Fucking a. I swipe at damp eyes and clear my throat. Hell, it’s been a long month.
“Yeah, D. I do. It’s pretty rustic out there, though. Like camping, basically. You sure you don’t want to try a nicer place in the city?”
“Um. Well. I guess I don’t care, but I don’t mind camping,” he offers, sounding excited. “That could be fun.”
“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, my dude. 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 for months until 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 dislodg ing 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 cancel your tours?”
He leans back in his chair with a sigh. “So this is about Lorelai, then? She get under your skin? You guys together?”
I shake my head, nonplussed. “This is about the way you treat people. Lorelai, sure. You fucked up big-time on that one. She wanted to marry you and you let her go.” I shake my head, laughing humorlessly. “Which is just unreal to me. But I was actually talking about me. Which was always the problem. You kept forgetting about me. Disregarding the long hours I put in for years to help you get where you are. Writing your songs, playing in your band, smoothing things over with your fiancée and your family and the press and your agent and whoever the fuck else. Don’t worry, Boseman’s got it.
“Well, man.” I spread my arms wide, grinning and gesturing to my little empire. “It’s not a lot, but it’s mine. Look around. I got it. And now I want you to get the fuck out of my studio.”
* * *
After shaking off my encounter with Colter, I was too wired to go home to my empty apartment. Things with Lorelai have been a little warmer after finishing up the album, but they’re still different. Awkward. With Maren in town, I figure it’s best to let her have her space and spend time with her friend without my crashing their party.
So I head out on foot toward downtown. It’s been a while since I wandered the streets of Nashville alone, taking in the sights and sounds. The smell. The intensity, desperation, and unrelenting hope of it all. No set direction. Just absorbing it into my pores and trying to remember where it all began for me. Why I’m still here, doing what I do, despite the bullshit.
I know I’m being immature when it comes to Drake and the songs. Petty, even. I should just sue him and put him out of his misery or sign the nondisclosure and put myself out of mine. I’m an adult and a businessman. But somehow, weighing both of those “more mature” options feels like caving into a part of myself I’m not interested in feeding. Signing the nondisclosure feels like bending over to Drake. Still. Again. Allowing him to use those songs to further himself. But suing him might feel worse. Initially, I didn’t get into this industry for the credit. I avoided the fanfare, happy to play backup and write behind the scenes. Money and popularity were secondary to the art. I know more now, obviously. Of course you need money to survive. That’s a nonstarter. And popularity might be secondary to art, but the more recognition, the more art you get to make. And I’m also aware of my privilege. I’ve inherited enough money to start my own label. It’s easy to be like, “I’m in this for the art,” when I don’t need to worry about paying my electric bill. Which is sort of the point, I guess. That same privilege also means I don’t need to seek out more money just to stick it to someone who used to be my friend. Choosing to do so would be simply for the principle of the thing, and that doesn’t sit well with me.