Chapter 2
“Midnight Prayer” - Thirty Seconds to Mars
Rhett
Rehab was a bitch. But she was a predictable bitch, and I liked that. I strum a few chords and tweak my lyrics. “Rehab, you ol’ bitch. A crazy-ass witch.”
I give a frustrated downstroke and lean back in my chair. Why the fuck can’t I compose anything since getting out? I wrote an entire album of songs in three months while I was in that place. A whole fucking album. Not that I had any intention of ever recording them while I was writing them.
My shrink wanted me to pick up a hobby. Painting, he suggested, or sculpting.
I told him there’s no way in hell I’m picking up a paintbrush.
I tried the sculpting thing to make him happy, but when I showed him my penis masterpiece, he only raised one bushy brow and said, “Let’s revisit this tomorrow. ”
Eventually, I asked if music counts as a hobby. He blinked at me a few times before saying, “Of course. I didn’t realize you were musically inclined.”
“I don’t know about inclined,” I said. “But I feel a lot better with a guitar in my hands.”
Two of my guitars arrived the next day via courier, courtesy of my mate Pierce. I was bummed he didn’t bring them himself, but I felt a hell of a lot better holding the familiar instruments in my hands.
After that, rehab was only half the hellhole it had been. The uniforms were still sketch as fuck, but I got used to it. Some of the assistants were even kind of hot in them. I may or may not have divested a few of them of their starchy whites in a hall closet.
I sit up and adjust my guitar, strum a short melody. It’s hanging there on the fringe of my memory, but I can’t grab ahold of it. God, I used to be able to write a song in twenty-four hours. I’ve been trying to compose something new for days, and I’m as hollow as a TikTok trend after two weeks.
Maybe I need to go back for a visit, see if it fires up the old juices.
I set the guitar aside and walk to the kitchen to grab a grapefruit water from the fridge. Normally I’d reach for a beer, but they frown on that in rehab—no clue why—and I got hooked on these instead.
I pop the tab and riffle through the stack of mail on the counter.
Most of it’s a bunch of stupid invitations to galas and other shit.
The worst part is, they can’t just invite you and be done with it.
Oh no, they want a response. “Please RSVP by May 2nd.” Then if you don’t fill out their bloody little card and send it back, they call you.
“Hello, Mr. Cole. We haven’t received your RSVP for our stupid charity auction, and I was wondering if you’ve decided to attend with the rest of our boring-as-fuck guest list.”
When I was in rehab, I didn’t have to mess with things like this. I hired someone to handle my mail, and they responded to each invitation with a simple, “Mr. Cole is out of the country until March 29th.”
It was perfect. I could focus on my music, and as long as I showed up for my therapy sessions, they pretty much left me alone.
My songs were good, too. I’m not sure what made the difference, but I think it had something to do with the lack of pressure.
Before, I tried to release a new song every week on TikTok.
That was fucking hard to do. I ended up regurgitating a bunch of hits.
I stayed off social media while I was inside—yet another suggestion from my therapist. The old guy actually knew a thing or two. Without the pressure of playing for my fans, I just wrote whatever I wanted.
Turns out, what I wanted and what they wanted were the same thing.
Since getting out, I’ve been shooting videos of myself playing the new stuff. It’s all rough around the edges, but they are eating it up. I didn’t intend to put out all of it, just a few of my favorites, but everyone has been begging for more.
My TikTok has climbed to three million followers in the three weeks since I’ve been out. That number alone is staggering, but it’s especially shocking for my account, which has hovered in the hundred thousands for the past few years. I guess the new lyrics are striking the right chord for people.
I’ve been giving them what they want, but the well has dried up. Guess I need to check myself back into rehab to find my inspiration again.
My phone rings on the counter beside me. “Sam” flashes on the screen. I accept the call and tap the speaker button. “Samuel,” I say, and take another sip of water. “How’s the world’s worst agent?”
“I’m about to become your favorite person in the world,” he says. Sam has been shopping my songs around to record labels for over a year and a half. No takers so far.
