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But we both know he won’t do that. I doubt it’s about the money. He just knows if he changes the songwriting credit now, it could mess with his chances for Song of the Year, and if he doesn’t change it, I have every right to contest it.
Would I? I honestly don’t know. I should, though.
Ishould.
He’s taking advantage and I’m letting him, based off one morally iffy night with his ex years ago. How long am I gonna let this go on? Until he gets his CMA? His Grammy? His fucking Lifetime Achievement Award? When exactly does the punishment fit the proverbial non-crime?
Drake doesn’t respond the rest of the day, not that I expect any different. He prefers to let his lawyers do the talking. Two emails’ and three voice mails’ worth. The thing is, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation had we worked on these songs in the studio or under contract. He would have had the might of the record label behind him if that had beenthe case. But these songs were written and workshopped on our own time, in my apartment. I have entire notebooks of them. Drake’s a pretty average lyricist, if I’m being honest. He’s great at a generic summertime banger, and his overall look and vocals lend themselves to a superstar, but he’s meant to bewritten for.That’s what made us a great team. I wrote the songs and he made it look good. Then I left, and he kept using my work instead of finding himself a new lyricist. It’s hard to say no to Drake and he knows it. He banks on it. Always has. First with Lorelai and then with me.
Which is why when I wake up this morning and see his douchey thirst trap of a shirtless selfie with the captionNetflix and “Jonesin’”on my Instagram feed, I don’t immediately assume he’s talking about Lorelai.
Or at least he’s not talkingwithLorelai. He’s absolutely talking about her. But there’s nothing going on between them. I would know if there was.
Pretty sure.
Colter likes to pass out mindfucks like he’s tossing candy from a parade float and I’m about over it.
I groan, exhaustion heavy and pressing me into my chair. I drop my phone to my desk, remove my glasses, and rub the heels of my palms into my eyes until colorful fireworks burst behind my lids and the tension ache in my neck weakens to a dull throb.
This is the exact shit I didn’t ask for when I opened my own record label. I just want to make music.
My phone buzzes with yet another text, and for a minute, I ignore it, still forcing pressure into my eye sockets to keep the threatening migraine at bay. Some days are just like this.The constant assault of contact followed by an entire week when I don’t even open my office door.
Not today, though. I’ve barely left my desk all morning. Curiosity wins out eventually, and I pick up my phone, holding it a little closer to my face to read the small print.
LORELAI: You provide the wine; I’ll bring the takeout.
I release a slow whistle under my breath. Lorelai. I invited her to my place tonight. For the hundredth time, so it’s nothing new, except that song.
Holy fuck, that song.
And now we come to the reason for my tossing and turning all night for the second straight night in a row. If I’m honest, my friendship with Lorelai Jones has been the cause of an increasing number of sleepless nights over the last decade. It’s also the impetus for my poetry account.
I needed an outlet for the feelings she’s stirred up inside of me. After that song, however… there aren’t enough poems in the world.
Arlo knocks and pokes his head around the corner of the doorjamb. Today he’s wearing a striped vintage bowler shirt and pointed leather shoes that complement his burnt orange fedora perfectly. I crack my neck and replace my glasses to see him better. “Baker’s are all wrapped. Josh offered to pick up some lunch and bring it in. Want anything from Shelia’s?”
At the barest suggestion, my stomach rumbles loudly, echoing in the silence of my office.
Arlo grins and pulls out his phone. “Toasted artichoke sandwich with tots it is.”
I make a face, Colter’s douchey shirtless selfie in the forefront of my mind. “I should probably eat a salad or something green instead of the tots.”
My friend blinks. “You are literally eating a veggie sandwich.”
What am I even doing? It’s not like I’ve ever been fit or muscular in my entire life. Not gonna change today if I skip out on the tater tots. Besides, they’re fried in truffle oil. It would be a sin to turn that down. “You’re right. Close enough. Give Josh my thanks.”
“You can tell him yourself. He’ll be here in fifteen. So.” Arlo folds his arms across his chest after pocketing his phone. “You’re looking like someone scratched your collector’s copy ofAt Folsom Prisonand set it on fire.”
“Shows what you know. I havetwocopies, and one is locked in a fireproof safe along with an originalAmerican Recordings.”
Arlo remains unfazed. I sigh. “Colter wants me to sign over my rights, uncontested.”
“The fuck he does.”
My face twists in a grimace. “Yeah. That. His new tactic appears to be ‘wear him down,’ and it’s nearly working because I don’t want to fucking think about him and his thirst traps anymore.” I consider a second. “But this is what kept me up all night.”
I turn to my phone and tap around for the link Lorelai sent me. While I work, Arlo moves in, and forgoing the chairs, he circles around and perches against my desk, facing me. I turn up the Bluetooth speakers next to my monitor in time to hear the opening chords of Lorelai’s song.
