“Vince is a shithead because if he didn’t have his head up his ass, he’d have pushed Grimm to sign Satan’s Sisters. And if he was smart, he’d have signed you too, to write for Grimm’s artists,” Rafe continued, relaxing back on his barstool. He pushed the bottle toward me, then lifted his legs and dropped his feet into my lap, looking smug. “Vince is risk adverse, but I’d look at you as a sure thing.”
That was sweet.
So I ignored it.
“Rafe, I don’t know. My songs are for Nik and Presley. That’s all. Nik and Presley.”
“You wouldn’t have to stop writing for Nik and Presley,” he said.
“Yes, I would. En Fuego would own me. Like you said, they’re signed with Grimm. Satan’s Sisters will never get off this hiatus.”
“Is that so bad?” he asked.
“I mean, sure. Nik will explode. Presley will…” I shrugged, since I wasn’t exactly sure what Presley would do. She was a loose cannon.
“Do you care?” he asked.
I nearly choked on my wine at that question. “I care,” I sputtered out. “They’re my sisters.”
His eyes went to the ceiling and then came back down to look at me. “I’m not talking about Nik and Pres. I’m talking about you.”
“What about me?” I grumbled.
“They dragged your ass on a tour you didn’t want to go on. You lost a semester at school.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I muttered, placing my lips on the glass to take another sip.
He guffawed. “Beanpole, it was all you bitched about.”
“I did not,” I lied, because, really, I bitched about it. A lot. Mostly to Rafe. He sat back on his barstool and sipped his wine, evaluating me. “Well, I didn’t mean it.”
He shook his head. “You did, but I’mma let that bullshit slide. If you’re writing for Bobby, you write a song, you turn it in. No touring, no time in the studio. You earn enough to pay for school, and you can work in songwriting around your schedule. You and Nik and Presley have enough music banked for a while. And I’m not saying sign with him forever. Just until you get some money together and you finish your degree. Yeah?”
When he put it that way, it made sense. Contracts weren’t forever. And Nik and Presley had their own shit going on. Satan’s Sisters wouldn’t come out of hiatus soon, regardless of my situation with En Fuego. If there was going to be a situation.
And it wasn’t like Grimm had made any overtures anyway. Vince never asked about my songwriting, never pushed me on Grimm. Presley was his goddamn golden goose.
I huffed out a breath. “Okay, so when’s this meeting?”
“Tomorrow.”
I clutched the wineglass to my chest, panic making my voice go one octave higher. “Tomorrow? I can’t meet with him tomorrow.”
Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re kidding, right? Bobby Gee wants a meeting and you’re, what? Too busy?”
My brain mentally unpacked the clothes still stuffed in my duffle bag. “But I have nothing to wear.”
“You’re worried about fashion now?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means chill, girl. He’s used to musician casual. Just don’t smell funky,” Rafe said, his grin lopsided.
Right. Like I had after my Parma shift. Jerk.
“You’re not helpful,” I said instead.
Rafe’s grin disappeared. “You just go in and be you, Jett.” He cocked his head. “What’s the big deal?”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. “Isn’t he expecting someone more like—” I opened my eyes and bit my lip. “Presley?”
“You’re not fronting the band, you’re writing songs. You don’t need to look sexy.”
“Right,” I said, and my body deflated. The beanpole with the frizzy red hair and nose in a book. Not a traditional stunner like Presley. Or tomboy sexy like Nik. Nope, I was the twenty-two-year-old schoolmarm.
“Just wear jeans and a T-shirt or something,” Rafe continued. His eyes dropped to my boobs. “But maybe a little cleavage wouldn’t hurt.”
I glanced down at my flat chest and sighed. “Right. I’ll just order some up overnight, then.”
“You’ve got the morning too,” he said. “Meeting’s at three.”
“Even better, I can worry about it all day,” I said. “You got another one of these?” I pointed to the nearly empty bottle of wine. “And where the hell is that pizza?” The benefit of being a beanpole was that I could eat my feelings.
“You know, now I’m in the mood for Thai,” he said, pulling out his cell phone. Before I could argue about my lack of cash, he was ordering enough food for a small army. Plus, we had pizza on the way. At least I’d have several days’ worth of leftovers to tide me over.
“So, tell me about Bobby Gee,” I said once he finished placing the order on his app.
“He’s a typical music exec,” Rafe said. “Not much to tell.”
“Is he nice?”
The cork made a pop, and Rafe paused, holding the corkscrew over the lip of the bottle. “Nice? Did you just ask if Bobby Gee was nice?”
“Forget it,” I said, crossing my arms and leaning against the back of the barstool. “I just don’t want to go in cold.”
“I’m really not trying to be difficult,” Rafe said. He moved to the living room, placing the wine on the coffee table. “He’s just LA, you know?”
“Like Vince’s sort of LA?”
He poured out more wine in his glass and then motioned for me to come join him on the couch. “Nah, Vince lived on the road. He has a different perspective. Bobby’s not a suit exactly, but he’s definitely a label guy. Loves the music but doesn’t play it himself. Knows the spreadsheets and all that other boring shit, but doesn’t understand the practicing, the bars, the touring, the road. But Bobby’s artists have churned out a shit ton of platinum albums. Vince says he has a golden ear. The man just sniffs out hit makers.”
“And he liked my songs?” I asked, settling into the far corner of the couch, tucking my feet under me.
“Yup,” Rafe said. “That’s why he wants to meet you. So bring a few with you.”
“Crap,” I muttered. “Like, which ones do you think he’d like?”
“Think about his artist roster,” Rafe said. “Kind of Top 40 pop chart. Earworms, you know?”
My enthusiasm waned. Top 40 pop charts were not my scene. At all.
“But I write rock,” I said.
“You write lyrics,” Rafe corrected. “He’ll find a music writer to work with what you give him.”
“But that’s not how I write with Nik and Presley.”
“You’re not writing with Nik and Presley,” he pointed out, and that made me scowl. “Look, you can suggest keys and chords and shit like that, but once you hand those words over, you’re done.”
“Done,” I repeated.
“Like, see ya,” he said, giving me a pageant queen wave. “Kind of like the waitress from the other day.”