“You know I’m my own favorite person.”
He chuckles. “We have a meeting.”
“A meeting.” I drain the grapefruit water.
“With Lunar Echo.”
I set the can down with a clatter. “You better not be fucking with me.”
Sam laughs again. “I swear, I’m not fucking with you. They want to meet tomorrow morning. I think they’re going to offer you a contract, mate.”
* * *
Tomorrow morning takes forever to arrive. I am so jittery I start to question if I somehow managed to sleepwalk myself to my dealer’s house for a hit.
A fucking record deal.
I’ve been prepping for this ever since my dad put a guitar in my hands at age four. God, just wait until he hears about this. He didn’t sign his contract until he was twenty-seven, so I beat him by a whole year.
Sam picks me up in his ten-year-old Audi. My red Maserati would have made a bigger splash pulling into the car park at the record label, but I’m too fucked up to drive anywhere right now.
Sam is in his midthirties, but for an old guy, he knows how to dress. It’s the main reason I hired him. Image is everything, baby. Today, he’s wearing tight jeans, a white shirt, and a black blazer. “Chill out, mate,” he reminds me when we get out of the car. “You’ve got the upper hand here.”
I try to remember that as we walk into the sleek office building. A bright wall mural of Bob Marley greets us before the receptionist sitting in front of it does. Shiny leather and chrome sofas and chairs dot the reception area.
“Hello,” the woman says as Sam and I approach the curved desk. “Rhett Cole. I’m a big fan.”
She grins and sticks out her hand for me to shake. Her black hair is streaked with blue and pulled back into two buns that stick out at least three inches on each side of her head. Not my usual type, but a pair of long legs peek out from under her short skirt. I can definitely work with that.
“Sounds like you have good taste,” I say with a wink. Beside me, I can feel Sam roll his eyes. If we sign a contract, he can fucking wait for me in the car while I see what else is under that skirt.
“Please have a seat. I think they’re almost ready for you.” The woman motions toward a black leather sofa against the wall.
Sam and I sit down, and my leg immediately starts bouncing. Even the thought of getting it on behind that desk isn’t enough to chase away my nerves.
“Relax,” he says from the side of his mouth.
Several minutes later, the door to a large conference room opens. A man in a gray suit waves us in. I’m guessing he’s got two kids and a dog at home. “You must be Rhett,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Eddie. A and R. I’m in charge of artist-label relationships.”
I shake his hand, then do the same with the other suits in the room. There are six of them altogether, and I’m starting to wish I’d never gone to rehab. I could really use something to calm me down.
We all take a seat around the big-ass wooden table. My gaze flits to the pictures lining the wall. Artists they’ve signed in the past—many of whom became huge national sensations—gold albums, and even pictures with Queen Celia.
Lunar Echo Records is no small fish.
The people around the table have introduced themselves, but I’ve forgotten everyone’s name already.
I’m terrible with names, and they all look alike in their suits and button-downs.
I’m wearing a white T-shirt with a Coca-Cola logo and black jeans, for god’s sake, and probably look like a dipshit.
I push my hair out of my eyes, wishing I’d gotten it cut before this meeting.
Eddie sits across the table from me and touches his impeccably styled dark hair. “It’s so good to have you here, Rhett. We are really liking what we’re hearing.” He messes with his phone for a few seconds, then my voice comes through the speakers.
It’s one of my new songs and one of my biggest hits on TikTok.
The audio needs a lot of help—I recorded the bloody thing on my phone—but I gotta admit, the song is good.
They were right to snatch me up. I glance around at the rest of the execs.
Some of them are looking down at their notes, but a few are nodding their heads to the beat.
Eddie kills the music, then looks me in the eye. “I’m going to cut straight to the chase here, Rhett. You’ve got talent. Considering who your dad is, that doesn’t come as a surprise.”
There are a few chuckles around the room. Is he bullshitting me right now? “My success has nothing to do with my dad—”
Eddie holds up his hand, stopping me midsentence. “Of course not. The Cole Brothers are legendary, but that’s not why we want to sign you.”
