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“Okay then, I’d love that. Let me check my schedule for the next couple of weekends and I’ll call up your mom to let her know I’m kidnapping you.”
“Okay, but just us, though, right? No girls.”
This time I snort aloud. Preach it, kid. “No girls, mydude. And no moms,” I clarify, just in case. “Just us and the kiln and the lake and the bears.”
“Are there bears?”
“Only if we’re really lucky.”
“Thanks, Uncle Craig.”
Christ. It’s like my throat is swelling up. I swallow hard and clear it once more. “You got it, buddy. Thanks for asking. I can’t wait.”
I hang up the phone and drop it on my desk, shaking my head and staring at my calendar. The next few weeks are pretty busy and I’ll have to rearrange some stuff, but I’ll figure it out. My sister is an amazing single mom who’s raised a household full of respectful and smart kids. But D’s the youngest by a lot, just like me, and the only boy. He’s probably getting to the age where he’s going to need a masculine presence in his life for some things.
I should step up more. Prioritize him.
A knock startles me out of my reverie and I look up to see Drake Colter standing at my door.
I sit back in my chair and gesture to the seat across from my desk. “I was wondering when you would show up. Figured if I ignored your lawyer’s emails long enough, you’d find your way eventually.”
“You won’t sign off.”
“Nope.”
Drake presses his lips together and runs a hand through his glossy magazine-mussed hair, agitated. I’ll tell you what. This guy’s never been to Burl the Barber. “Are you gonna tell everyone about the other songs, too?”
I cross my arms over my chest and bounce lightly in my chair, letting it creak in the silence. “And what would I tell them exactly?”
Drake huffs impatiently, shifting in his seat. “Fuck off, Boseman. Are you going to out me or what?”
“Are you going to add my name to ‘Best Worst Case’?” I counter.
“You know it’s too late. The nominations are already up.”
“Interesting how you sat on that formonthsuntil it was too late to add my name. I think I’ll just wait and see how this all plays out. But I know one thing for sure. You won’t be using any more of my songs after this. You’re on your own now.”
“I can’t write. You know that. Not like you do.” His jaw clenches and he narrows his eyes. “I’ll pay you for them. I know you’re writing for other people now. Lorelai and that fucker Coolidge…”
“I am.”
“So write for me. I’ll pay you. Give you full credit from this point on.”
“No.”
Drake sputters, leaning forward, his hands on my desk, and like several other times over the last few weeks, I try valiantly not to think of the way Lorelai looked, bare naked and spread out across it. The thought of his hands touching where her body had been—
“No,” I repeat more firmly. “I’ll be damned if I write one more word for you. You’re an entitled bastard who takes everyone who cares about you for granted. Fuck that, I’m done,” I spit out, slamming my fists on the desk and dislodging his. “You can write your own music or pay some other ass- hole to do it, and when the critics hear your new songs and speculate about how different they sound, or they question how your old songs sound like my new ones… and when they put two and two together that you’re a fraud,then I’ll be paid.And Lorelai will get paid, too. And you know what? Even Coolidge will get paid. And every other person you’ve kicked and stomped on and thrown off on your way up the ladder to where you are today.”
“You’re not suing me?” he asks, disbelieving.
I lean back into my chair, casual once more. “Not today.”
“But will you?”
“I can’t say for sure. Guess I’ll see how things pan out in the future. The industry is fickle, as you well know, and I’d hate for something like a ruined reputation to bring you down after you’ve worked so hard. Wonder what that would even look like? Would your label drop you? Your friends? Your agent and team? Would they cancelyourtours?”
He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “So this is about Lorelai, then? She get under your skin? You guys together?”
