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Fantastic. I assume Atlas Falling is the dead patient.

“I’ll keep this brief, because I respect you boys too much to beat around the bush.” And because he’s a Hollywood douchebag, he still beats around the fucking bush. He blabbers on about the incredible journey, the raw talent in this room, the difficult position we’ve been put in.

Shit. This sounds bad.

Eli’s jaw works, and Harrison’s leg starts going under the table, and I want to stand up and tell Steve to skip to the fucking point.

“—and so, given the missed obligations at Cascade and the four subsequent dates,” Steve says, and here it comes, “the label is exercising the clause provision in section eleven. The agreement terminates effective immediately. And under that provision, the unrecouped balance of the advance becomes repayable.”

Repayable.

The advance we lived on for a year and have already spent on rent and food and yeah, fuck, a few impulse buys.

“Sorry, repayable?” Luca says. “What does—Harrison, what does he mean?”

“It means the money they gave us, we now owe back.” Harrison’s voice is very flat. “The part we haven’t earned out. Which we spent.”

“We what⁠—”

“Now,” Steve says gently, “the label will retain the masters, and all assets created under the agreement, and we’ll credit their value against the balance. Which brings the remaining figure down to eighty-eight thousand. Payable within a year, with interest, of course.” He says it like it’s a kindness. Like he’s doing us a favor by mugging us politely. “The partnership ends here. I’m sorry. Genuinely.”

Eighty-eight thousand dollars.

Chapter Two

Cal

“Wait.” Luca cries. “You keep the masters? Even Sun on Glass?”

“They’ve always owned the masters,” Harrison drawls. “That was the deal we signed when we were nineteen. We had a renegotiation window in two years.” He looks at Steve. “Fuck. Danny told us that deal was standard practice, but I’m beginning to think we’ve been fucked over!”

Danny told us a lot of things were standard practice when we were nineteen.

Signing away the masters. Using the label’s lawyers instead of getting our own. Not asking too many questions in case Bingo decided we were difficult.

He was forty-two, twice divorced and greasy enough to leave fingerprints on a phone call, but he’d been in the industry longer than any of us had been alive. He knew people. He got us into rooms we couldn’t have entered without him.

Without Danny, maybe Bingo would never have offered us a deal.

With him, we signed away our biggest songs before any of us knew enough to ask what they were worth.

That was the problem with Danny. Every time he screwed us, he could point to the door he’d opened first.

Sun on Glass is our biggest streaming track. Our current royalty share is pathetic, but we were due to renegotiate in two years. That window disappears with the contract.

“We’ll dispute this!” says Luca, “we’ll get our own lawyers! You fuckers can’t just drop us and take our songs too.”

Steve shrugs. “You can try, but trust me, it’s going to be a long and expensive legal battle. But the label is prepared for that.”

Shit. We don’t have the money for a long and expensive legal battle, especially not now. Luca drops back into his seat, all the fight draining out of him.

“Come on, Steve. What is this really? Some kind of scare tactic?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Because it’s worked. We won’t fuck up again.” Eli clears his throat. “Alright. I won’t fuck up again.”

Steve slides his phone into the middle of the table, screen up, and doesn’t say anything. It’s me. Last night. On the booth seat, bottle in hand, using it as a mic to a sea of phone flashlights.

Not my finest moment.

“You couldn’t make four contracted dates, but you made that.” He takes the phone back. “It’s not a tactic, Callum. Do you know how much money we lost the week you disappeared?”