I relax into my seat.
“Your talent is raw and needs developing.” He nods at one of the guys at the end of the table. “That’s what Jason is for. But I see the potential in you. Potential to take the world by storm.”
My heart is ricocheting around my chest. I am sitting on the brink of the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just need him to say the words.
“We want to offer you a contract,” he continues, “for three years.”
Beside me, Sam sits up a little straighter in his chair.
“And a concert tour,” Eddie says, “in the US.”
I lean into the table. “Are you fucking serious?”
Eddie grins. “Dead serious. We don’t typically move this quickly, but I convinced everyone that we need to capitalize on your success before it’s too late.”
My brain trips over this, but I don’t stop to consider what it means. “Yeah, absolutely. We’ll take it.”
Sam nudges me with his knee. “Let’s hear the terms first.”
Eddie’s smile slips a tad, but he quickly recovers it. “Of course. Your contract will include an album release, which we’d like to fast-track. You already have the songs, and while they need some development, they’re quite good as is.”
I push aside the offense that creeps in at his words. Obviously my songs need work. I grab a ballpoint pen from the table and click it on and off.
“Because of the sensation your songs are becoming on TikTok, we really think time is of the essence here. We all know how quickly these trends die, so we want to strike while the iron is hot. We’d like to produce your album within three months.”
I can’t keep my eyes from bugging out of my head. Three fucking months? Holy shit. Most albums take close to a year to produce. They’re going to have to throw all of their resources toward this thing to get it done in time.
“Normally, we don’t offer a concert tour until we see how well the album does on the charts. But again, considering your social media success, we’re willing to throw in a tour deal.” Eddie sits back in his chair, waiting for my response.
I glance sideways at Sam. He’s technically supposed to speak for me at these meetings, but he seems a little speechless at the moment.
“That sounds great,” I say. “When do we start?”
This knocks Sam out of his daze. “Just a minute. What’s the catch?”
“Catch?” Eddie blinks at him. “What catch?”
“Come on, mate,” Sam says. “Read us the fine print.”
They stare each other down for a few seconds. Finally, Eddie drops his eyes to the paper in front of him. “I wouldn’t consider this a catch, per se, but there is one contingency we have.” He looks up at me. “You’ll need to keep your nose clean.”
I shift in my seat and hope he plans to elaborate, because I really don’t want to have to ask what he means by this.
“The plan is to present you as a clean Justin Bieber. Tori will go over all of that with you later.” He nods to a woman with fiery red hair. “All you need to know right now is that we have the right to terminate your contract at any time if there’s even a hint of scandal.”
“And what constitutes a scandal?” Sam presses.
I continue clicking the pen in my hand as I wait for Eddie’s answer. The room feels hot and stuffy. I’m glad now that I just wore a T-shirt.
“Drugs, affairs, making a scene in public, pregnancies, lewd displays, drunken orgies.” Eddie gives us both a tight smile. “Anything you’d find in a Netflix drama.”
Sam snorts. “Those things go hand in hand with the music scene.”
“Not anymore, they don’t.” Eddie folds his hands on the table.
“Times are changing in the industry. People want to see celebrities they can look up to. Everyone is shifting toward health, personal growth, mental health, and charity work. Like I said, a clean Justin Bieber.” He glances between Sam and me. “Will that be a problem?”
I meet Eddie’s gaze head-on. “No, sir. It won’t.”
His blindingly white smile lights up his face. “Glad to hear it. Now we can move on to signing the paperwork.”
As the lawyer distributes copies of the contract, it hits me—they don’t have a clue that I was in rehab.
I did my best to keep it under wraps, but you can never be too sure about things like that.
But if their goal is to present me as a clean and wholesome pop star, there’s no way they know about the drugs.
They have no clue that every song they want to put on my album was written while I was in treatment. They have no clue that each song is about my journey to overcome my addiction.
My job is to make sure they never find out.