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“What?” I snapped. “It sucks, and I won’t have my name attached to it.”
“You’re being unreasonable,” Greg replied calmly. “Lawson Raine is one of the most in-demand songwriters in the business.”
“I don’t care who he is or what his resume says; the song is fucking crap. Van?”
Van’s blue eyes settled on mine; then he turned to Greg. “I agree with Brodie. It’s subpar songwriting. It’s not worthy of the band or their brand.”
Greg shook his head. “I know Lawson personally, so I—”
“I don’t care if you’ve fucked him; the answer is still no,” I bit out.
Greg glared at me. “Watch your mouth, Brodie. And I know what sells. I didn’t get to where I am by making stupid choices. Now—”
“Hold on, Greg,” Van interrupted. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. Brodie and I are in charge of the song selection for the band. You gotta trust his instinct and mine. This song isn’t worthy of Wayward Lane. And I know Lawson, too, but this piece is just not cutting it. Come on, you gotta see that.”
“Van’s right. I’ve read better lyrics on graffiti walls downtown,” I added.
Van’s sudden bark of laughter sparked mine.
Then I watched Greg’s face turn from pink to purple, the vein in his forehead throbbing.
Not that I gave a shit. I wasn’t changing my mind. If Greg wanted to record that crappy song, he could do it himself.
“Fine,” Greg mumbled and stood up. “But you better come up with something and fast. Recording for the album starts in three days. If you don’t have an eighth song lined up, you’re recording this one.”
Then he turned around and stomped out of the studio.
“That went well,” I chuckled and turned to Van. “And thanks for sticking up for me.”
“Of course. And I have a new piece for you to look at. It’s not finished, so I didn’t want to show it to Greg. But I think it would work for you guys.”
Van handed over a set of sheet music, and I carefully read every line. Then I noted the name of the songwriter, Corley Hewitt. I glanced at the edits on the page, and something familiar about it rattled in my brain, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was…
“It looks good. Can the writer finish it in time for recording?”
Van nodded. “I’ll get it organized.”
“By the way, I’ve got a date for the Bandit party on Friday. I’ll send you their details, make sure the guy gets a pass, and anything else he needs for the night.”
Van’s friendly expression iced over.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Van paused, running an agitated hand through his hair. “Normally, you don’t bring a date to events. Is this someone you’re seeing regularly or—”
“Fuck no! I don’t date,” I scoffed and stared at Van. “It’s some friend of Holls from L.A. He’s a big fan.”
“I bet he is,” Van mumbled and tapped on his phone.
“What are you so cranky about?”
“Nothing.”
“Why don’t you ever bring someone to these things?” I asked.
That was my lame attempt at trying to find out if Van was dating anyone. So far, I hadn’t been able to pry any information out of him.
And we talked about everything.
