by Lili Valente
But we’re not good, and the sooner Chip gets that message, the better.
I’m not the kind of person who makes decisions lightly. When I make a judgment call, it’s because I’ve thought things through, and it’s the only one that feels right to me. I don’t appreciate being second-guessed, especially by someone I’m paying ten percent of my earnings to make my job easier.
Chip swings into the parking spot next to my Tesla and shuts off the ignition with a long, low whistle. “Wow. This place is spookier in person, isn’t it?”
Colette laughs tightly, making an effort to be friendly, but I can tell she wishes as much as I do that Chip would vanish in a puff of smoke. “It is. But you get used to it. And the ghosts are harmless.”
Chip hops out the driver’s side and pulls his seat forward, making room for Colette to step out onto the gravel. He holds out a hand that she doesn’t want to touch—I can tell by the stiffness in her smile when she releases his fingers the instant she’s steady on her feet.
She doesn’t like Chip. And I don’t blame her.
Honestly, I don’t care much for him, either, at least not personally. I hired him because he has a reputation for getting his clients what they want and because none of the other people who were willing to take me on had a proven track record. It seemed smarter to go with a shark who knew his way around the industry than one of the perfectly nice newbies I’d met with before him.
Now, I’m wondering if that was the right call. None of the other managers would have dared to surprise me at my work retreat without an invitation. And they certainly wouldn’t have had the balls to check out my girl’s ass while she walks ahead of them on the path up to the house.
I want to punch Chip in the face, an urge that’s so out of character that I hang back by the door while Colette leads him inside to give him a tour of the main floor.
I have to get a hold of myself.
I’m not a caveman, for fuck’s sake. I’m a rational human being who’s dealt with more than my fair share of assholes.
The music industry is full of dicks like Chip, men who think that their money or status, or the money and status of the people they work for, entitles them to act like sacks of shit. Some female artists are pains in the ass, too, but I’ve rarely seen a woman abuse her status as shamelessly as the men who fuck fans half their age, trash hotel rooms, arrive late to gigs, and snort their advances up their nose, only to bitch to their agents and managers for not landing them bigger, better tour venues.
I knew who Chip was when I hired him. He has a reputation for being a bit of a sleaze. But knowing that and seeing his greedy gaze raking up and down Colette right in front of me are two entirely different things.
Reminding myself that I’m the better person, I head into the kitchen to find Chip standing too close to Colette while she fetches him a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, and all my good intentions go flying out the window.
“Outside,” I bark in a low voice, nodding toward the back door.
Chip and Colette both turn to me, Chip’s expression innocence personified and Colette’s relieved. Vowing to apologize as soon as he’s gone for leaving her alone with him for even thirty seconds, I point to the backyard. “Now, Chip. You and me. Let’s have this talk and get it over with.”
Chips brows lift, but his voice is calm. “Sounds good.” He sets the green bottle on the countertop, tossing his next words over his shoulder. “Could you find an opener for that, doll? I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure thing.” Colette widens her eyes and waves a hand behind Chip’s back, indicating that it’s fine and that she doesn’t mind catering to him.
But I mind.
And I refuse to let her cook a special meal for Chip. If he doesn’t take the hint and get lost before dinner, I’ll make us all grilled cheese and heat up canned tomato soup, and Colette and I can retire early to our bedroom to await the departure of our unwanted third wheel come tomorrow morning.
“Listen, I get it,” Chip says softly as we step outside, and he tails me across the grass toward the pool. “You want to be alone with your muse. That’s great, and I’ll get out of your hair as quickly as possible. But I wouldn’t be earning my keep if I let you keep roaring down this road without warning you that there’s a cliff at the end. I love you, Zack, you know I do, but I don’t want to be the Thelma to your Louise.” He snorts. “Or whichever one’s the hot one. You’re the hot one. Obviously. I’m the housewife who loses her shit and kills a man. But I do it because I’m protecting you. You get that, right? That I’m just trying to protect you?”
