Chapter 6
Even though she had plenty of time, Raine refused to go to breakfast early.
Instead, she got up with enough time to shower and put on some makeup, and then she put on a black t-shirt, torn jeans, and boots.
Afterward, she sat on the bed going through her notebook to review the songs she’d been writing over the past years…
some of which she’d originally planned to have on her new album.
Now, though, in terms of her songs, she was feeling gun shy.
One song in particular, one called “Take,” she’d been working on for a while.
Now, it was absolutely off limits. She’d initially hoped it would be the first single for her next album but, after her disastrous performance at the charity concert that had caused everyone to treat her like a leper, she knew it had to stay on the page and off the airwaves.
At five minutes to eight, she walked up the stairs and headed to the kitchen. Quentin was nowhere to be found, but the kitchen held the lingering scent of toast and jelly. The way her stomach clenched made her regret not coming in sooner.
There were no bottles of water in the fridge—but surely he didn’t expect her to sing without having hydration nearby?
After hunting down a glass, she filled it with tap water.
She smelled coffee, but she never drank anything with caffeine or dairy before a singing session, and she assumed she’d be doing that this morning.
When she’d gotten serious about her career, she’d nurtured her voice and those were the only two rules she never broke…
even though most people didn’t know it. Mal did, of course, but few people outside her close circle did.
On her way out of the kitchen, she spotted a bowl of fruit by the fridge that she hadn’t noticed the night before.
In fact, she was pretty sure it hadn’t been there.
She had no doubt that it was real and not fake fruit, because this guy didn’t seem to like decoration of any kind—and that could be her breakfast. Tucking her notebook under her arm, she picked up the glass and an orange and went back down the hall, this time taking the stairs up to the studio.
The door was open and she entered, not completely surprised to see Quentin already there in the control room—but he was looking right at her as she entered. Had he been waiting for her? “You’re pushing it,” he said, tilting his head to the clock on the wall behind her.
She turned to look at it. “I’m on time.”
“Barely. But you’re right. You are. You’re just cutting it close.” After a second, he added, “And…I have refillable water bottles in the kitchen to protect from spills.”
“I couldn’t find them. I can go—”
“I’ll show you where they are at lunch. Just be careful not to spill, but I don’t want to waste any more time. Let’s get started.”
Letting out a small breath, she felt a little gratitude that, at least, he didn’t want to fuck around. He was probably as eager to get this shit over with as she was.
His clothes looked a lot like they had the day before—a black t-shirt that looked similar to the one she wore, black jeans, and those same work boots that made her imagine him working on the fence along his property.
She asked, “So where are we doing this—in the control room or here in the live room?”
Completely ignoring her question, he zeroed in on her hand. “What are you doing with that orange?”
“You said I could have anything in the kitchen.”
“And you can,” Quentin said, his eyes unreadable, “but in the kitchen. I spent a lot of money on this studio and would prefer to keep it pristine.”
God, he was a fucking asshole. “Fine. I won’t eat it here.”
“Thank you.”
“So how do we start this?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. Maybe if they got to work, she could tolerate him better.
“I’m pretty familiar with your body of work.”
Raine snickered. “All two albums. Impressive.”
“It is actually. You’re what? Twenty? Twenty-five?”
“Twenty-two.”
“I only had one album under my belt by that time—and it wasn’t just me. That album was a group effort. So, in terms of being an artist, you shouldn’t belittle yourself. Not everyone can create the kind of art you do.”
Hmm. This guy might have been a prickly dick…but she had to give him props. His words weren’t just flattery—she knew that much after having been sucked up to the last five years of her life. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Pull up a chair,” he said, sitting at another chair by the small table near the wall in the heart of the studio outside the control room.
Before sitting, she placed the water glass and orange on the table away from equipment. Then she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and the notebook out from under her arm and sat at a chair, waiting for him to say what she knew he would.
“Did you already forget my rules or is this just your way of giving me the finger?”
There it was. Was he going to keep being that predictable?
