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Empowering.
Like,Fuck you, Scarlett Lancaster. Just because your daddy’s got loads of money, that doesn’t make you better than me.
I’m out of the shower in minutes, throwing on a pair of briefs before I take my phone to bed and mess around on it. Uploading the song everywhere I can. On every social media site I’m on. Even fucking YouTube, which is probably a mistake because someone can rip that shit off and blast it everywhere without my consent.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t give a damn. In my dreams this song would go viral. Last week, I wouldn’t think it was possible. No one gave a shit about me.
Now? The potential is there. Though with my luck...
It won’t happen.
* * *
I’m awakened by the sound of my phone ringing where I left it on the bed right next to me. It’s covered by my comforter, so it takes me a second to find it, and when I do, I see Simon’s name on the screen.
I don’t even get a chance to greet him. He’s talking the moment I hold the phone to my ear.
“What the fuck, man? You release a song and don’t tell me about it? Roger is beside himself!”
“Good morning,” I say in response, running a hand over my face. My voice is raspy and my body is sore. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
“When the hell did you write and record a new song?”
“Last night.”
Simon is quiet. I can hear him breathing, though. He sounds like an enraged bull, blowing through his nostrils. Preparing to charge.
“Last night?” I’m about to answer, but he forges on. “Where?”
I swallow hard, wishing I’d brought my water bottle with me to bed. I bet it’s still on the bathroom counter. “Here. At my apartment.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I explain to him the process I used to make the song. How I recorded it on my phone. Then I realize...
“Wait a minute. Where did you hear it?”
“I woke up this morning with all sorts of notifications about you. I’ve got it set up so I know when media outlets are talking about you, and they mentioned you have a new song. A new fucking song, Tate! And instead of giving it to Roger, you uploaded it everywhere! To YouTube, for Christ’s sakes!” Simon is yelling. I bet his face is red and his eyes are bulging and he’s got that one vein in his forehead that pops every time he’s pissed.
I can’t even worry about it. I’m too focused on the fact that people are talking about the song.
“What are they saying?”
“Who?”
“Everyone—anyone. What are they saying about the song? Do they like it?”
My shoulders hunch up practically around my ears as I wait for the blow his words might bring.
“What are they saying? They fucking love it, of course. They want more. It’s already gone viral on that clock app. Even on Facebook, and I know you didn’t upload it there.”
I scoff. “Who uses Facebook still?”
“Your mom. Your sweet little auntie.” Simon chuckles. “Roger is dying to put it on the album. Said he’d send takedown notices right now, but he can’t, since your ass still hasn’t signed the contract.”
Right. The contract.
I roll out of bed and shuffle to the window, pulling back the curtain to check out what’s going on outside. My apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up, and it’s nothing special. No doorman. An old elevator that most of us avoid because it always gets stuck. But the rent is reasonable and the location is decent. I can’t complain.