Stopping at the edge of the patio surrounding the pool, I turn back to him with my hands on my hips. “I’m not a child, Chip. I’ve been a part of one of the hottest bands in the world for nearly a decade. And I wasn’t just following Colin’s lead while I was playing for Lips on Fire. It was a collaborative effort. We all wrote the songs. We all workshopped the music.”
“Right.” He lifts his hands at his sides in surrender, but I know better than to think he’ll give up that easily. “I get that. I do. And I believe you. But…no one else does.” He winces, and his hands drop to his sides. “I hate to put it so bluntly, but the execs at the record company think Colin is the man behind Lips on Fire’s magic. I keep trying to tell them that you’re responsible for ‘Never the Day’ and ‘Persephone’, but they don’t seem to be hearing me. And the fact that you’re sending over songs that sound nothing like your old vibe isn’t helping my case, buddy.”
“But they’re good songs,” I say with a humorless laugh. “Can’t they hear that?”
“They are, and they can. They do,” he says in a soothing tone. I’d remind him again that I’m not a toddler, but that would be pointless. He isn’t here to listen. He’s here to manage me into doing what he thinks I should do. “But they’re worried that they’re not going to have a launch song. The second single can be a laid-back love song if you need it to be, but the first single needs to be something that’s going to punch the world in the ears. Make them sit up and take notice and want to know who this hot new voice is, you know? And we don’t have that yet, Zack, we really don’t. Come to Jesus with me here, buddy. You know you haven’t nailed that dynamite record-launcher yet, right?”
I drag a hand through my hair, uncertainty tugging at the back of my brain. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m not done writing, either.”
“Of course. And I know you write fast, so I wouldn’t usually be worried, but…” He glances toward the house before turning back to me and adding in a confidential tone, “She’s stunning, man, and she seems very sweet, but she’s not doing your career any favors. You need to change lanes, and I’m not sure you’ll be able to do that with Colette here. That’s why I drove up instead of calling for the ten-thousandth time. I figured I could give her a ride back to Hidden Kill Bay, stay over at one of those cute bed and breakfasts for a few days, and then head to the office mid-week, ready to hear whatever you’ve cooked up in the meantime.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, resisting the urge to tell him that I wouldn’t leave my dog alone in a car with him, let alone the woman I love, “but Colette’s already got a ride home. Her friend Theo is coming to pick her up on Saturday, which will give me an entire week to write those shiny happy rock songs you want.”
“They don’t have to be happy,” Chip says, sounding unconvinced. “Probably better if they’re not. Angry would be good. We need some edgy stuff to balance out all the John Denver vibes you’re giving off with the slow songs.”
I snort, the comment too ridiculous to offend me. “My stuff sounds nothing like John Denver.” My forehead wrinkles. “Are you sure you’re listening to what I sent over? Not something from another client?”
“Of course I am.” He rolls his eyes with a tight laugh. “And okay, yeah, it doesn’t sound like John Denver, but all the nature and the woman I love stuff has a Denver flavor. And that shit went out in the seventies for a reason. Because it’s b
oring. Modern people don’t want to hear about how your lover is like a sunrise. They want drama and angst and catchy choruses they can sing along to. They want you to surprise them, but in a way they expect, you know? Like that girl who says duh in the middle of her song. The kids love that shit. You need something like that, something fun but still jaded.”
My head is spinning. I truly have no fucking idea how to respond to that steaming pile of bullshit.
Finally, I ask him, “When did you decide I needed to appeal to kids? That was never Lips on Fire’s demographic, and I don’t see that changing for my solo work. That’s not the kind of music I write.”
“But it could be,” he says. “And I don’t mean kid music like the Backstreet Boys or any of the boy band shit. I just mean something that’s going to get that younger demographic excited. They’re the ones who make things go viral. They can launch you to the top of the charts without the record company spending a dime.” He exhales, swiping a hand across the back of his thick neck. “And honestly, we’re going to need that, buddy. They’re threatening to cut our already nonexistent promotion budget. When I say they aren’t feeling the soft stuff, I mean they really aren’t feeling the soft stuff.”
