In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(89)

I point, unable to speak, because I’m not sure if I can come up with a word strong enough to accurately portray how deeply I hate what Gomez is playing for me. Vile—I think that’s the best I’ve got. It’s what I say…like a question.

“Vile?”

Gomez’s eyes snap to John’s and he taps the keys, the music, if it can be called that, stopping abruptly.

“His name’s Shaw Chris. He’s going to be huge. His YouTube numbers are sick, and that whole soft with hard vibe is so in right now,” John says, and I picture myself poking my fingers through the orange tint of his gangster glasses.

“He’s shit,” I say, and my belly thumps wildly with my heartbeat. I’m not scared. I’m not intimidated. I might cry, but only because I’m that angry. I’m so angry, I don’t even know whether or not to sit or stand. I begin to rise, but fall back to my seat and cover my mouth, slowly letting my eyes look to them both.

“I assure you he’s not…shit,” John says, clearing his throat. His eyes move to Gomez.

“Quit looking at him. It’s not his song!” I yell.

“It’s not yours either,” John says, and I fall back, sure that I’m not hiding the shock I feel. My skin is tingling with it.

John sits forward, and I let my eyes zero in on the gold of his very expensive watch. I observe his fingers twist it around his wrist while in the periphery I can tell he’s preparing what I’m sure will be a very lovely, very staged speech.

“This releases Tuesday, Murphy. It’s coming out as Shaw Chris featuring Murphy Sullivan, but we don’t have to bill you at all,” he says.

“Good. Don’t!” I yell, my eyes still on his watch—his watch that I’m imagining running over, back and forth, and back and forth…

“I know you’re upset...” he begins, and my gaze snaps to his. I swear he flinches. Maybe I imagine it. “This is the new model, and I’m really sorry if Casey didn’t explain it to you very well. But the days of the quiet singer-songwriter…they’re over. You need to hook into something different, something gritty—and with a song like this, people will listen, and they’ll sing along with your chorus, and when you come out at performances as his guest, everyone is going to want to know who you are—the mystery voice in that hit song they can’t quit singing.”

It takes minutes for all of his words to sink in. Mystery girl. Gritty. Performances. No way in f*cking hell am I ever going to stroll up on a stage with some guy who sounds like his first and last names are reversed. Shaw Chris is stupider than Sam and Cam. In fact, I owe my girl an apology. I stand at the table slowly, and my eyes notice the copy of the contract I signed sitting in front of Cara, who isn’t even listening to us. She’s busy on her phone, probably Snapchatting about the sad girl getting taken to school by her boss right now.

I gave him my song. I signed it away that day—blinded by my own f*cking dreams. I gave it to him, and even relented as his minion pecked away at my favorite parts. I lived with it and found renewed love for it when I heard what Casey played in the club. This is nothing like what I heard. I don’t know why I heard something so different, but I do know that I don’t want to be any part of this.

Without a word, I pull my bag up to my arm and wrap my fingers around the handle for my guitar. I step around the table to the door John Maxwell hasn’t even bothered to close, and I stretch it open wide, my movements slow and methodical. I turn so I fill the space between this room and my way out, and I stand incredibly still, my eyes settling on Gomez’s first until he looks down at his computer. And then I turn to John, and I pull my mouth up ever so slightly, because he’s not even masking how smarmy his is now that I really look at him.

“All you do is ride the hype,” I say. He doesn’t flinch, but the smoke-stained lips above his overly-manicured goatee curve enough that I get his response. He’s saying “yes I do.”

I look to the wall, crowded with awards—gaudy and unearned. I point to it, chuckling, then return my gaze to him as I shake my head.

“You’re not collecting me on that wall of yours,” I say, my breathing coming easier somehow. “And something tells me that means that shitty-ass rapper you just signed won’t be up there either. You see...” I narrow my gaze, lowering my brow, as if this is a secret for his ears only. But he’s left the door open. And people have paused in the hallway behind me. And Cara…she’s not typing on her phone anymore. “I know that I’m the best part of that song. And you know it too. So good luck finding someone else to make your bad talent look good. It won’t be me.”

“We’ll see, sweetheart,” he says. “Sometimes all it takes is one. Good. Record. And I own part of you right here.”

He pulls my contract into his hands and rolls it up in his palm. He’s right. That song, it could get good play. But I’ve also heard it, and as much as I believe my part is good, I also believe that Shaw’s part sucks major f*cking balls.

“You hold onto that real tight, John. Maybe it will keep you warm at night when you realize what a lonely prick of a human you really are,” I say, turning and managing to stride my way back through the cluttered hallway without hitting my shit into a wall once.

I walk right to my car, I throw my things inside and I pull out smoothly, getting lucky with traffic and exiting in one motion without even scraping my undercarriage on the dip from the lot to the road. I drive for thirty seconds, until I reach the corner where two teenagers are buying pot from some man in a black Chrysler 300. They run away when I pull in, but the drug dealer stays put because he sees my face and the tears falling down my cheeks. I’m not here to bust anyone. I’m here to hide. He probably hopes I’ll become a customer.