward the stage entrance, where I can still hear the crowd filtering out into the night.

Yesterday, I was scared I might not belong here.

Turns out that was the wrong problem.

I do belong here.

Now I have to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about it.

Chapter twenty-seven

Split The Party

Dex

Apparently, agreeing to spend four weeks in Chicago writing an album with Signal Saints is significantly easier when Austin Fletcher is standing in front of you and significantly harder when his business manager sends you a seventeen-page PDF.

This feels unfair.

The first email I thought was all-encompassing, but then I signed the contract.

I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop open in front of me, coffee going cold at my elbow, and an email titled MARCH WRITING BLOCK - TRAVEL & SESSION DETAILS glaring at me like I've done something personally offensive.

Which, to be fair, I probably have.

I click the attachment again.

Maybe the information will be less overwhelming the fourth time.

It is not.

Four weeks.

Monday through Friday.

Studio call at nine most mornings.

Eight-hour scheduled days, with a friendly little note that says sessions may extend depending on creative needs, which is music-industry language for you people have no concept of time and will absolutely still be arguing about a guitar track at eight-thirty at night.

Hotel covered.

Flights covered.

Daily meal allowance.

Ground transportation covered.

A couple of dinners and industry events already blocked into the schedule.

Austin apparently plans to introduce me to producers, writers, musicians, and several people whose job titles sound made up but whose resumes would probably make me shit myself.

There's even a section about studio photography and videography for behind-the-scenes promotional content.

I stare at that one longer than necessary.

It's not like I'm becoming a celebrity.

Songwriters exist quietly all the time.