“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 boring. 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.