Note to self: If some jackhole narcissist invites you to be his writing partner and tour with his self-named band, run in the opposite direction to avoid years of aggravation.
This could all be solved if Drake had （a） not used the songs I wrote years ago on his latest album or （b） just credited me as coauthor and paid me my due.
It’s a hundred percent my own fault I’m still in this mess years after the fact. I didn’t fight him on “Jonesin’” like I should have. I wanted a clean break and a clear conscience after hooking up with his ex on the down-low, then quitting his band on such short notice and starting my own indie label. So when I heard “Jonesin’” on the radio a year after I’d walked, I didn’t push for credit. Not hard, anyway. I figured, I’d give him one album and that would be that. My business had been taking off and I didn’t need to be greedy, and honestly, I didn’t want the hassle.
Though I wish it hadn’t been that song. That one was personal. But how was I supposed to call him up and be like, “Hey, man, I wrote that song about your ex, whom I slept with that one time after you broke up and might’ve fallen a little bit more in love with her that night, and so it would be awesome if you’d fucking stop using it already.”
Regardless, that was two albums ago, and Colter is still using my lyrics, uncredited. And this time there’s been talk about one of them being a contender for Song of the Year.
Song of the Year would be a hell of a résumé boost to a guy seeking validation with his own indie record label in a town chock-full of record labels and songwriters.
DRAKE: Just sign the goddamn release, man. It’s not like it matters to you. You’re solid with your other songs.
DRAKE: This could be a game changer for me. After you left, it’s the least you can do.
There it is. The guilt treatment. As if my leaving was crushing for him and his career.
DRAKE: Is this about”Jonesin’”？
DRAKE: We wrote that together. It’s legit.
That’s debatable, but still.
CRAIG: And yet only one of us got paid for it.
CRAIG: I’m getting real tired of hearing my songs on the radio and not getting paid for them, Drake. All you have to do is credit me and we’re good.
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.
I should.
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 been the 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 be written 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 caption Netflix and “Jonesin’” on my Instagram feed, I don’t immediately assume he’s talking about Lorelai.
Or at least he’s not talking with Lorelai. 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 of At Folsom Prison and set it on fire.”
“Shows what you know. I have two copies, and one is locked in a fireproof safe along with an original American Recordings.”
Arlo remains unfazed. I sigh. “Colter wants me to sign over my rights, uncontested.”