by Ginger Scott
“You better,” he says.
We hang up, and I drive home in silence, because my thoughts are enough to fill my head. I coach myself while changing clothes, and I wait at the table with a sandwich ready for Lane as his bus arrives. My brother has a million stories to tell me, but I’m a selfish sister today—I don’t hear them.
What if my song hits number one?
What if John Maxwell offers me a huge deal?
What if they want me to sign on the line right then—without showing contracts to my father?
I need a manager. I should have an agent.
Am I good enough for this?
That last question plays constantly, even though it’s the one worry Casey tells me is completely unjustified. I’ve let my nerves stand between me and so much for so long, but I’ve always really wanted this. And now that I’ve had a taste, I’m hungry. I’m starving to be a success.
John Maxwell.
Grammies.
American Music Awards.
Bands I fucking love.
I stop at the coffee shop on my way to the freeway, and order a large. I don’t drink caffeine normally—the stimulant sort of works against me and the whole stuttering thing. But I think I need to give some power to the strongest version of my personality, and this is the only way I know how. I’m so ratcheted up with coffee by the time I pull into the Maxwell lot, I run over the parking hump and my bumper scrapes the brick wall between the lot and the road.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself when I get out and look at the new texture on what used to be smooth chrome.
I close my mouth and shut my eyes, straightening my posture for a deep breath, then open my sites on the large double doors in front of me. I walk in through the front this time, and the receptionist guides me to the familiar room in the back. I brought my guitar and my book, just to be prepared, but as I amble through the hallway and knock into the walls, I feel more ridiculous than ready. This is not how big girls take meetings.
Gomez is waiting in the room along with the assistant I recognize from last time. I think her name is Cara.
“Murph,” Gomez says, walking around the table with open arms. I ready myself for the hug and am instantly grateful for my guitar and heavy purse so it’s cut short. “Oh, we’re not going to need you to play today,” he laughs, and I’m red with embarrassment.
“I know. I have somewhere to go after this,” I lie.
“Where you headed?” he asks, and I want to kick him for being nosey. Nowhere, shit, I was just saving face!
“My aunt’s,” I say quickly, my eyes flitting around the room, looking for the most opportune seat. My second lie was worse, so I don’t look up again, because I swear if he starts asking me questions about my aunt I’m just going to grab my things and run, probably taking out chunks of drywall on my awkward exit.
John comes in after a few seconds, and as scared as I am, I’m relieved to let him take over the conversation.
“Murphy,” he smiles. His hair is a blend of black and gray, and he wears tinted glasses that make me think of gangster movies and Robert de Nero.
“Nice to see you, John,” I say, immediately debating if I should call him Mr. Maxwell. Casey’s voice echoes in my head: You’re the one they want. John it is, then.
“Would you like some water?” he asks, holding up a hand and calling Cara to his side.
“I’m okay,” I say. Honestly, I would love water, but I also have to pee badly as it is from the large coffee jolt. I think adding any more would be self-abuse at this point.
He smiles and whispers his request to Cara, who excuses herself from the room to fetch whatever he asked for. God I hope it’s not coffee.
“Do you know why we brought you here?” John asks, leaning back in his seat. His feet fold on top of the table, and I smirk because I remember Casey’s imitation of him.
“Not entirely,” I say, breathing in through my nose for strength, “but I’m hoping it’s for a major record deal.”
Might as well come out guns a blazin’.
John’s harsh features fall into a smile quickly, but he remains silent. His hands move from behind his head to his lap, and I watch as he folds his fingers together and cracks his knuckles, almost for his own amusement.
“We’d like to pair you with one of our new artists,” he says, and my head starts to spin instantly. I’m sure I don’t mask my expression well. I think I’m still smiling, but I can tell by the way his lips purse and Gomez fidgets that I probably look forlorn. I’m just glad I don’t look pissed, because that’s also brewing in my belly.
“Pair me,” I reiterate.
“Yeah, like what we did with Johnnie Walker,” he says.
