More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,60
anymore, Dad. I thought you gave it up when we left Britain,” I say, my brain racing as my stomach squirms uncomfortably at the gleam in his eyes.
“I wasn’t, but this time they really seem to have their ducks in a row, and I’m taking a larger percentage, so I won’t be at the mercy of the Man.”
“What will you call it?” Mum asks.
“Not sure, but I’m liking the Bad Apple.”
Very original, Dad.
“Oh, I like it,” she says. Clearly, they’ve talked about this already. She’s taking this way too calmly. I can’t get past the queasy clench in my gut when I think of Phil and the Loud Lizard, though. Phil’s place has been around forever, but it’s no secret that it’s a dive. It’s not like we pack in crowds worthy of Pearl Jam these days. From what I can tell, it’s a miracle Phil’s in the black most nights.
Could he survive my dad?
The investors are smart to recruit him. Even though we know he’s a big old nerd who’d rather craft a bench out of driftwood and falls asleep before ten thirty most nights, he’s still got a lot of credibility in the industry. Not to mention, so many of the guys who were around during the decade he was actively making music are gone. Like, gone gone.
Rock and roll isn’t for the faint of heart. Neither is heroin.
It makes perfect sense to sign on my dad. What’s shady as fuck to me is the whole “and could you sign your kids on, too?”
Particularly this week.
“You didn’t tell them we would do it, did you?” I ask.
My dad looks up from his rice noodles. “Do what?”
“The marketing spot, the mentions or whatever, on the podcast.”
He puts down his fork and takes a sip of water. “Why wouldn’t you do it?”
Because of Phil, I think. And Vada and Ben and Kazi and my job. But that would be pretty douchey to say to my dad, so instead I say, “Well, we need to talk about it. We have a pretty, um, strict policy on marketing.”
“You don’t have a problem giving the Loud Lizard a shout-out,” my dad says slowly.
“Well, yeah.” I look to Cullen for help, but he’s playing with the food on his plate. “That’s a deal we worked out with Phil. In exchange for recording there.”
“You can record at my club, then. Anytime you want. I’ll have a custom sound booth made for your podcast or whatever else you might want to use it for.” His tone is far too casual to fool me.
I stab at a shrimp. “What else would we use it for? We don’t need to build a whole new studio for our podcast. It’s not that popular.”
“Well, after last week—” my dad starts, and I raise a hand cutting him off.
“That was a fluke. Once they realize I’m not going to be playing any other songs or declaring my love for kittens or Cullen’s not running for Senate, they’ll die down.”
“What do you mean, you won’t be playing any other songs? ‘Break for You’ is a hit.”
I want to scream. “That’s not even the name!” I insist. “It doesn’t have a name because it’s not a real song.”
My mum puts down her fork with a clink, as if making sure her hands are clear if she needs to move. Cullen finally raises his head, his eyes narrowed, but I can’t tell at who. This is not the first or even thousandth time we’ve had this conversation.
I lower my voice. “Nothing’s changed, Dad, just because my daft brother posted a song on the internet.”
“I beg to differ,” my dad says, his eyes clouded over. “Explain to me. You are writing lyrics, yes? That was your song, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yeah,” I start, “but—”
“And you composed that incredible melody as well? I’ve never heard it before.”
“I did, but—”
“But nothing. I refuse to allow you to deny your gift. This stage fright you have is a phase. All musicians go through it. The bloody miracle in your case is your brother helped you out. You get to skip right over the years of toiling for name recognition and playing in dingy clubs and shoot right for the top. I’ve already fielded three calls from agents looking to represent you. Not to mention Eddie over at Abbey Road is ready to cut an album yesterday.”
For a full minute, we sit in silence. I can’t speak. An adequate response escapes me. Finally, it’s Cullen who says in an even