“Did you already forget my rules or is this just your way of giving me the finger?”
There it was. Was he going to keep being that predictable? She answered, “Neither. I brought it because I have a lot of lyrics on here—and some voice recordings. When I’m home and journaling or writing lyrics, I use this,” she said, pressing her finger to the notebook. “But when I’m somewhere else and struck with inspiration, I put it on my phone. And since I didn’t know what we were doing today—”
“Okay. That’s fine. If you need it for lyrics or demos, okay—but keep it in airplane mode. I don’t want it to be a distraction.”
Like it would distract her while they were working? The only thing that could distract her would be fucking Mal. He’d already sent her more than one text message that morning, asking her how she was settling in and if she needed anything.
Yeah, she needed a break.
From Mal.
“It won’t.”
Quentin’s expression neutral, he asked, “The executives said you were already working on a third album?”
“Yeah.”
“So you already had some songs that you were ready to record?”
“Yes. I had…nine.” She wasn’t about to tell him about number ten. That one was just for her.
“What do you have? Lyrics? Music? Both or a mix?”
“Lyrics—and the basic tune. But, um, the label wanted me to scrap what I’ve been working on.”
Quentin took a drink from his travel mug. “Did you record any of it?”
“Just here,” she said, holding up her phone.
“But did anyone at the label hear any of what you wrote?”
“Um…no.”
“Then you and I will decide what goes on the album. They don’t get to decide that.”
Well…other than being prickly, he was turning out to be okay. But she didn’t smile.
“Are you up for singing this morning?” he asked. “Or do you have all the songs recorded?”
“Mostly recorded.”
“Let’s start there.”
So, for the next hour, she went through the songs she’d been working on. Some she sang for him; others she played from tracks saved on her phone; and some of them she spent a few minutes explaining where she wanted to take what she’d been working on and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to.
When she was done, Quentin remained still for some time, looking at one of the pages where she’d scrawled some lyrics. Throughout the hour, she hadn’t had a clue what he was thinking and she wondered what changes he would insist upon.
Finally, with a slow sigh, he said, “I…have no doubt the label would like this stuff—and so would your fans. But what you have here? It’s, uh, for lack of a better word, safe. These songs are no different from the music on either of the albums you’ve already released. Why should fans pay good money to buy an album or watch a show that’s more of the same stuff?”
“Stuff? These are decent songs. I worked hard on these.” What a motherfucking asshole. Clearly, he’d lived past his musical expiration date and the label was punishing her by exiling her here with this rock relic, a guy who couldn’t appreciate her type of art. “Just because it’s not the shit you—”
“Careful,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed. “I think you misunderstand me. I’m not doubting the effort you put into the work…but let me give you an example.” Touching her notebook, he said, “May I?”
She shrugged, already feeling the monster expanding in her chest cavity—but she bit her tongue.
He turned the notebook around and turned back two pages to a song called “No Fucks.” He began reading her own words back to her, starting with the chorus. “
* * *
