Chapter 11

CHAPTER11

TATE

I stew in my feelings all that evening and into the next day, pissed that I was rejected by a spoiled little rich girl. Kicked out of her penthouse apartment with the threat that she’ll sic her daddy on me.

The very same daddy who hired my ass to perform at her birthday party, not that she cares.

Scarlett Lancaster. Who the hell does she think she is anyway?

I barely get out of bed, let alone leave my shitty little apartment, too worried that I’ve lost my shot at fame yet again. Until I can’t take it anymore and hop in the shower, trying to wash off my anger and frustration over the whole situation.

Yeah, I need to get over it. Life moves on and so do I.

Feeling refreshed once I’m dressed, I order takeout from a shitty Chinese restaurant down the block and gorge myself on too much broccoli beef and chow mein, my mind wandering.

Running through what happened over and over again.

After dinner, I grab the notebook I like to scribble in. The one that is bulging with various lyrics I’ve written over the last few years. I flip through it for a few minutes, reading over some of the lines, mentally noting how much they’ve matured over the years. I guess I’ve evolved.

Look at me go.

Frustration rippling through me, I open up a fresh page, grab a pen, and start writing.

And don’t stop for the next fifteen minutes.

By the time I’m finished, I’m breathing hard. Overwhelmed—but in a good way. I stare at the page I just filled, flipping it to read over the second side.

Well, look at me. I just wrote an entire song.

Inspired, I go on one of those SoundCloud-type sites, cruise through the samples they’ve got available, and zero in on a solid drumbeat that sounds good. I download it before I go and shut all the windows, but I can still hear all the outside noise that only New York provides.

The wail of a siren. The crash of something metal. Some dude yelling and a woman screaming back at him.

I pocket my phone and grab my guitar, making my way to the bathroom. It probably has the best acoustics out of any room in my tiny apartment, and that’s due to it being in the center, surrounded by other rooms and with no windows.

Meaning there won’t be much outside noise interfering with what I want to do.

Once I’m loaded with my bottle of water, the notebook, a pen, my guitar, and my phone, I shut the door and close the toilet lid before I sit.

And play.

Sing a little.

Write some more. Change a few lyrics, scribbling out the old words and adding new ones. I strum my guitar along with the beat of the drum sample over and over, making sure I’ve got the right chords, before I start to sing the song that was in my head only minutes ago in earnest. The lyrics flow out of me, and I’m smiling.

Playing.

Singing.

Until I eventually work up the courage to record what I’ve put together, which is a process. I do it over and over again, cursing out loud when I get something wrong. Kicking the edge of the tub when I hit the wrong chord or mess up the lyrics. It’s a nasty little ordeal that ends up taking me hours, and when I’m finally finished, it’s past one in the morning and I’m literally sweating.

But then I hit play on my phone and listen back to what I’ve got. I’m smiling. Nodding along with the beat. Singing along with the words.

I fucking love it.

It feels good, making something just for myself. Getting my feelings and frustrations out. Creating something out of nothing. Just my thoughts.

About a certain rich girl who drives me out of my mind.

I take a shower with the song playing on repeat on my phone, reveling in the sound. It goes a little harder than the stuff I’ve been working on currently. Not the mellow, introspective, “I need to do better” lyrics I’ve been writing. This is a little more . . .

Empowering.

Like, Fuck you, Scarlett Lancaster. Just because your daddy’s got loads of money, that doesn’t make you better than me.

I’m out of the shower in minutes, throwing on a pair of briefs before I take my phone to bed and mess around on it. Uploading the song everywhere I can. On every social media site I’m on. Even fucking YouTube, which is probably a mistake because someone can rip that shit off and blast it everywhere without my consent.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t give a damn. In my dreams this song would go viral. Last week, I wouldn’t think it was possible. No one gave a shit about me.

Now? The potential is there. Though with my luck . . .

It won’t happen.

* * *

I’m awakened by the sound of my phone ringing where I left it on the bed right next to me. It’s covered by my comforter, so it takes me a second to find it, and when I do, I see Simon’s name on the screen.

I don’t even get a chance to greet him. He’s talking the moment I hold the phone to my ear.