I grunt but don’t respond, distracted by the bright red flush spreading from his cheeks up to his forehead. He’s put on at least twenty pounds since I saw him last, and Chip wasn’t a small guy to begin with. At five feet six, he’s probably pushing two hundred pounds, making him nearly as wide as he is tall. And he’s not the kind of big guy who’s in great shape and at ease in his healthy-at-any-size body; he’s the kind who looks like he’s headed for a heart attack before forty.
Chip’s work hard, drink hard, kindness-and-exercise-optional lifestyle is catching up with him, and all the money he’s hoarded won’t be able to buy back what he’s throwing away.
The thought sparks an idea, and the notes of a new chorus float through my head.
Chip wants me to write something angry and hard?
Well, I just might be able to oblige him.
I take a step back toward the recording studio. “I think I have something. Let me pop into the studio for an hour or so and see what I can do.” I start to turn, but pause, returning my full attention to Chip’s face and pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Don’t bother Colette while I’m gone.”
He lifts his hands in the air again with a startled laugh. “Jesus. Of course! What do you take me for, man? I’m not going to mess with your girl.”
“I’m serious, Chip,” I say, refusing to let him laugh this off like I’m the crazy one. “Don’t look at her inappropriately, don’t stand too close to her, and don’t ask her to get you anything. She’s my guest, not your servant. If you make her feel uncomfortable in any way, you’re the one who’ll be gone, not her. Are we clear on that?”
His grin goes stiff, and anger flashes behind his pale blue eyes. “I said, I get it. I’ll go straight up to my room and work on email. I assume it’s okay to ask her which room is free for me?”
I want to tell him I’d prefer he make tracks after dinner instead of spending the night, but he’s already pissed, so it’s probably wise not to alienate him any further. He might be a dick, but he’s a dick who’s on my side, fighting to convince the record company to take me seriously.
And yes, I can find another manager if he quits, but I’d rather not switch horses so close to the finish line. When I head to Nashville to lay down the final cuts for this album at a sweet-sounding old studio where I’ve always wanted to record, I don’t want to be thinking about anything but the music.
I nod. “Sure, she can show you which rooms are empty. There are three or four. Feel free to take your pick.”
He inclines his head, his smile returning as he claps his hands together. “Great. Go make magic. I can’t wait to hear what you come up with. I have a feeling I’m going to love it.”
Lifting a hand, I jog toward the studio without saying a word.
I’m not sure he’s going to love it. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be offended as hell, in fact, but I’m trusting his mercenary side to be stronger than his pride.
Chip wants something edgy and catchy he can sell? Hopefully, he wants it badly enough to overlook the fact that assholes like him are my “angry” song’s target.
Either way, I have to write it. The lines of the first verse are already tugging at my chest, demanding my attention, threatening to bail if I don’t get my ass in a chair with a guitar and get going.
The need to capture the music is so intense that I head straight for the studio without running into the house to talk to Colette first. But I’m sure she’ll understand. And now that I’ve made it clear to Chip that his bad behavior wasn’t flying under my radar, I trust he’ll leave her alone until I’m finished.
He’s put a lot of work into launching my solo career. Surely, he wants this to work out as much, if not more, than I do.
Inside the cottage, I close the door, and the silence wraps around me, shutting out the distractions of the outside world. Instantly, the music in my head gets louder and sharper. It’s so clear, all I’ll have to do is take down the notes. This song is going to write itself. That doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I know better than to turn my back on a gift from the creative gods.
I’m all in with this song from now until whenever it decides it’s finished with me.
Excitement humming in my veins, I fire up the board, set the levels, and grab a guitar from the wall. Within five minutes, I’m locked in the soundproof portion of the studio, letting the music flow, so focused on creation I momentarily forget the other important things I should be fighting for.
