In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(62)
“Okay,” she says, barely audible. Her eyes are terrified, and her hands are now tucked under her legs. She wore the gray dress from the night at the club, but she also wore tall black boots and a black business jacket that slims at the waist. Somehow, she’s made that f*cking dress even hotter, and I think John likes that too. Sex sells—it sells records.
“If we can agree on this,” he says, waving his hand over the contract spread out in front of her, “I’d like to get you in the studio today.”
Her eyes grow wide, and I see the anxiety coloring her skin.
I jump in.
“Is this just for the song we demo’d? Or is this for the full contract?” I ask, and John’s jaw flexes. I move my eyes to her, gesturing that I’m only trying to put her at ease, not act as her agent, though I know that’s her fear—she’d prefer her dad get a shot at looking these papers over.
“For now, yes. We’re looking at a single,” John says, his mouth a hard line, and my shot at working on her mix down the toilet. “What you gave me—it’s a hit, Murphy. If we give it the right push, the right touch. But I’m a businessman, so I’d really like to test the waters with it.”
Disappointment crawls into her expression.
“But I have a feeling,” John pipes in quickly. He saw it too. Disappointed artists don’t sing with passion, they sing with reservation, and he can’t have that. “I think we’ll be sitting down here and talking about some bigger plans very soon.”
He pushes the papers forward, turning them to her view and sliding the pen next to them. You can take as long as you need. My secretary, Cara, can take your signed copy and make sure everything is squared up. And if you’re able, just head to the main studio on the end; I’d like to hook you up with Gomez.
Her frightened eyes find mine. I shake my head lightly, so she swallows her question down and thanks John again as he stands to leave the room. Her hand out again, John smirks at it and takes it into his own. Only I notice him wipe his fingers with a towelette on his way out of the room. I’m glad Murphy didn’t see it. It isn’t personal—he does it constantly.
“What do you think?” she says the moment the door closes and we’re alone.
I remain two seats away, but turn my chair to face her, scratching at my chin and dragging the paperwork closer to me to review. I recognize the language instantly—it’s the same exact thing I signed. It gives John control over her song—the one about me—but it’s open ended after that, giving them both an out. It’s the biggest shot she’s ever going to get. And if John wants it now, it means there’s a slim opening somewhere that he thinks it fits. Waiting a day—I don’t think she can wait a day.
“I think…” I pause, returning the contract to her and letting go before our fingers have a chance to graze. “I think it’s an amazing opportunity that you deserve,” I say.
“Who’s Gomez?” she asks, knowing, but not wanting to say it out loud.
“He’ll do great things with you,” I say through a soft smile, my heart breaking at the thought of someone else being trusted with her voice. This isn’t about me; it’s about someone else knowing what to do. I meet her gaze and try to force down the lump in my throat.
“But if I’m working with him…” She knows.
I nod.
“I’m new here. I’m…I’m not even fulltime yet. Gomez—he’s…well…here, let me show you something,” I say, urging her to stand and walk to the far wall with me, where gold records hang along with dozens of plaques and Billboard Awards. I point to the first one, and say his name. I point to the next and do the same. I credit him with at least sixty percent of the hardware hung on the studio wall.
“So that all…that means he’s good?” she asks.
Does it?
I don’t answer, instead letting out a long breath tainted with indecision. But I know the drill here—I know how easy this kind of deal is to blow.
“Murph, John isn’t going to gamble on both of us. He already owns what he wants out of me, and he sees something special in you,” I say.
Her eyes fall to the table—to the duplicate copies and legal jargon that always encases the best of hopes and desires. She steps closer, pulling the pen into her hand as she sits down and begins to read.
“But what if…what if I like the song the way you made it?” she asks, not looking at me, breaking me, and making my chest expand with pride and my heart rip with regret.
“I didn’t make that song, Murph,” I say, as her eyes flit to mine. “You did.”
She chews at her lip, her eyes eventually falling back to the decision on the glossed maple planks in front of her. I wait for more questions that never come. I stand in the room, perfectly still and silent while she reads. I wait just in case her belief in herself wavers and I need to tell her she’s good enough without me.
I will be her swagger.
When her pen begins to scratch along the paper, I step out of the room and let her revel in the strength she’s found on her own.
* * *
I busied myself with tapes and phones for the rest of the day—mostly phones. I’ve been at the studio for just under two weeks, and I’m starting to realize that my role here is not necessary…or really wanted. No, that’s not true—it’s wanted, it just isn’t very glamorous. I feel kind of foolish for going in with my big expectations.