My mouth snaps shut.
My stomach knots so tight I could throw up.
I can’t look at Ronnie now—won’t.
I don’t want to know how Raymond’s comment landed with him. All I can do is keep the burn from festering into something noticeable.
I press my thumb into my palm,
wishing it was Raymond’s face instead.
“You’re overthinking it, baby.
“Just write the song.
“One song. Any song. For fuck’s sake?—
“he needs his head back in the game.”
I try to read him, but he’s ice.
I swallow back my emotions,
shove them down, lock them up,
so he can’t see what he’s doing to me.
But he knows. He always knows.
Focus on the artists. This is about the artists.
I sigh. “This is a waste of time.”
Two sets of eyes race to me.
“They’re both our artists now,
“so we stay out of it.
“If either of them apologizes,
“it makes the other look weak.
“Which makes both of ‘em think we don’t have their back.
“Which makes us look weak.”
I don’t know shit about being a CEO.
I write songs, not strategy.
I bleed, not brief.
I can’t write a annual report on profit margins.
But I know artists.
I give a damn about the artists and the music. And it’s the only reason I’m fighting to keep the title of CEO for when the time comes.
