Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
“Hey, Will, how’s it going?” I ask when Willa Stone picks up on the second ring.
Nerves rack through me, and for a split second, I can’t remember why I called at all.
But then I look down and see the scribbled lines of the song before me.
Typically, Greg handles this by calling the artists or their labels with a new song, but I’m hoping that by sharing my vision for the song I’ve written with the pop star myself, I might get better results.
“Adam Porter, as I live and breathe. How are you? I haven’t heard from you in forever,” Willa says, a small tinkling laugh in the words.
Again, I wonder if this was a bad idea. This morning, I realized the song I’d been tinkering with wasn’t just decent. It had real potential in a way a song hasn’t in a while, and I instantly knew who I would want on it.
Still, I don’t know exactly what has me picking up the phone and calling Willa first instead of Greg.
It’s probably because the last time Greg called, I snapped at him and haven’t heard from him since.
Either way, some ghost took hold of me this afternoon, and before I knew it, I was calling Willa to tell her about the new song instead of my agent.
He’ll probably have a fuck ton of things to say about that, but he’ll get over it when I land this and get him a nice little check for it.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. I’m calling because, uh…I think I have something for you.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks, and even though she sounds intrigued rather than irritated or bored, my pulse still pounds with nerves.
“Yeah. It’s, uh.” I bite my lip, looking at the song before me, lyrics and notes all over the pages.
“It’s not totally done, but I think it would be great for you.
” I take in a deep breath, steeling myself.
I’ve gone over this a dozen times in my head as I struck up the nerve to place the call.
If she turns it down, it’s no big deal. There are a million other artists who could do something great with his song, which tells me it has single potential.
But Willa would be my first choice.
“I know you’ve turned down a bunch from me recently, and there’s no hard feelings with that, really, there’s not. But I think this could be big. It feels…it feels good.” There’s a pause on the other end as I finish my mini-pitch, and dread fills me as I wait for her response.
“Turned you down?” she asks.
“Well, yeah. I mean, technically, it was Greg you turned down, but—”
“Adam,” she says, hesitantly cutting me off. “I haven’t seen a song of yours in at least a year, probably more.”
My pulse pounds, but my mind is trying to piece things together. “What?”
“Well, yeah. Greg told me you weren’t writing, that you had writer’s block or something.”
I blink, brow furrowing with confusion. “I mean, I did. For the last six months or so. But early this year I sent over…” I try to think of how many songs I’ve finished and which ones I thought had real potential to perform well with Willa’s audience.
“Four? Five? And you and the label turned them all down.”
Silence hangs heavy, and a pit swirls in my stomach before Willa speaks. And when she does, it’s with caution and gentleness.
“Adam, the only things I’ve gotten from you since ‘All Lit Up’ were three Christmas songs.
” The air catches in my chest. “I thought that’s all you were working on.
I even called Greg to see if I could convince you to write for me, but he told me you were moving to Christmas exclusively after the success of ‘All Lit Up’ and giving everything else to Trent. ”
The world stops.
Moving to Christmas exclusively.
Giving everything else to Trent.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I murmur. Suddenly, things make sense.
Trent has been the only artist to ask me about new songs.
I thought I was because all of the shit I’d sent to the artists I’d worked with previously sucked, so they’d written me off. However, it seems that my agent has been playing games.
“I take that to mean that wasn’t the case,” Willa says low, interrupting my thoughts.
“I’ve been trying to get away from fucking Christmas music.
‘All Lit Up’ was the best thing I ever did, but I don't want that to be my legacy. I told Greg that, and he wasn’t happy about it, but I think he realized he couldn’t argue with me over it.
What was he gonna do, force me to write?
” I run a hand over my face, seeing the last year for what it really was: sabotage.
“Willa, I’ve been trying to sell songs for a year since I told him I was done with Christmas, and nothing has sold except a few songs to Trent that I basically gave him so I’d have something coming in.
” I don’t tell her that I took ghostwriting credits on those, something Greg talked me into after nearly six months of no interest from anyone else.
It wasn’t about the money. I’ve always been smart with my investments and never leaned into the extravagant rock star lifestyle, so I technically never had to work another day in my life. It was about the ego of not selling anything. An ego hit that Greg curated.
