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There it is.
The real reason he called.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “No.”
“That bad, huh?”
I let out a humorless laugh.
“Fucking cringe bad.”
“Shit.”
“That, too.”
No matter how many nights I spent buried beneath guitars, pianos, and empty whiskey glasses, the songs felt…safe.
I hated safe.
Kozo sighs loud enough for me to hear it through the speakers.
“You know exactly how this ends.”
“What?”
“You’re going to lock yourself in that sick as fuck fortress of yours, disappear for weeks, write the greatest album of your career, then pretend you suffered like a little bitch.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
“You forgot the part where everyone calls me an asshole.”
Kozo laughs.
“Oh, well. There’s not a better way to be if you ask me.”
“Yeah…”
He lets the silence linger for a second before speaking again.
“So…I heard from Junie that your mystery collaboration is with some American model.”
“And?”
“Lucky fucker.”
“What?”
“Apparently she’s hot as fuck.”
“That means shit to me.”
Kozo ignores that and keeps blabbing nonsense.
“From what I heard, she’s gorgeous, rich as fuck and an Olympic athlete, too.”
I blink.
“An athlete?” That’s odd.
