“I want a meeting with the label,” I said. “After the tour. Once we’ve had time to figure out what we want as a band.”
Thump snorted. “Sounds like a hostage negotiation.”
“Isn’t it?” Riff replied, ruffling Thump’s already disastrous hair. “Our contract’s nearly up. We lay out our demands and threaten to walk if they don’t comply.”
Ghost chewed on his lower lip. “What if they call our bluff?”
“There are other labels,” Mick said with a shrug. “We just never really looked before.”
“Exactly,” Riff agreed. “Noctis is big enough now. We don’tneed them like we used to.” He paused, then added, softer but certain, “Hell, we could go independent if we wanted.”
And for the first time since we started the band, that idea didn’t sound like a fantasy. It sounded like a choice.
Thump straightened up, pulling away from Riff’s chest. “What about Clara?”
“We could hire her ourselves,” I said. “If she wanted it, I mean. It’s not like we’re short on cash.”
Mick nodded, serious. “Yeah. I don’t think I’d want another manager.”
“I don’t think anyone else could wrangle that one,” Ghost deadpanned, nodding towards our drummer.
“Hey,” Thump growled, shoving Ghost’s back with his foot.
Ghost twisted around and slapped his calf in retaliation, and the two of them immediately devolved into bickering, voices overlapping, insults half-hearted and familiar.
“It’d be nice,” Mick mused, stretching his arms over his head. “To have a bit more creative freedom.”
And that reminded me.
“I, uh...” I tugged the crumpled notebook from my pocket and flipped it open to a marked page. “I wrote something.”
Riff perked up instantly, grin wide and unguarded. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I shifted my weight, suddenly hyperaware of my own pulse. “It’s still rough but I thought... maybe we could um, work on it after the tour.”
Riff held his hand out, and after a moment’s hesitation, I passed the notebook over. His eyes skimmed the page, moving quickly. At first, his brow furrowed. Then the corner of his mouth ticked up, and he glanced at me over the edge of the paper.
“This is different.”
“Uh, yeah...” I said, trying my best to sound casual.
“Verydifferent,” he added, passing the notebook to Mick.
Mick nodded slowly as he read, thoughtful, but my focus stayed locked on Riff. I didn’t look away from that knowing stare.
He was right. The song was different. Not in structure or sound, but intention. I’d never written about another person before. Not really. My lyrics had always been abstract, observational. Life, grief, anger, the band, the world. Even when I’d brushed close to intimacy, it had been vague. Safe.
This wasn’t.
I hadn’t named anyone, but I hadn’t needed to. The imagery gave it away. The metaphors. The gravity of it. Anyone who knew what was going on between Iggy and me would hear it between the lines. And Riff knew.
I’d written a love song. A love letter, really. For Iggy.
Mick passed the notebook to Ghost, who skimmed it and handed it to Thump. Soon the three of them were talking over one another, tossing out ideas, melodies, favourite lines. Oblivious to what the song actually was. Riff, meanwhile, just leaned back against the pillows, arms folded behind his head, grinning at me like he’d caught me red-handed.
“Well,” he said, far too smug. “I think this could be our next big hit.”
And I didn’t argue.