She answered, “Neither. I brought it because I have a lot of lyrics on here—and some voice recordings. When I’m home and journaling or writing lyrics, I use this,” she said, pressing her finger to the notebook.
“But when I’m somewhere else and struck with inspiration, I put it on my phone.
And since I didn’t know what we were doing today—”
“Okay. That’s fine. If you need it for lyrics or demos, okay—but keep it in airplane mode. I don’t want it to be a distraction.”
Like it would distract her while they were working? The only thing that could distract her would be fucking Mal. He’d already sent her more than one text message that morning, asking her how she was settling in and if she needed anything.
Yeah, she needed a break.
From Mal.
“It won’t.”
Quentin’s expression neutral, he asked, “The executives said you were already working on a third album?”
“Yeah.”
“So you already had some songs that you were ready to record?”
“Yes. I had…nine.” She wasn’t about to tell him about number ten. That one was just for her.
“What do you have? Lyrics? Music? Both or a mix?”
“Lyrics—and the basic tune. But, um, the label wanted me to scrap what I’ve been working on.”
Quentin took a drink from his travel mug. “Did you record any of it?”
“Just here,” she said, holding up her phone.
“But did anyone at the label hear any of what you wrote?”
“Um…no.”
“Then you and I will decide what goes on the album. They don’t get to decide that.”
Well…other than being prickly, he was turning out to be okay. But she didn’t smile.
“Are you up for singing this morning?” he asked. “Or do you have all the songs recorded?”
“Mostly recorded.”
“Let’s start there.”
So, for the next hour, she went through the songs she’d been working on. Some she sang for him; others she played from tracks saved on her phone; and some of them she spent a few minutes explaining where she wanted to take what she’d been working on and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to.
When she was done, Quentin remained still for some time, looking at one of the pages where she’d scrawled some lyrics. Throughout the hour, she hadn’t had a clue what he was thinking and she wondered what changes he would insist upon.
Finally, with a slow sigh, he said, “I…have no doubt the label would like this stuff—and so would your fans. But what you have here? It’s, uh, for lack of a better word, safe.
These songs are no different from the music on either of the albums you’ve already released.
Why should fans pay good money to buy an album or watch a show that’s more of the same stuff? ”
“Stuff? These are decent songs. I worked hard on these.” What a motherfucking asshole. Clearly, he’d lived past his musical expiration date and the label was punishing her by exiling her here with this rock relic, a guy who couldn’t appreciate her type of art. “Just because it’s not the shit you—”
“Careful,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed. “I think you misunderstand me. I’m not doubting the effort you put into the work…but let me give you an example.” Touching her notebook, he said, “May I?”
She shrugged, already feeling the monster expanding in her chest cavity—but she bit her tongue.
He turned the notebook around and turned back two pages to a song called “No Fucks.” He began reading her own words back to her, starting with the chorus. “
I’m empty,
Got no fucks to give.
I’m dying
But you just won’t let me live.
Quentin added, “These lyrics are—”
“Don’t you dare say they’re shit. They need some work; I know that, but—”
“That’s not what I was going to say.”
She didn’t know that she trusted his word. “So what was it then?”
“These lyrics sound like words you’ve written before. Uh…on your first album. I can’t remember the name of the song, but the words went something like, ‘I don’t care about you, ‘cause you don’t care about me. I tried to be a friend, but you kicked me in the teeth’.”
“So? My fans want to hear shit like that. What’s so bad about it?” Even while countering him, she’d noticed something and she tried to dismiss the fact that she was impressed that he’d remembered the lyrics—not just “something like” her song but word for word.
This time, his sigh was long and slow. “I don’t know how to explain this…but your lyrics feel like bullshit.”
Heat creeped up her neck, warming her cheeks, and her throat constricted. “Bullshit?” Now he’d poked the bear. Those were fighting words, and she stood up—whether to physically fight him or storm out of the room, she didn’t know. “I didn’t get here by accident. I do have—”
“Just cool it for a second and listen. I’m not saying any of this to piss you off. Believe it or not, I want to help you. That’s my job here.”
“By insulting me? You’ve got a funny way of doing it.”