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“So why are you here and not in your mid-town studio cutting tracks with The Weekend?”
I tug at my collar and take a sip of my water before I answer, “I wasn’t interested.”
“You what?” Heath shoves my shoulder.
I shrug, heat creeping up my neck. I haven’t thought about that in a long time. “I wasn’t. I was going to rehab. I was so sick of being in the spotlight. I wasn’t ready.”
“And now?”
“Now?” I look at them and wish I hadn’t said anything as I move from one expectant gaze to the next. I thought about this a lot while I was away. I’m not ready to make an overture to Dean, but I know exactly what I’d want if we were to do this again. “If we could do it this way. With each of us playing, singing, writing what they want. If we could name the band ourselves. All the things we should have had the first time.”
“Amen. And no fucking noncompete. If one of us leaves, we go with each other’s blessing and no chokeholds on our art,” Lucas adds.
“We need a good
agent.”
“What if we got an agent but didn’t sign with another label. Why do we need to?” I propose.
“For advances, that’s what.” Dane looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Our agent could negotiate other revenue streams, endorsements, exclusives, merchandising, tours. We could manage music, distribution, keep our royalties.”
“Again. Money. I’ve got a kid and a high maintenance wife,” Dane drones.
“We’ll make plenty of money.”
“But we’ll need to spend it first, and a lot of it,” Heath reminds me.
“I know.” I look at the ground and scowl. I live well below my means. Long running endorsements have paid my bills and given me plenty to save even living in New York. But it’s been five years since we split. Royalties from the music we made for our first label, means I don’t have the kind of money I need to launch the way we need to. And even if I did, it won’t matter if we don’t have amazing music to release.
“Have you been writing?” Heath asks as if he’s reading my mind.
“I haven’t. But playing these old songs makes me want to.”
Heath claps me on the shoulders. “I’d go to hell and back with and for you. If we decide to do this, we all need to be sure. And ready.”
I nod in agreement. I’m not either of those things, and I respect these guys too much to start something like this if I can’t give it the effort it deserves.
“Let’s table this and give ourselves time to think.”
On my way back uptown, I scroll through the alerts on my phone.
One is a text from my sister, Nadia.
“Isn’t this your girl?”
She’s linked an Instagram post with a picture of Beth and that guy from her Facebook post all those years ago.
The picture is a selfie of them smiling into the camera. The caption read: She said yes. My eyes dart back to the picture, and I see what I’ve selectively ignored at first glance—the huge diamond ring glittering on the hand she’s flashing for the camera.
Jealousy and anger overwhelm me. And I open my keypad and dial my sponsor’s number. I’m desperate to extinguish this ridiculous torch I carry for her.
“Carter?” Porsha’s sleep roughened voice comes on the line after just one ring.
“Can I come over?” I ask before I lose my nerve.
“Uh–yeah. Sure.”
