I didn’t like this song before. Now, I won’t be able to hear it without thinking of this moment. Ryder singing with his eyes locked on mine.
My palms sweat, and my mouth dries. I wipe my hands on my jeans, but I realize that draws attention to my lap, and if Ryder were to look down, he’d see exactly how unprofessional his kid’s nanny is being right now.
Ryder cuts off his words and stares right into my eyes. “It’s not cliché. It’s representation. It’s a cause. It’s expressing the pitfalls of the church through a song about sex.”
I clear my throat. “Point taken.”
“This is the type of song that’s a big fuck-you to an establishment without blatantly telling a label you’re not changing who you are.”
I know I’m supposed to say something, but I’m lost for words. I’m still stuck in Ryder’s voice.
Ryder blinks at me. “Did I break you?”
I shake out of my trance. “Sorry. Why aren’t you the one in the recording studio?”
Ryder pulls back. “Hey, whoa, this is not about me. This is about you.”
“Hmm, I think it’s actually about music in general. Your voice …”
“Not bad for a boy bander, am I right?”
“Why did you never go solo?”
He looks at me with the most derisive look on his face. “Why do you think? The same reason I left to begin with. Kaylee never signed on for this life, and until she’s old enough to handle it, I won’t subject her to it.”
“But …” I lick my lips, trying to think of the best way to say this without freaking him out. “You do know there’s no escaping that, don’t you? She was born into this life. Hiding isn’t the answer. Especially when you have a voice like yours.”
“I have to protect her.”
“Protect her other ways. You have me now. What are you going to do? Keep her in this mansion forever? Lock her in a tower like some fairy-tale princess and hope the press never sees her?”
“I stepped out of the spotlight so she could have a normal life.”
I huff a harsh laugh. “This is not a normal life. You tell me it’s a waste for me to be Kaylee’s nanny, that I should be out there signing record deals and performing, but what about you?”
“I did seven years of that. I don’t need any more. Once Kaylee’s grown and an adult—”
“You’ll be a has-been who can only get work if you and Eleven get back together. And I beg you on behalf of my ears and everyone else’s on the planet, please don’t get back together with Eleven.” I’m joking. Mostly.
“I have some terrible, no-good news for you.” He leans in close and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Harley’s trying to get us back together.”
“Really? Harley is? He’s like …”
“A Grammy Award–winning artist without the rest of us? I know.”
I frown. “Then why?”
“You might not understand the music behind the group, but what Harley has learned out there on his own is doing it alone sucks. We were like brothers. We fought, we partied, we were bored shitless together on the road. We faced interviews together, we traveled together. We were family. He misses it.”
I put my judgmental self away and look at it from his perspective. I remember performing with Chord and Melody when we were younger and loving it. If we had the chance to tour together, I’d probably take it. It sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than doing it on my own. But I seem to be the only one with Dad’s artist gene—the do-or-die-trying curse.
Chord went into entertainment law to protect artists from shit like what happened to Dad.
Melody shunned the industry and music altogether like Mom.
“You get it, don’t you?” Ryder asks.
“I do. But it sounds like Harley isn’t the only one who’s missing it.”
“I miss recording like fucking crazy, but Kaylee’s more important. It’s as simple as that.”
I want to sit here and argue with him all night because despite having conflicting opinions, I like debating with him.
He’s mainstream, and I’m indie.
He thinks he’s protecting Kaylee. I think he’s hiding her from the world.
We both want to make music, but we both have things standing in our way: my inability to connect when auditioning and his inability to loosen up over his daughter.
“What do you want from life?” I ask.
“This just got deep.” Ryder huffs, but I can see him truly thinking about the question. “Reality aside? I want Kaylee to be safe. I want to be a recording artist again.” He levels me with a look. “And I want to exploit your potential and make you a star.”
I swallow hard.
Ryder’s piercing blue eyes lower to my mouth, and a breath gets caught in my throat.
“Lyric …” His hand goes to my thigh, and I flinch. Not because I don’t want it but because I’m not expecting it.
Ryder either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
“Uh-huh?” I croak.
“Stop procrastinating and get your ass into the booth.” He pulls away with a smile, and I want to both smack him and kiss him at the same time.
No. No kissing.
Bad kissing.
I stand. “What am I recording?”
“As your producer, I guess I should give you a say. So, what’s going to be the cover song on your EP?”
I know what he wants me to choose. He wants me to do “Take Me to Church.”
Everything in me wants to protest, but if anything, Ryder’s shown me I might be protesting a little too hard.
I can’t help wondering if I fight everything everyone has ever told me because I think I have to do it my own way or no way at all.
My way might be my stubbornness hating everything remotely marketable. How do I expect to be successful if I’m against that?
There has to be a happy medium between sales and selling your soul. Getting your voice out there and being drowned out by pop.
And if Ryder wants to help me find that medium, I’m going to try to let go of my hang-ups and let him.
“Do I get to borrow a guitar?” I point to the wall where he has a line of guitars that cost more than my car. Then again, that’s not hard considering I don’t have a car.
He holds out his arm to them. “Whichever one you want.”
They’re intimidating. I run my hand over them all and pick the one I think is the least expensive. It’s older-looking.
Then I freak out about whose guitar it might be and wonder if maybe it’s worth more than all the shinier ones in there.
Forget about the guitar, Lyric.
When I open the door to the booth, I breathe in the scent of felt and soundproofing foam.
It’s intimidating and exhilarating. It makes me freeze and take it all in.
“The headphones won’t bite you,” Ryder says through the intercom.
I narrow my eyes. “How fired will I be if I flip you off?”
“Don’t think of me as Kaylee’s dad right now. Think of me as your producer. We’re in this together, okay?”
“Okay.”
The lights in Ryder’s sound booth dim, but I want to see him.