I pull in my brow and look to Gomez.
“Yo, I don’t think she’s heard it yet,” he says.
I part my lips, about to protest, but I think better of it and wait for them to call Cara back from wherever she went so she can fetch Gomez’s laptop. Coffee comes, and I give in and pour a glass, the taste bitter and my bladder almost as pissed as I am. Cara’s back again in minutes with the laptop, and soon Gomez is turning it toward me, a sound file beginning to play.
The start is familiar—the same as it was in the club more than a week ago. But then suddenly it isn’t my song any more. It’s nothing of what I heard, heavy beats taking over the melody completely and some rap artist who I am now picturing as Porky the fucking Pig tossing out lyrics that are anti-feminine and just plain abrasive.
I point, unable to speak, because I’m not sure if I can come up with a word strong enough to accurately portray how deeply I hate what Gomez is playing for me. Vile—I think that’s the best I’ve got. It’s what I say…like a question.
“Vile?”
Gomez’s eyes snap to John’s and he taps the keys, the music, if it can be called that, stopping abruptly.
“His name’s Shaw Chris. He’s going to be huge. His YouTube numbers are sick, and that whole soft with hard vibe is so in right now,” John says, and I picture myself poking my fingers through the orange tint of his gangster glasses.
“He’s shit,” I say, and my belly thumps wildly with my heartbeat. I’m not scared. I’m not intimidated. I might cry, but only because I’m that angry. I’m so angry, I don’t even know whether or not to sit or stand. I begin to rise, but fall back to my seat and cover my mouth, slowly letting my eyes look to them both.
“I assure you he’s not…shit,” John says, clearing his throat. His eyes move to Gomez.
“Quit looking at him. It’s not his song!” I yell.
“It’s not yours either,” John says, and I fall back, sure that I’m not hiding the shock I feel. My skin is tingling with it.
John sits forward, and I let my eyes zero in on the gold of his very expensive watch. I observe his fingers twist it around his wrist while in the periphery I can tell he’s preparing what I’m sure will be a very lovely, very staged speech.
“This releases Tuesday, Murphy. It’s coming out as Shaw Chris featuring Murphy Sullivan, but we don’t have to bill you at all,” he says.
“Good. Don’t!” I yell, my eyes still on his watch—his watch that I’m imagining running over, back and forth, and back and forth…
“I know you’re upset...” he begins, and my gaze snaps to his. I swear he flinches. Maybe I imagine it. “This is the new model, and I’m really sorry if Casey didn’t explain it to you very well. But the days of the quiet singer-songwriter…they’re over. You need to hook into something different, something gritty—and with a song like this, people will listen, and they’ll sing along with your chorus, and when you come out at performances as his guest, everyone is going to want to know who you are—the mystery voice in that hit song they can’t quit singing.”
It takes minutes for all of his words to sink in. Mystery girl. Gritty. Performances. No way in fucking hell am I ever going to stroll up on a stage with some guy who sounds like his first and last names are reversed. Shaw Chris is stupider than Sam
and Cam. In fact, I owe my girl an apology. I stand at the table slowly, and my eyes notice the copy of the contract I signed sitting in front of Cara, who isn’t even listening to us. She’s busy on her phone, probably Snapchatting about the sad girl getting taken to school by her boss right now.
I gave him my song. I signed it away that day—blinded by my own fucking dreams. I gave it to him, and even relented as his minion pecked away at my favorite parts. I lived with it and found renewed love for it when I heard what Casey played in the club. This is nothing like what I heard. I don’t know why I heard something so different, but I do know that I don’t want to be any part of this.
Without a word, I pull my bag up to my arm and wrap my fingers around the handle for my guitar. I step around the table to the door John Maxwell hasn’t even bothered to close, and I stretch it open wide, my movements slow and methodical. I turn so I fill the space between this room and my way out, and I stand incredibly still, my eyes settling on Gomez’s first until he looks down at his computer. And then I turn to John, and I pull my mouth up ever so slightly, because he’s not even masking how smarmy his is now that I really look at him.
