“Isn't that true all the time?”
Caleb chuckled. “You'd know better than anybody.”
Leo leaned in to kiss him, catching Caleb's bottom lip between his teeth and tugging mischievously. “Better make sure you don't forget it soon.”
———
“So,” Brad said, studying Caleb with an inscrutable expression on his face, “you've got some songs, huh?”
Caleb had met Brad a couple of times before this, but they'd never been more than vaguely passing acquaintances. It was impossible to be in the entertainment industry and not have run into Brad Maxwell, at one time or another. Though he spent a good deal of his time in his remote island studio, he also liked to make the rounds at the big industry parties. He'd always gotten the impression that Brad was a little obtuse, a little calculating, but his track record was spotless. He'd worked with Adele and Coldplay and FallOut Boy. He'd spanned genres, and even though he'd never agreed to work with Star Shadow before, somehow he'd moved heaven and earth to make it possible for Caleb to have this opportunity.
“You have the one I sent you before,” Caleb said. He wasn't really nervous, exactly, but maybe a little apprehensive. He'd shown almost nobody the songs he'd written during his five-year disappearance—only unearthing one or two to add to the Star Shadow record that had come out the year before.
But the really personal ones? The ones that still made his throat close over, the ones that forcibly dragged him back to the “bad times”? He'd never shared those with anyone, not even with Leo. He hadn't even mentioned to Leo they existed. He didn't know if they were good or not; but Caleb had a feeling that more than anyone else, Brad would tell him the complete unvarnished truth. Leo would be kind, because he loved him. Benji might've been slightly more honest, but his opinion would still be tainted by their friendship. And Diego and Max probably would've been even worse than Leo. They'd have told him even complete, utter shit was good, because they were still so happy he was back, and back in their lives again.
“It's good, it's good,” Brad said, and Caleb let out the breath he'd apparently been holding. “Did anyone ever tell you you've got a real knack for a phrase? Taylor's got the same skill, and no matter what you think of her personally, she's probably one of the greatest living songwriters.”
“I . . .” Caleb didn't know what to say to that. He'd never considered himself particularly talented. He was a terrible bass player—he'd slightly improved those skills when he'd started taking guitar lessons—but he'd never be great at playing any instrument. His voice was good, deep but maybe a little rough around the edges. But his songs? Those felt pure and true and maybe not good, but at least the best part of him. The part that wasn't reserved for loving Leo, anyway. Then again, those songs had always come from that deep, abiding, timeless love.
“They need work,” Brad continued, words pressing in a little relentlessly, even though they were currently sitting in Brad's massive studio with its insanely expensive soundproofed windows that all overlooked the ocean. “They need polishing and they need producing, and I still don't really know what kind of sound you want.”
Caleb spread his hands out. “I don't know either. I wrote them mainly on a guitar, because that was what I had on hand . . .”
“So like a singer-songwriter vibe. Ed Sheeran-like?” Brad drummed his fingers relentlessly against the arm of the chair he was sitting in. “Maybe. I'm not really convinced. I think there's another angle that might be better. Maybe we could go for a really sexy, emotional angle, like a Shawn Mendes type.”
It felt weird to have someone telling him what he should and shouldn't do. What he should be. Caleb had told himself when he came back to LA, over two years ago, that he wouldn't be dictated to ever again. That the stranglehold that the entertainment industry had held over their lives had been one of the reasons he'd been driven to destroy himself before, and that he wasn't ever going to let that happen again. But this was Brad Maxwell. He must know better, Caleb reminded himself. He'd worked with all the A-listers. If he was working with Caleb, that must mean that Caleb had something to bring to the table, but also that Brad thought he could shape it. And didn't you want people to hear your words? Hear your music? That was why you insisted on this in the first place, Caleb thought. Brad will make that possible. You can't do it on your own, you're not good enough. You know that.
“Do I have to be a type? Can't I just be myself?” Caleb wondered. It was a stupid question, because he already knew the answer. He already knew what Brad was going to say.
And sure enough. Brad leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You need to be a package. Uniqueness doesn't sell. Packages do.”
“Alright,” Caleb said uneasily. He didn't really want to be a package, and he could only imagine how Leo would feel about being with someone being sold as a “really sexy emotional” type. They were devoted to each other; Caleb had never ever really looked at another man, not even during the five years they'd been separated, but it didn't matter. Leo still didn't like to share, even when sharing wasn't technically on the table.
“We've just got to figure out your angle, and then the surrounding package,” Brad said. “The songs are good, but that's sort of beside the point.”
Caleb knew the music industry like the back of his hand. He knew how callous and cruel it could be. He'd been part of its endlessly turning cogs for four years, before he'd finally broken under their wheels. But even then, Brad's matter-of-fact pronouncement felt insane. Didn't matter? Wasn't that all that mattered?
“I think it really isn't,” Caleb said firmly. “I'm here because of the songs. I'm here because I want people to hear them. So they aren't beside the point—not to me, anyway.”
They stared at each other for a second. Caleb wondered if this was all a test. If Brad wanted to know if Caleb would fight for his own integrity. If he hadn't been sure, Caleb thought, Brad must not know him very well. Or at least, that he hadn't done his research. Star Shadow had been implacable about only a handful of things since they'd reunited and running their own goddamn careers was number one on the list.
Brad broke the tension by chuckling, waving a hand. “Sure, of course. I get it. You're an artist.”
He wasn't. Not really. That's why he was here, so he could figure out what the fuck he was, but this time he kept his mouth shut because Brad didn't need to know that. He'd done enough by showing Brad that he wasn't going to just sit by and watch as Brad twisted and turned him into whatever puppet he envisioned; that was what was important. His own integrity—and these songs.
“I think we should start with the best thing you've got,” Brad continued. “I'm assuming it isn't this cute little one you sent me already.”
The “cute little one” was a song that Caleb had written while they'd been on the first reunion tour, before he and Leo had gotten back together, when he'd struggled with containing feelings that refused to be contained. They'd continually sprung out of their boxes, even though Caleb knew that Leo had no intention of ever letting him in again. Not the way he wanted. The best he could hope for was to be friends, but friends was such a weak facsimile of what he was craving deep down that, feeling torn and guilty and wretched, he'd sat down one cloudless night outside their hotel on a picnic table and written this song.