“What the fuck, man? You release a song and don’t tell me about it? Roger is beside himself!”

“Good morning,” I say in response, running a hand over my face. My voice is raspy and my body is sore. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.

“When the hell did you write and record a new song?”

“Last night.”

Simon is quiet. I can hear him breathing, though. He sounds like an enraged bull, blowing through his nostrils. Preparing to charge.

“Last night?” I’m about to answer, but he forges on. “Where?”

I swallow hard, wishing I’d brought my water bottle with me to bed. I bet it’s still on the bathroom counter. “Here. At my apartment.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I explain to him the process I used to make the song. How I recorded it on my phone. Then I realize . . .

“Wait a minute. Where did you hear it?”

“I woke up this morning with all sorts of notifications about you. I’ve got it set up so I know when media outlets are talking about you, and they mentioned you have a new song. A new fucking song, Tate! And instead of giving it to Roger, you uploaded it everywhere! To YouTube, for Christ’s sakes!” Simon is yelling. I bet his face is red and his eyes are bulging and he’s got that one vein in his forehead that pops every time he’s pissed.

I can’t even worry about it. I’m too focused on the fact that people are talking about the song.

“What are they saying?”

“Who?”

“Everyone—anyone. What are they saying about the song? Do they like it?”

My shoulders hunch up practically around my ears as I wait for the blow his words might bring.

“What are they saying? They fucking love it, of course. They want more. It’s already gone viral on that clock app. Even on Facebook, and I know you didn’t upload it there.”

I scoff. “Who uses Facebook still?”

“Your mom. Your sweet little auntie.” Simon chuckles. “Roger is dying to put it on the album. Said he’d send takedown notices right now, but he can’t, since your ass still hasn’t signed the contract.”

Right. The contract.

I roll out of bed and shuffle to the window, pulling back the curtain to check out what’s going on outside. My apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up, and it’s nothing special. No doorman. An old elevator that most of us avoid because it always gets stuck. But the rent is reasonable and the location is decent. I can’t complain.

My gaze snags on a homeless man who just whipped out his dick and started pissing on the side of my building.

Great. There’s one thing I can complain about.

“They’re getting antsy,” Simon says, his voice gruff.

“Who’s getting antsy?” I play stupid on purpose because I’m stalling. I don’t want to tell him I know exactly who he’s talking about and that I’m fairly certain the deal might be dead in the water thanks to Scarlett kicking my ass out of her penthouse apartment.

And that definitely isn’t what Simon wants to hear.

I turned that disappointment and frustration with Scarlett into a goddamn song, and look at me now. According to Simon, people are clamoring for more. I took a chance and put together something in my bathroom, recorded it on my phone, and everyone is still talking about me.

Maybe they’re talking about me even more. I don’t know, but I can’t believe my luck.

It continues to work in my favor.

“You know exactly who. Roger. The entire Irresistible Records team. They want the contract. They’re dying for the contract so they can get this deal started, especially since you released that song. I swear Roger has already bought you a one-way plane ticket to Los Angeles.”

“Why doesn’t he fly me on the label’s private jet?” That’s what they used to do back in the day, but maybe I’m not as much of a huge deal as I used to be.

“They got rid of the plane.”

“Really? Why?”

“Bad publicity. Instead, they sold it and announced they were reducing their carbon footprint. Now they look like superstars who are all for saving the environment.”

I wonder at their ulterior motives, but I’m not going to question it now. “Love that they’re so conscious.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” Simon takes a deep breath. “Listen, we need to get back on track. What’s going on with Scarlett Lancaster? You convince her to be your girlfriend yet?”

I’m about to say no when he keeps talking. “Come on, Tate. Don’t say no. Just lay some of that charm on the girl and convince her the two of you can make magic together. It’s not too far off the mark. Now you’re writing songs about her and breaking the fucking internet.”

Alarm makes my spine stiffen. “How do you know the song is about her?”

