He sighs, and I’m not sure if it’s frustration, resignation, or something else entirely. “You’re a persistent little jackass, you know that, right?”
“Yeah.” Does that mean he’ll do it or he won’t?
“You always have been.” He lets out a sudden laugh. “Do you remember when we were kids? You couldn’t have been more than three or four. Jonathan and I were both in school and writing and everything, and you were struggling to write your full name. You kept writing your letters backwards. And when we’d tell you your S was backwards, you’d get so pissed off. You’d throw a fit and go in your room and throw all your stuffed animals everywhere, drag the pillows and blankets off your bed, and just destroy your room. But you never, ever gave up. And you started reading and writing younger than either Jonathan or me.”
“Uhhh …” I look all around the room, not really seeing anything in front of me as I try to conjure up the memory.
He chuckles again. “You were little, so you probably don’t remember. But my point is, you’ve never let anyone tell you no, so while for anyone else this might seem like a dumb idea, for you? I can just see you making it work.”
“Thanks?”
He lets out another sharp burst of laughter. “You’re welcome. Tell your wife I’ll produce your album, even though you’re a little shit who only returns my calls when he needs something from me. Is it going to be both of you on one album? Are you going to do some of you and some of her and some duets like in your concert? What exactly is your vision for this?”
Those are all really good questions, and since we haven’t discussed the finer details of where we want this to go because I’m a big fat chicken when it comes to telling my wife what I want and how I feel since we’ve added another dimension to our relationship, I don’t actually know what to tell him. “We’re still working out the details,” I say at last.
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll send you some dates. Let me know what works for you. And bring her around for dinner soon, alright? Lauren and Gabby are both dying to meet Alexis.”
“When you say dinner, do you mean with just you and Lauren? Or will Jonathan and Gabby be there too?”
“Who’s to say? Talk to Alexis, let me know what night works for you. I’ll loop Jonathan and Gabby in—”
“You mean Lauren will tell Gabby,” I interject.
“Same thing. Anyway, if they can swing it, I’m sure they’ll come. If for no other reason than because Jonathan will love rubbing Mom’s face in the fact that we got to meet your wife before she did.”
With a chuckle at imagining the gleeful grin on Jonathan’s face about that, I wrap up my conversation with my brother, agreeing to ask Alexis and let him know and thanking him for making time for me.
“Of course,” he says, his voice suddenly rich with affection. “You’re my little brother. I’ll always make time for you.”
Tears sting my eyes at the unexpected declaration. “Well, I appreciate it,” I manage to say without sounding choked up. “Talk soon.”
And with that, I’m left staring at my blank phone screen, a little stunned at the sudden turn of events.
Alexis and I have been so wrapped up in our own bubble, I’d almost forgotten there was a world outside of it with people who actually care about me.
A slow grin spreads across my face as the realization sinks in that Brendan actually agreed to produce an album for us.
Now it’s just a matter of figuring out the details.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alexis
Delores eyes me over the top of her reading glasses as I take a seat opposite her. I’m dressed up a little—well, a lot—more than my usual in a pair of dark wash skinny jeans, an off-the-shoulder slouchy tee, and my favorite black booties. Colt’s eyes when I came out of the bedroom dressed and ready turned midnight, and I laughed when he pulled me close to nuzzle my neck.
“You look edible,” he said, nipping at my collarbone.
That had effectively stifled my laughter and turned me into a puddle of wanton desire in five seconds flat. But there wasn’t time to act on those feelings, because I had a meeting with Delores.
I gave him a quick peck and a promise to let him eat me later—“Oh, I definitely will,” he answered—and left.
And now I’m here for my quarterly face-to-face with Delores. Or at least that’s how often we’ve had these things so far. Maybe she meets more often with her people who are actually making her money. So far, I’ve netted her a whole lotta nothin’. Unless …
Maybe this meeting is because there’s a new development?
I stuff that flare of hope into a box and shove it into a closet in my brain, because letting it out into the world will make me look desperate. And I don’t need to look desperate. I need to look cool and in control and like I could take or leave any offer that comes my way.
Maybe you could, a voice that sounds a lot like Colt whispers in my brain. You said you wanted a career on your terms. That you were tired of waiting for permission.
It’s true. I did say that. And while I am tired of waiting for permission and Colt and I are taking steps to move forward with or without the backing of a label, going indie isn’t the way to fame and fortune. Unless you grow a big enough indie audience to catch a label’s attention. In which case I would need someone like Delores in my corner. And since I already have her, it would be short-sighted to sever our relationship prematurely just because we had one good concert and fans who want to buy those songs.
It’s a start, sure, but no one knows better than me how quickly the wheel of fortune can change.
Delores takes off her glasses and sets them on her desk, settling back in her chair and giving me her attention. “You seem to have been busy since your recent wedding.”
A hot blush works its way up my cheeks. “We have.”
If Delores were the type to roll her eyes, I think she’d be doing so now. But instead, she gives me a prim scowl. “I meant writing new songs. I caught a few of the highlights on your social pages.”
“Of course. That’s what I meant too.” Because that is mostly what we did after our wedding. It’s really just since the concert that our activities have … shifted.
Delores’s look broadcasts her doubt as to the truthfulness of my statement, but otherwise lets it pass. She slides her glasses back on and reaches for her mouse, clicking something on her computer. “Yes, you’ve gotten some more press coverage since your concert and had an uptick on your social engagement, which is good. You’ve also shown that you can produce more songs, even if some of them are …” She trails off, tipping her head from side to side in a gesture of ambivalence.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I bristle. She thinks some of my songs are meh? What does she know anyway?
But I force down my immediate defensive reaction, knowing it won’t get me anything but a lecture on growing a thicker skin, that I’ll have to deal with far harsher criticism from labels and music critics if I want to produce my own work.
As Golden Enigma, even though we grew a following with covers and original songs, we were on the hit-maker track. The label bought most of our songs, and while we did get to participate a little bit in the writing to make them “ours,” it’s not at all the same as writing my own songs like I did with Colt for our concert.