“For the song you gave me to work on last night. I told you I’d play it for you today. You said okay.”
“Oh, uh. You want to do it over the phone?” Phones are terrible transmitters of sound. At least for this.
“We could switch to FaceTime if you prefer.”
I look down at my ratty tank top that’s barely covering my left breast because it’s a little big and I’ve been wallowing on the couch. I haven’t showered yet, so my hair is sticking up in a million different directions. “Uh, no no. No video chat. Not right now.”
He chuckles again, damn him. “Having a lazy day?”
“Something like that,” I respond, my voice prim.
“How about this, I can make it to your place in … forty-five minutes. That give you enough time?”
I blink a few times. “Uh, yeah?”
“Great. See you then.” And he hangs up. Just like that.
What the hell just happened?
Colt just invited himself over is what just happened. And he’s going to sing to me. A love song. A love song that I gave him to sing.
I take a minute to cover my face with my hands and groan aloud. “What the fuck am I doing with this boy?”
But if he’s going to be here in less than an hour, I need to take a shower. And put on clothes that will keep my nipples covered without me deliberately uncovering them.
Turning off the TV, I go straight to the bathroom, taking my time shaving all the important bits while I’m in the shower. I don’t know why, exactly. It’s not like he’s going to see my hairless bits. I made that clear last night. And he agreed.
Nevertheless, I spend all the time and energy I normally would getting ready for a real date. Even though this isn’t a date. This is Colt coming to my place. To work on music. He wants my input. He wants to get himself to the point of being able to have a career. He might even want me to help him make a video of him singing the song I gave him so he can upload it to his YouTube channel.
What he really needs are some good original songs. And a well thought out social media plan. If he really wants to leverage our relationship into his own contract, building his own fan base will only help him. And it’ll give him options. If he’s dead set on a music career come hell or high water, he can always go indie, even if he’d rather have the backing of a label. At least as an indie, you have more control. And less chance of getting completely screwed over.
Like me. I didn’t notice the morality clause in our contract. None of us did. They liked our alt-rock sound and our edgy pixie vibe. But we had to be good little girls and not rock the boat too hard. Even before the accident, they were squawking about cutting us loose after too many racy pictures where we were recognizable appeared in the tabloids while touring with Cataclysm. The only reason they hadn’t canceled us before the accident was because Mason had stopped throwing afterparties, and our agent had assured the label on our behalf that we wouldn’t be showing up in the press like that again.
Truth be told, we didn’t show up in the press like that again. There were no grainy half-naked pictures of any of us. At least not any new ones. But when the accident happened, they dug up all the old ones and paired them with images of the mangled cars and the person who was killed. And well, there was no coming back from that. Not as a group. Trying to do it on my own is a long shot at best, but Delores thinks my career might be salvageable.
As I finish smoothing lotion over my legs, my phone rings. The smile on my face is irrepressible. Colt’s either early or letting me know he’s running late.
But when I pick up my phone, it’s not Colt at all. Smile fading, I swipe my thumb across the screen to answer. “Hey, Mia. How’s it going?”
“Pretty great, Alexis.” Her voice is all sharp edges and false brightness. “Not as good as you, though. How’s the new man? He seems to be helping your social cachet at least. Does he work for the label or something? You fucking your way back into their good graces?”