“It’s called ‘Red,’ Tate. You say the word ‘scarlet’ in there a couple of times. ‘Happy birthday.’ ‘Pink dress.’ Shit like that. The clues are all right there in the lyrics. Everyone knows the song is about her, and they are eating it up.” Simon sounds pleased. He’d much rather talk about the positive stuff, and I don’t blame him. “If she hears that song and still doesn’t want to be with you, then you’re fucked, my friend.”

Shit. When I was writing it—even secretly dreaming about it going viral—I never imagined Scarlett would hear the song and get mad over it. The lyrics don’t show her in the best light. Is she going to be mad?

Probably. When it comes to dealing with Scarlett, I don’t always make the best choices.

“I’m sure she loves it,” I say with way more confidence than I feel.

“We can all hope, and I can hold off Roger for only so long. Just fucking sign the contract and do your best to convince her to be your girlfriend or whatever before you leave for Los Angeles. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. And what are they going to do anyway if she doesn’t show up in LA? Take the deal away from you?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what they would do, Simon, and you know it. Those clauses are airtight. I break it, I’m done. I’m not putting my career at risk. Not again.” I rub the back of my neck, my gaze still tracking the man staggering around, an empty vodka bottle clutched in one hand. No wonder he had to take a piss, if he drank that entire bottle.

“You have nothing to worry about. They want you. They’re salivating over the chance to make another album with you. Roger told you himself that he jizzes his pants every time he sees videos of you singing at that party. He’s got a massive hard-on for you,” Simon explains.

“If you think that’s going to convince me to go for it, I hate to break it to you, but that is the last thing I want to hear, Simon. I don’t want to think about Roger and his giant boner for my singing.” I know none of what Roger says is literal, but still.

“He’s a fan. He might possibly be your number one fan, so I don’t see how the little heiress being your girlfriend or not is going to actually ruin this deal.”

“You’re not even making sense. You just told me a few days ago that Scarlett was the only way I’d get this deal secured. Now you’re like, ‘Fuck it, just sign it.’ No way, bro.” My voice is flat. My thoughts bleak. I press my forehead against the window, staring out at my shitty little neighborhood. “I’d rather pass than lie to them. I’m not about that anymore.”

Another sigh sounds in my ear, this one softer. “What, you’ve got morals now?”

“You’re damn right, I’ve got morals.” Even though I’m perfectly willing to participate in a fake relationship if I can still get Scarlett on board. “Can’t you renegotiate this? Send them a counter?”

“I was trying to avoid that. Hoping you would just sign and we could move forward.”

“I’m not signing. Not with that clause attached—Scarlett would barely listen to me, so I’m going to have to let this go.” My voice is firm. I say nothing else. Simon remains quiet too, and I begin to sweat.

But I’m not backing down from this point.

“Fine, you’re right. I get it.” Simon pauses, and I swear I can feel his disappointment through the phone. “I’ll let them know you’re passing.”

My heart feels like it dropped into my balls at the finality of his words, panic flaring inside of me. “No. Wait a minute—don’t tell Roger I’m passing yet.”

“Oh, come on, kid. I can’t stall him for much longer. Like I said, he’s getting antsy. Impatient. He wants that song. He wants the entire album to sound exactly like that song you made in your freaking bathroom.”

“He told you that?” I’m incredulous.

“Yes, he told me exactly that.” Simon sighs. “You got another idea to try and get her to do this? Or do you think that song will work?”

I sang about her giving me head and how she gave me scars and left me for dead. Not the most positive anthem for my so-called relationship with Scarlett. I don’t bother answering his question because I’m now worried the song will work against me.

“Just give me the rest of the afternoon. I’ll try and put something together.” What exactly, I’m not sure, but I could probably convince her. Right? Maybe I could just call Scarlett. Text her. Go to her place⁠—

No, I’m not going to her place unannounced. That’s asking for an ass beating from a certain Fitzy Lancaster. I bet that motherfucker would enjoy it too.

“I’ll ignore his calls for the rest of the day. But I need an answer by tonight. You have to give me a firm yes or no, got it?”

“Got it.”

“Call me later.” He ends the call before I can respond.

A frustrated sigh leaves me, and I toss my phone onto my bed, running a hand through my already fucked-up hair. It needs a cut. And I need a shower to wake up, come up with a plan.

