Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Rhys
When I finish the song, I look at Stella. She’s not clapping with everybody else because she’s got Charly in her arms. But there are tears in her eyes. She mouths something. Then does it again. I can’t read her lips, so I walk over and lean in.
“Play my song,” she whispers to keep from waking Charly. “Please, Rhys.”
And how can I say no to that when I owe her so much?
Even though I wrote my version of “Fa-La La-La Land” over ten years ago—and it’s not the one I’ve made any money on—I still play it on occasion. I’ve never stopped tinkering with it, knowing it’ll never be mine but wanting it perfect, anyway. A tiny act of rebellion against VibeHouse.
Adam’s suggestions, though, hit the mark I’ve been searching for. My song’s finally reached perfection, and I owe Stella for that as much as anyone. Thanks to her, I was in the right headspace to finish it—to make it what I’ve always wanted it to be.
So, I sit down at the piano. Only this time, it’s just me. My piano. My song.
Stella’s song.
When I finish and push away from the keys, her beaming smile hits me straight in the chest. The room erupts in cheers loud enough that Charly startles and begins to cry.
Seb scoops her from Stella’s arms to soothe her, but her cries only get louder.
He and Hope gather their things to leave. Slowly, the rest of the family follows.
Stella and I stay behind with my mates to help Adam and Bear break down the instruments and stage area. As we’re wrapping up, Bear says, “Thanks for jamming with us, man. If you want to do it again, we’re doing a real show here Saturday night.”
Adam nods. “More of a rehearsal, but you’re welcome to join. We’ve got the Jingle Ball coming up in a few weeks. If you’re still around, you could play with us there too.”
He ends with a shrug that I like. No pressure. No sucking up. Just one musician to another.
Before I can answer, Stella jumps in. “I know it’s not the kind of gig you’re used to, but I’d love to hear you perform your songs again.
It’ll be a small crowd—just locals. We don’t even have to tell them who you are.
I mean, they’ll probably figure it out, but it’s not like Paradise is easy to get to.
If word leaks you’re here, you’ll be gone before anyone can find you. Back me up here, Britta. Guys?”
“She’s right, mate,” Dex says cheerfully, like I’m facing a baby wave instead of the monster that’s waiting to take me out for good.
I put up a hand before anyone else can chime in. “No one needs to try to talk me into it, Stella—I’m not doing it.”
“What?” Stella and Adam ask together.
“Think we’ll head out, mate. Let you lot work this out.” Archie swings his head toward the door. “For the record, though, I agree with Dex. Stella’s right.”
Frankie, Piper, and Britta all nod their agreement. Archie returns my glare with a smirk before leading Piper to the door—the rest of my mates in tow—leaving me to stand up to Stella alone after they’ve armed her good and proper.
But I’m not going down without a fight.
“It’s your family, your town. I’m not makin’ it about me,” I say, rubbing at the knot in the back of my neck. “Last thing I need is VibeHouse seeing footage of me playing unreleased songs. They’d lose it.”
“It’s not about them; it’s about you,” she insists.
“Yeah, and that’s exactly why I can’t.” I keep my tone low so it doesn’t sound like an argument, but it is one. “You don’t get it. They own everything I’ve ever written. If I so much as hum the wrong tune on stage, they’ll bury me.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re hiding, Rhys.
You talk about wanting to be authentic, but every time you get the chance, you let Danny or VibeHouse take it away from you.
This is your chance to be yourself onstage, in a place they can’t get to you.
I’m not asking you to sing them at Winter Lights, just give yourself this gift. ”
“You think I’m scared of Danny?” I say quietly. “I’m not. I’m scared of losing the only songs that still feel like mine. If I walk away from VibeHouse, I walk away from everything—including ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’ Not only their version, but mine. All of it.”
Stella exhales, her frustration simmering. “What about the song you gave me? ‘December Dreams’? They don’t own that.”
“Yeah, nah. I played it for Danny, remember? Anything I write is theirs. My contract expires in a couple of years. Until then, they own me.”
Her expression morphs from surprise to straight-up anger.
“Nobody owns you, Rhys. No amount of money is worth playing a part you don’t want to play anymore.
You’re happier performing your own music.
And you’re better. You’re more authentic and likable, on and offstage.
I’m not saying that as your girlfriend. I’m saying it as your social media strategist.”