“Adam, fuck, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all.
And the more pieces I put into place, the more I understand what happened.
Greg made a lot of money from “All Lit Up” and wanted to do it again.
Why wouldn’t he? Bonus points if I basically gave away my songs to Trent, which would benefit Greg just as much.
“Send me the song,” Willa says, cutting through my mental sifting of the past year—or longer.
“And whatever you were trying to send to me before. Send it directly to me, not through anyone else.” I nod, then agree verbally because she can’t see a nod, obviously.
“Then email Leo. He’s taking on new clients to build his agent portfolio; he says he wants to slow down with the PR, and you know how much he hates Greg.
He can probably find a lawyer to comb through Greg’s contract with you, though I’m sure he’s breached it if he’s been fucking you over like this. ”
I nod, already drafting an email, and then type in her address as she rattles it off to me.
“I’m not gonna lie, Adam, I’m relieved. With Stella pregnant and Riggs slowing down to build their family, I thought I was going to have to do this next album all on my own.
” She laughs as if she isn’t fully capable of doing just that before she adds, “I’m also looking for a producer.
” My chest fills with light as I realize what she’s saying: she wants me to be a leading contributor on this next album.
“Of course, I’m not sure if you have the time, but—”
“Willa, I just found out my agent has been fucking me over and not getting me any work for a year. I have all the time in the world.”
She lets out a laugh before she speaks again, a broad smile in her words.
“Okay, okay. I hear you. We can talk about it after the new year, okay? I just got your email, and I’ll look them over in the next few days.
” She pauses, then lets out an awed breath.
“Oh, I love the title of this one!” I smile, knowing instinctively which song she’s talking about.
“That’s a hit, Adam.” I grin now and nod, knowing somewhere in my gut that she’s right.
My recent breakthrough is something special, and she’s the only person I want to take it on.
There’s a noise on her end, and she curses.
“Okay, I gotta go, I have a video interview in, like, three minutes. But email Leo, okay? We’ll fix this. ”
“Yeah. Thanks, Willa,” I say, genuine appreciation in the words.
“Anytime. This industry is full of assholes, so the good ones have to stick together.”
And then she’s gone. As I sit there, mind reeling, I’m reminded for the millionth time that Willa Stone is absolutely one of the good ones.
I waste no time, deciding to put off a hasty firing of Greg until I get a second opinion on the contract I signed years ago.
Instead, I type up a lengthy email, providing Leo with all my information and the story I’ve begun to understand after my conversation with his client, and I attach the songs I sent over to Willa.
I hit send, then sit back and take in a deep breath, assessing myself now that my tasks are finished.
I should feel angry, which I do.
I should feel disappointed, which, I suppose, I do.
But I also feel a deep sense of relief I can’t ignore.
My biggest fear was that I was a one-hit wonder for a holiday song. That after that one did well, that’s all anyone would want from me, but it seems that isn’t the case. Not in the least.
Instead, it’s more about trusting the wrong people, getting taken advantage of by those I thought cared for me, and letting that bring me down.
And fuck, is that comeback going to feel fucking good.
In just three minutes, I’ve already received a response from Leo in my inbox.
Fuck Greg; I’ve been dying to take him down for years. Don’t call him until we have a plan, though. Love the songs; they're perfect for Will. I smell a hit, Porter. I’ll send this to my lawyer and see what we can do. Talk soon.
I smile to myself, hope blooming in my chest in a way it hasn’t in a while. I feel inspired and motivated, and I know, in some small way, that the only thing I have to thank is that song, the catalyst for this entire conversation.
And the woman who inspired it.
As if summoned by my thoughts, I watch as Wren pulls into her drive and steps out of her car, carrying a million bags and boxes as usual, and I can’t help but smile.
I should be furious that my career was at a standstill because of a conniving asshole and a talentless fucker, but I can’t find it in me to.
Not when I know that when I leave this house, I’m going to spend the night with Wren, the kindest, sweetest soul who I know fell into my life to show me what I was missing.
Not when I have a future laid out that is looking brighter by the moment, and it’s all because of the pretty brunette across the street.