Page 533 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“fuckin’ simple.”

An artist’s dream.

“Transparent accounting,” Ty adds next. “No ‘we’ll get back to you’ bullshit. I wanna see exactly where the money went.”

“For real,” Kate mutters.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing about it.”

I feel the heat of Andrew’s eyes on me. “You’re an artist first. What do you want?” he asks, relaxing back into the leather, knees wide—knowing there’s a banging-hot supermodel sitting next to him, and enjoying watching it affect me. “If you could build your own label, what’s the one thing?”

The wind combs through my hair, and I step closer to the fire. “Creative control.” No brainer. “Artist approval on singles, features, album sequencing, brand partnerships. Rollouts. No executive override—final say.”

He nods, scratching his jaw and gestures to me. “Unless legal or budget’s in the way.”

I pause mid-step,

narrowing my eyes at him.

He lets out a small laugh, tilting his head, giving me that look that says he thinks I’m adorable. “Just keepin’ your feet on solid ground.”

Ty turns over, setting his empty glass on the deck. “And I’d want none of that release limbo bullshit. Label can’t own my music, then not release it.”

Linc laughs. “You do know how crazy that sounds, right? ‘We own your music, but we’re not using it. And you can’t benefit from it either, so we’re gonna block you from eating and call it shelving.’ Even crazier, artists are like ‘sure, where do I sign?’”

“It’s ridiculous.” Ty sits up, shaking his head. “Ten people who never made a song shouldn’t get to tell me mine ain’t ready.” He scoffs. “I don’t wanna hear ‘the team is reviewing it.’ What team? Name the coward.”

“Okay,” I say, pinching my lip, thinking. “So a release-window clause. Label doesn’t meet the deadline, exclusivity dies.”

Server comes back right then, hands me my blackberry basil fizz.

Andrew watches me take a sip, then says, “So major in reach, indie in chain of command.”

Right after his words land,

Ty and Linc both moan in unison.

“Linc made a good point when he said services,” I say. “I’d want a services arm within the label for indie. À la carte. Distribution, radio, playlisting, sync, marketing. They keep ownership. We take a fee.”

Andrew’s elbow drops onto the arm of the chair, where my ass was moments before, lost in thought. “Allison.” He lifts his hand lazy. “That’s it. That’s the move right there.”

I raise a brow. “It is?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Artist wants out of the traditional deal? Fine. But don’t punish ‘em for it. Don’t make ‘em run to another company. Offer the power without the chains.”

Ty nods. “Yeah. I like the sound of that.”

Andrew’s gaze sweeps to Linc. “And indie guys like Mr. West Coast here? Don’t chase ‘em with contracts. Offer the services. Build the trust. He never signs? Cool. We’re still workin’ together. No indie versus label. No treatin’ artists like traitors ‘cause they wanna own their shit.”

My gaze darts to Ty.

“With a real-time royalty portal for Ty.”

“Money portal?” Ty’s palms rub together. “My love language.”

“And contract reviews,” I add. “Deals get reviewed every year ‘cause things change, right?” I gesture around the fire. “First album cycle, first platinum record, artist turns 25 if they signed young, for sobriety or rehab return, for death or grief⁠—”

“You grow, the deal grows,” Andrew says.