Chapter Twenty-One
Colette
From my hiding spot behind the kitchen curtains, I watch Zack hurry across the lawn toward the studio, my heart in my throat.
I have a bad feeling about this…
Is it because I’m worried about what’s going to happen to Zack’s career if he can’t find a way to compromise with Chip and the record company? Or is it because Chip gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I’m really not looking forward to socializing with him while Zack’s in the studio?
“Don’t know, Colette,” I mutter beneath my breath, “but you’re about to find out.”
Plastering a smile on my face, I move out from behind the curtains, busying myself with laying out the ingredients for my signature Middle Eastern feast—Persian-spiced lamb shanks with roasted fennel and ginger mashed potatoes.
It’s not difficult to make, necessarily, but every dish has at least three steps, and the lamb takes a little over two hours to slow cook. I need to get started if we’re going to eat at a decent hour.
Hopefully, Chip will find watching a woman cook boring and decide to entertain himself elsewhere.
“Hello again,” he oozes as he steps back inside—even his voice is oily around the edges. “Zack was kidnapped by the muse, but don’t worry, I won’t bother you. I’ve been given strict instructions not to pester you while you’re creating.”
“Oh, it’s fine. You can hang out in here if you want,” I hear myself saying and curse the good manners inspired by years of living with someone who had no manners at all.
I spent my girlhood bending over backward to prove to the world that I wasn’t like my mother. I could be trusted to arrive on time, keep my word, use my inside voice, and refrain from getting wasted and vomiting in inappropriate places. While I was still too young to understand the concept of “class,” I wanted to be classy. I wanted people to think good things about me, say nice things behind my back, and look at me as an example of kindness and consideration.
As an adult, I’ve learned to exclude certain people from the consideration bubble—creepy men like Chip, for example—but no matter how much I’d love to encourage him to find another room to occupy while I work, he’s Zack’s manager and important to his career and future. No matter how uncomfortable he makes me, I feel obligated to extend him
at least basic hospitality.
“Oh, no. I don’t want to distract you.” Chip swaggers over to the island to claim the bottle of sparkling water I opened while he was gone. He takes a swig (without saying thank you, I notice) and swipes his forearm across his lips. “Looks like this is going to be quite a culinary masterpiece.”
“Not really.” I shrug as I pull out two small limes and some heavenly smelling dill and mint, grateful for the local grocery’s excellent produce section. “The dishes are labor-intensive but not all that complicated.”
“More about dedication than skill?” Chip grins, showcasing his blinding white teeth, making me wonder what lengths he has to go to in order to get them that particular, not-occurring-in-nature shade.
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“Well, I think that’s admirable. Hard work is as important as talent.” He takes another sip of his water as he claims a stool on the opposite side of the island, watching me across the sea of ingredients as I pull a cutting board from under the sink. “But Zack… Well, Zack has both, I think.”
“He does,” I agree. “He’s been working hard. This is the first day he’s taken off since we arrived. And that’s only because he knows I’m leaving soon.”
Chip chuckles. “I think it’s more of a ‘fuck you’ to me after our conversation this morning, but we’ll go with your explanation. It’s kinder to everyone.” He props his full cheek on his fist with a thoughtful expression. “You seem like a kind woman, Colette. I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to say that.”
I shake my head with a soft laugh. “Not at all. I try my best to be kind.”
“I can see that. It was obvious the moment I met you,” he says wistfully. “Some people are just that way. They show you who they are from the very beginning. I admire that.”
“Thank you,” I say, my jaw tightening. He’s saying nice things, which I suspect means he’s about to drop the hammer. Sure enough, Chip adds in a harder tone, “But sadly, there isn’t a place for women like you in a business like Zack’s. The entertainment industry eats girls like you for breakfast, doll, and is picking their teeth with your bones by lunchtime.”
