Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(38)

“Once they see you’re lining up a third album, they’ll have to release the second one. There are some things we could do to make it look like you’re making an end-run around them.” She rubs her hands together, as if there’s nothing more fun than manipulating Brett Ferris.

Against all odds, I’m starting to like her. “So, if the contract is weird, does that give me any way to break it?”

“Delilah, I will never ever lie to you. Breaking any contract is very hard. If we work together, I’ll lean on him to release your album. And if he doesn’t, I’ll try to break this contract. But in my twenty-five years I have never gotten an artist out of a contract, no matter how bad. And even if we found legal grounds to sue him, it would take years.”

I slump down in my chair. “My career will be dead by then.”

“That’s the risk. That’s why suing him isn’t your best option. You’re going to have to force him to come around to doing things your way. Now, you know you can’t release a single on another label, because your contract prevents that.”

“I know,” I grumble.

“But.” She grins. “My attorney agrees with me that you can independently release an entire album without violating this contract. He hasn’t rejected your work, right? He’s just sitting on it.”

“Right.” Although the word “rejected” makes my stomach hurt. “There is nothing wrong with that album.”

“Good. So my best advice to you is—after signing with me, of course—go home and ask yourself, ‘What does my third album sound like?’ We’ll find you some collaborators. You’ll record a couple things with a new producer. You play the role of someone who’s getting on with her life.”

I try to picture this, and it sounds fun but also terrifying. “So I’m just supposed to pretend that my second album doesn’t exist?”

“For now,” Charla agrees. “Brett Ferris needs that second album, too. He doesn’t work alone anymore. He has overlords, and they’ll want the cash.”

She’s probably right, I realize. MetroPlex is one of the biggest record companies in the world. Brett still retains creative control over his artists, but he answers to Metroplex on financial matters.

“Maybe it isn’t going well for him at MetroPlex,” I say slowly. “That’s why he’ll do anything to get me to sign. He could fight even dirtier. He could reject my album.”

“He won’t,” Charla says. “And that’s where your weird-ass contract is going to help you for once. Because it says that if he rejects it, we can buy the album back for production costs. And even if those costs are as inflated as Brett Ferris’s ego, the price tag is still peanuts compared to that album’s worth.”

My head is spinning. “I can buy it back?”

“Only if he rejects it. And you’d still owe him ten more songs. You’re locked in this dance until he releases something. So go home and write your angriest music yet. And force his hand.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a slow breath. This madwoman has finally shown me a path forward. It’s not easy, but I never thought it would be.

“Look, I know this isn’t exactly what you wanted to hear. But Brett Ferris isn’t stupid. He’s arrogant, but he’s not dumb. If you hire me and meet some new producers, that looks serious. That means action. He’s going to notice. His little plan to bully you into a new contract isn’t going to look so good anymore.”

Every cell in my body hopes she’s right.

“I can’t make this easy for you. But I promise you this—if we work together, I will not ever back down. And you don’t have to do this alone. It will become my job to get in that weasel’s face. And I will do it with pleasure. In fact, I’ll have to insist that you don’t take his calls and you don’t meet with him face to face.”

“That’s worth fifteen percent right there,” I mumble. “Send me your contract.”

“I will. But what are you going to do with it?” she asks.

“Read it. Is this a quiz?”

“Get an entertainment lawyer to read it, too,” she says. “I need you to become less trusting. Don’t trust anyone who isn’t on your payroll. Don’t trust strangers who offer you candy. Don’t trust men who want to get in your pants. Or women, if you swing that way.” She lets out another peal of that deep, weird laughter. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.

“Got it,” I say.

“Now, shoo!” She waves me off. “We’ll talk soon. Chin up, Delilah. You’re going to be okay.”

I like hearing it. I only wish I believed her.





When I get back into the car with Mr. Muscles, I check my texts. There’s one from Silas. A long one.

Hi girly. I was trying to play it cool so you won’t regret giving me your phone number. Note that I waited at least one hour after your plane landed to send you a message.

I can’t play it cool when it comes to you. Last night was special to me, and not just the naked parts. Although the naked parts do stand out in my memory. My whole day is like:

He includes a GIF that’s an actual photo of him with flames flickering in front of his crotch, and I laugh out loud.