Showers always help me think, and I need to clear my head and eat a decent meal and figure out how I’m going to save this record deal that’s landed in my lap.

I’d be an idiot to just let it go. Why do they want her as my girlfriend so badly?

Like a masochist, I pick my phone back up and refresh the Google search I have of me and Scarlett. A bunch of new photos and articles pop up, most of them about the song. Speculation about the lyrics. Are we already going through a rough patch? Did the media attention put our relationship under stress? Are we over when we’ve barely begun?

This is wild. We’re not even in a real relationship, and they’re worried we’re already over.

Most of the photos are the same ones from the night of her party, though now they’re appearing with different angles. All the headlines scream worry over the song, though they all praise it too. The lyrics, the rich sound of my voice, the almost tinny quality that gives the song a nostalgic sound.

That part is hilarious. Of course it sounds vaguely tinny. I recorded it in my bathroom late at night, on a creative high and believing in myself for the first time since I don’t remember when.

That’s a lie. I remember the last time I felt this way.

Saturday night. At Scarlett’s birthday party.

Those articles and photos and the endless social media posts and tags are exactly why the execs at Irresistible want Scarlett as part of the deal. Together, we generate a lot of buzz—now more so than ever thanks to the song.

“Red.” I did write it for her. For her sexy lips and her vicious heart and that beautiful face.

Thanks to that song, the media is paying closer attention to us than ever, and while it’s vaguely annoying and completely over the top, it’s also kind of mind blowing how easy it is to manipulate the general public. No matter what, it’s publicity.

Free publicity.

And that’s the key.

That’s what I need to make a go of this singer career again.

I open Instagram and check my follower count—it’s grown. No surprise. I’m at over 1.5 million now. I look at the tagged photos and reels and grimace at all the fuzzy, horrible photos of the two of us. Terrible angles. My mouth hanging open as I talk to Scarlett. Her eyes wide and unblinking as she stares at me. She looks like she wants to sock me in the face.

She also looks pretty damn hot in that pink dress. I still stand by that assessment.

I remember yet again how good it felt to perform onstage that night. All those women screaming for me, singing the words to my old songs. The last couple of years I looked at those songs with nothing but bitter disappointment in my heart, but Saturday night, hearing all those high-pitched female voices singing along, it made me look at my career with Five Car Pileup in a different light.

Yeah, I fucked it all up and ruined my reputation, but our music actually touched lives. We might’ve released nothing but a bunch of bad pop songs, but all those girls haven’t forgotten them. They freaking loved us.

And I shit all over them. I shit all over the band and our management and the record label. Though I wasn’t alone in this mess. My other bandmates, my friends, my enemies, they contributed to the wreckage too.

Damn it, I want another shot. I want to prove that I can create quality music that the general public wants to listen to. I can spit out some homegrown, bathroom-recorded bullshit, and people are losing their minds over it.

I want to keep that up. I want to write songs and sing them. I want to make an album in a quality studio and show the world I can make a comeback and they’re all going to want to witness it.

That’s what I want. More than anything else in the world.

Without thought I switch over to my text messages and bring up Scarlett’s phone number. Yeah, I had some help obtaining it, and I would never tell anyone who got it for me—it was Simon; he’s a fucking magician—and I’ve resisted texting her since I was basically kicked out of her home.

But fuck it. I’m texting her. I need to try.

One more time.

Me: Hey. It’s Tate. I know you’re probably mad at me. I know you think I’m a giant fuckup and maybe you hate that new song, but if I could get just thirty minutes of your time later this afternoon and you’d give me one more shot, I’d love to talk to you.

She doesn’t respond for almost twenty minutes because this girl knows just how to keep me dangling on a string. Or she might’ve blocked me. I suppose I can’t blame her. She told me flat out to leave her alone.

Finally I receive a response.

Scarlett: Okay.

That’s it? That’s her response? Just . . .

Okay?

Then another text comes through.

Scarlett: Where do you want to meet? What time?

I leap off the bed and pump my fist in the air like I just won the Super Bowl.

Maybe I can make this work after all.