“All you do is ride the hype,” I say. He doesn’t flinch, but the smoke-stained lips above his overly-manicured goatee curve enough that I get his response. He’s saying “yes I do.”
I look to the wall, crowded with awards—gaudy and unearned. I point to it, chuckling, then return my gaze to him as I shake my head.
“You’re not collecting me on that wall of yours,” I say, my breathing coming easier somehow. “And something tells me that means that shitty-ass rapper you just signed won’t be up there either. You see...” I narrow my gaze, lowering my brow, as if this is a secret for his ears only. But he’s left the door open. And people have paused in the hallway behind me. And Cara…she’s not typing on her phone anymore. “I know that I’m the best part of that song. And you know it too. So good luck finding someone else to make your bad talent look good. It won’t be me.”
“We’ll see, sweetheart,” he says. “Sometimes all it takes is one. Good. Record. And I own part of you right here.”
He pulls my contract into his hands and rolls it up in his palm. He’s right. That song, it could get good play. But I’ve also heard it, and as much as I believe my part is good, I also believe that Shaw’s part sucks major fucking balls.
“You hold onto that real tight, John. Maybe it will keep you warm at night when you realize what a lonely prick of a human you really are,” I say, turning and managing to stride my way back through the cluttered hallway without hitting my shit into a wall once.
I walk right to my car, I throw my things inside and I pull out smoothly, getting lucky with traffic and exiting in one motion without even scraping my undercarriage on the dip from the lot to the road. I drive for thirty seconds, until I reach the corner where two teenagers are buying pot from some man in a black Chrysler 300. They run away when I pull in, but the drug dealer stays put because he sees my face and the tears falling down my cheeks. I’m not here to bust anyone. I’m here to hide. He probably hopes I’ll become a customer.
And for the next hour, I sit in my parked car next to the north side’s king of pot as I cry my fucking eyes out because I just threw away my dream.
Casey
I knew the minute she walked in. Murphy wears her emotions. Her eyes were puffy and her mouth was a hard line, her jaw working and her nostrils flaring. She got to the club when I was setting up—no text for a warning. I heard her arguing with security at the front, and I ran over to rescue her. She flew at me with fists and beat my chest for about five full minutes. I’m pretty sure I’m bruised because I didn’t stop her.
“Did you know?”
She asked that a thousand times. She hit me and cried, and I watched her fall apart. She only stopped a minute ago, and I’ve managed to calm her and convince her to sit here by my gear, away from ears I know should not hear my girl right now.
“Did you know?” she asks again.
I hold my tongue in my teeth, no honest way to answer this without her hating me.
“Not for sure,” I say. That’s a pussy answer. Deep down, I knew. I only hoped I was wrong.
I can access everything. It’s probably not a good idea, especially given how close I’m sure they’ve come to realize I am with Murphy. But dumb-asses will be what they are, and I got curious about the progress a couple weeks ago and started poking around the edit files. I found the cut I played for her that night at the club, and I was blown away. I’m willing to admit it’s better than mine. That cut, it was all Gomez and his years of finely-honed skills. It was the right ear making the right choices, and the result was magic.
But I also saw the short clips with the sound cut out in the background. I’d heard other projects they’ve been working on lately, mash-ups with rap and quieter artists they label not-so-kindly as background. Those edits I found of hers—they were in that pile.
“I found different versions, and the one I brought to the club—it was the best one,” I say, keeping my eyes locked to hers, breaking under the scrutiny of her grays. “I just thought…”
I sigh and let my head fall to the side. She’s so beautiful. I’m so mad that they broke her. Fucking fools.
“You thought what,” she chokes out, still holding on to some of her anger. I understand.
“I just thought…how could this not be the one they go with,” I say.
She sucks in her top lip, and I see the tears coming miles before they reach the well of her eyes. I lean forward and cup her quivering face in my hands, wiping them away one at a time as they fall.
