Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(25)

My new album was done months ago. And he is sitting on it. For no reason.

No good reason, anyway. It’s just a ploy to strong-arm me into signing with him again. We’re at a stalemate that neither of us will acknowledge. And since he has all the power, I’m out of ideas.

“What would be the terms of a two-album deal?” I ask. I’m never signing, but I can feign interest if it helps my cause.

“The new terms would be sweeter than your last contract,” he says.

“They could hardly be worse.” Whoops. That just slipped out, though I can’t afford to antagonize him.

“Delilah.” His tanned forehead wrinkles. “Your first contract was a reflection of your untested marketability. Of course things will be different now.”

“Of course,” I say tightly. “How different? You haven’t said.”

He slides the folder across the table toward me. “Read this.”

“Thank you, I will.” I reach for it eagerly, but it’s just an act. The folder will go right into the garbage later. “Now let’s find a release date for the album. Get your calendar out, and let’s find a good day.” Preferably tomorrow.

“Hmm. We are still not sure about the cover art,” he hedges. “We’d like to find a designer that better understands your demographic.”

The cover art? I take another steadying breath. “You know you could put a donkey wearing lipstick on this baby, and we would still do well.”

“Is that a suggestion?” He clicks the end of his ridiculous gold pen. “Should I get the art department on the horn?”

“You arrogant fucking asshole,” I whisper.

“There she is,” he says with a sly grin. “The real Delilah. I’ve missed you, baby.”

Shit. I bite my lip, because it’s either that, or say something I can’t take back.

“Look,” he says, making his hands into a little tent. “We both want the same things. We’re both invested in your success.”

“You’re invested at eighty-five percent, and me at fifteen,” I point out. “That’s not going to fly anymore.”

“Read the contract,” he says, clicking the end of his shiny gold pen.

I want to take his fancy gold pen and stab him in the throat with it. “Release my album, Brett,” I say, because it’s time to stop skirting the issue. “Why would I sign with you again if you’re going to sit on my work?” And, damn it, my voice breaks at the end of the sentence. Because I can’t play it cool about this.

The new songs are good. I’m not just drinking my own Kool-Aid, either. I made great music, straight from the gut.

And he’s burying it.

“Sign the contract, and I’ll release it,” he says. “How can I invest in this new album, if I don’t know what the future holds?”

It’s a ridiculous point, from an infuriating man. “You’re already invested. This is not how it’s supposed to work.”

“Says who?” He shrugs. “We both want to get paid. Sign the contract, and we will be. Somebody’s gonna bring out your third and fourth albums, honeybunch. Might as well be me. Better the devil you know, and all that.” He winks at me. An actual wink.

I hate him so much. The fact that I used to tell myself I loved this man is just astonishing to me. I was young and naive. Fine—I’ll call it what it is. I was really, really stupid.

But no more. “Gotta go,” I say, pushing my chair back from the table. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Let me guess—a baseball game?”

My heart drops, even though I don’t truly care about the baseball game or the goalie from Twitter. But I hate that Becky was right. Brett is too invested in me. And I don’t know how to shake him off.

“I’m not going to a baseball game,” I say because it’s true. “I’m meeting Becky for dinner, and she has a reservation.”

“Then don’t let me keep you.” He glowers at me, though.

I can’t be civil anymore, so leaving is the only option. “Right. Later.” I pluck the contract folder off the desk and hold it up, indicating that I’ll read it.

“Safe travels,” he says grumpily.

“Yeah, thanks.” He wouldn’t want anything to happen to his little paycheck.

And then I’m trotting toward the lobby of the empty office suite. Mr. Muscles is waiting by the elevator for me. He presses the elevator button the moment I appear.

“Thanks,” I say.

He’s silent.

Mr. Muscles isn’t a talker. It’s not his job to entertain me, but sometimes his silence just seems to magnify all the weird things about my life. I wait impatiently for the elevator, feeling wired and unhappy.

Meeting Brett alone was a mistake. I need to hire a manager to deal with him. I haven’t done it yet, because I know Brett won’t like it, and I thought maybe I could finesse him.

Not so much.

The elevator doors open, and I practically leap inside. Mr. Muscles follows me, pressing the button for the lobby. Only when the car has begun its descent do I feel the first hints of relief. I take out my phone and tap Becky’s number.

“How’d it go?” she asks as soon as she picks up.