Her mouth presses closed in a hard line of certainty while her eyes flash a thousand shades of brown.
But something beyond her eyes has caught my attention. “You’re my girlfriend?” I ask, trying not to smile.
That quiets her for a second, but only long enough to ratchet up her defensiveness. “Of course I’m your girlfriend. Do you think I’m one of those girls who jets off to Italy with any rock star who offers?”
Adam sticks his head between us. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, sounding more irritated than sorry as he hands Stella a key. “Lock up when you’re done here, will you?”
“Yes.” Stella snatches it out of his hand, then turns her glare back on me as Adam and Bear head out. “VibeHouse may be paying me, but you’re my client, Rhys. I want what’s best for you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be pressuring you to forget about Danny and VibeHouse.”
I close the distance between us as she talks, her anger slowly softening as I do. When I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to me, she doesn’t resist even as she fights to stay mad.
“I’m keen to know if my girlfriend agrees with my social media strategist.” I kiss the corner of her jaw, right where I know she likes it, then trail my lips to hers.
“Mmm,” she sighs against my mouth before returning my kisses, stopping only long enough to say, “She thinks you should say sayonara to anyone who doesn’t know your worth.”
Stella kisses me once more before pulling back and linking her fingers together at the nape of my neck, running her thumbs through the hair there.
“Rhys, I get that there are huge consequences if you break your contract with VibeHouse, so I promise not to keep bugging you. You need to know, though, that you can be bigger than they’re allowing you—not without growing pains, but you’ve got the talent.
If we strategize and capitalize on your social media presence—”
I stop her with a deep kiss. In between the kisses that follow, I say, “I’d like to speak to my girlfriend before making any career-imploding decisions.”
“Pretty sure I know she agrees with me,” Stella says in a staggered breath.
With my hands on her hips, I kiss her again while walking us toward the door. Gotta get as much of this in as possible before going back to our separate rooms at Gia’s.
I’m too wound up to sleep, though. I can’t quit thinking about what Stella said, not only about being her boyfriend, but about being myself on stage.
There’s a battle going on between my head and my heart, and I don’t know how it’ll end. The version of “Fa-La La-La Land” Adam and I played tonight—the one with his changes—threatens to break my heart, it’s so good. And I’ll never be able to play it, regardless of whether I leave VibeHouse.
Walking away from my contract means walking away from the rights to their version.
But my “Fa-La” is too similar for them not to sue for copyright infringement.
The only chance I have of performing my version is if VibeHouse gives me the go-ahead.
If they do, and then I leave, the song stays with them, along with anything else I’ve written since signing their predatory contract.
Losing my song, even more than losing the revenue from VibeHouse’s version, scares the hell out of me. Reinventing myself means changing everything. I know other artists have done it, but results are mixed. I still don’t buy Post Malone as a country singer.
Problem is that seeing Granny Sparks tear up today over the son she lost over twenty years ago brought words and lyrics to my mind that I’ve been itching to write down for hours now.
Since I can’t sleep anyway, I crack my notebook and get the lyrics on paper, even if singing them is only a wish. Doesn’t matter. I can’t shake them.
Next morning, I send my mates off on the long drive back to LA.
One day in Paradise isn’t enough, but Archie’s on the outs with his dad, so he doesn’t have use of the Forsythe jet anymore, and Frankie’s got to be back in Serenity Cove for her diner job.
It’s bonkers to me they’re living like they’re broke when their dad’s a billionaire.
Once they head out, Stella and I go to Main Street.
It’s not a far walk from her mum’s house, but we have to trek through crunching snow to get there.
After turning down Adam’s gig last night, I figured I’d have a quiet weekend.
Didn’t plan on freezing to death at a parade instead.
Should have taken Stella’s warning seriously.
We pass the booths set up in the town square selling homemade goods. The air is heavy with the smell of cinnamon baked goods, floral soap, and fresh cut pine trees.
“Tell me again why they hold an outdoor parade in a place where they’re guaranteed to have cold weather the day after Thanksgiving?” I ask through chattering teeth.
“I don’t know,” she says, without a shiver even though her coat’s only half-zipped. “Tradition, I guess? I mean, if New York City can do a parade on Thanksgiving Day, why can’t we do one?”
“Because Paradise is basically the North Pole’s next-door neighbor.”