“But you played it,” she pleads. I know she’s hoping for a loophole, something I can say that will make that moment—the one where a roomful of people heard and loved her song as it was meant to be—the only one that counts.
“I stole it,” I say through a small guilty laugh, shaking my head. “I knew I had to be right, but just in case…I wanted you to hear it.”
Her chest fills slowly, so full that her shoulders lift and her neck strains for air. It’s the panic attack, the ones she fights when her mouth quits working. There are a million things I’ve learned about what I would do differently if I had my own studio. Top of the list is not make beautiful girls cry.
Hands fisted in her hair, her eyes fall to my knees and she takes long draws of air to calm her demons and fight against her body’s instincts.
“I called him a prick,” she says through a chuckle. She looks up at me, her eyebrows high on her head and her mouth flies into a manic smile. “Ha! He’s a fucking billionaire, and I called him a prick!”
“He is a prick,” I laugh with her. “And I’m pretty sure he’s only worth millions, so joke’s on him!”
We laugh like crazy people for thirty seconds straight, until the distraction leaves her system and she falls limp again, her head in her hands in front of me. I pull her close, and eventually to my lap where I hug her and lock my fingers with hers to kiss them.
“I still have the song with me,” I say in her ear. “The one I played last time. I have it here. I could play it again.”
She shakes her head and closes her eyes, leaning into me, her face nestled into my neck and shoulder.
“I don’t ever want to hear it again,” she breathes, and I die, because her voice in that song is about as close to heaven as I think I’ll ever get.
“Okay,” I say.
I sit with Murphy on my lap for the rest of the hour, and I let her pick songs for the night that fit her mood—her tastes run from borderline death-metal to James Brown. I mix it all, and the drones on the dance floor don’t notice. I work in beats like a chef with spare ingredients he needs to get rid of, and they eat it up—grinding and pulsating until it’s two in the morning and Murphy is fast asleep on the line of chairs I set up for her behind me.
I carry her to my car, and I wait for her to wake up so I can ask her if she wants to go with me or let me
take her home. When her hand grips mine tightly, I don’t even bother to ask. I drive her to my apartment, show the middle finger to Eli when he opens his bedroom door and I hold her until Saturday’s highest sun is in the center of the sky.
“Your father is going to pull out the ax again,” I say, my nose on hers. She runs hers back and forth.
“Eskimo kisses,” she giggles.
“Whatever those are,” I shrug.
“You don’t know Eskimo kisses?” she says, her voice raspy from her sleep and emotions. I shake my head no.
“We weren’t a very touchy-feely family,” I say, and her eyes grow sad, so I lean in and nuzzle my nose to her again. “But I love doing them with you. I’m an Eskimo-kiss virgin.”
“Awe, I popped your cherry,” she teases. I laugh with her, but it’s faint and tired on both ends.
I run my fingers through her messy purple curls, and wonder how anyone could not bet the entire bank on this amazing creature.
“You really are amazing. Don’t let him get in your head. I’m way smarter than that guy, and remember…I said you’re special,” I say.
She nuzzles against me, but only to hide her frown. I tug her cheek up with my finger, but it’s no use.
“I signed up for Paul’s tonight,” she says, rolling to her back and stretching her long arms over her head. I run my finger along one and down the other. “I think I’m going to call and cancel. They have a ton of people on the waiting list.”
“Don’t,” I say, faster than I really have a reason. Her head falls to the side and she blinks at me slowly. “Just…I think you should play. For you. Your way. I think it will help you feel better.”
She holds my gaze for a few seconds before pulling her mouth up on one side in a half grin. “Yeah, well I think you’re nuts,” she says.
“Says the woman whose dad is an ax murderer,” I say, rolling over and caging her between my arms.
“He hasn’t killed anyone…yet,” she says.
My forehead falls to hers and my lips dust hers gently. Every time I open my mouth to speak, I’m left with nothing. I don’t know how to fix this for her. I feel like I fed her to the wolves. I know she doesn’t blame me, but I can’t help but feel like my father’s right—this, none of this, was very responsible.