Chapter 2 #2
signs their initials, takes the bow.
This is how I get by,
telling myself the songs were never mine.
Credit doesn’t matter.
Ownership is ego.
Art is supposed to hurt.
But fuck—
I’m nothing if not a ghost in this building.
Raymond cocks his head. “Huh. Can’t lie—that one surprises me. Brandon…” He taps his knuckle on the desk. “Always figured he’d be the last one standing.”
Hence one of the reasons I made the contract.
Even the ones who say they love you
still fucking leave.
Before I open my mouth,
Ronnie limps in, head of Public Relations,
with a cane in hand after wrecking his bike a few months back.
His suit hangs loose,
his body shrinking inside it.
The next hour is spent listening to Raymond and Ronnie bicker over Jesse Draven, who ran his mouth on social media.
Now it’s a problem.
“He’s out of control,” Raymond snaps.
“He’ll make a public apology,” Ronnie mutters.
Raymond laughs—“He won’t do it.”
Back and forth,
they argue louder, stupider,
neither hearing each other.
One more year,
I’ll be the golden-age of twenty-five,
and Soundwave Records will belong to me.
In the meantime, I do what I do best:
take care of the artists,
write songs,
fix problems.
When producers hit a wall, I knock it down.
When the label needs fresh songs,
ones people won’t skip after ten seconds,
they come to me.
I’m paid too much for what I do for Raymond,
not enough for what he did to me.
“I told you not to sign him. This is what happens when you keep chasing TikTok virals.”
Raymond waves a hand.
“C’mon, Allie. Write the guy a song.
“Throw him a bone.”
I laugh. “A song? How will a song help? You want me to write an I’m-sorry-I-slandered-your-precious-Theo Raines ballad?”
He chuckles. “Relax, sweetheart.
“Not askin’ you to sleep with the guy.”
There’s a chilling yet smug smile in his eyes when he says it.
My mouth snaps shut.
My stomach knots so tight I could throw up.
I can’t look at Ronnie now—won’t.
I don’t want to know how Raymond’s comment landed with him. All I can do is keep the burn from festering into something noticeable.
I press my thumb into my palm,
wishing it was Raymond’s face instead.
“You’re overthinking it, baby.
“Just write the song.
“One song. Any song. For fuck’s sake—
“he needs his head back in the game.”
I try to read him, but he’s ice.
I swallow back my emotions,
shove them down, lock them up,
so he can’t see what he’s doing to me.
But he knows. He always knows.
Focus on the artists. This is about the artists.
I sigh. “This is a waste of time.”
Two sets of eyes race to me.
“They’re both our artists now,
“so we stay out of it.
“If either of them apologizes,
“it makes the other look weak.
“Which makes both of ‘em think we don’t have their back.
“Which makes us look weak.”
I don’t know shit about being a CEO.
I write songs, not strategy.
I bleed, not brief.
I can’t write a annual report on profit margins.
But I know artists.
I give a damn about the artists and the music. And it’s the only reason I’m fighting to keep the title of CEO for when the time comes.
“Let it play out.
“Let them rack up streams.
“The listeners love this.”
Ronnie scratches his chin. “She’s got a point.”
Raymond’s hand curls into a fist.
He hates that Ronnie agrees with me.
His chair creaks as he leans back.
“You better hope you’re right.”
But the wicked look in his eyes glues my mouth shut.
His stare reminds me he doesn’t have to touch me to restrain me.
Ronnie claps once.
Then he leans forward,
using momentum to stand.
“I’m going back to my office.”
Raymond waves a dismissive hand.
“If Jess orders lunch, have her grab that pasta I like from the little Italian place on the corner.”
// 8:26 PM - TYPE NO. 45 - EAST VILLAGE //
It’s almost eight thirty.
The sun’s passed out.
I stop by Type No. 45 on my way to the penthouse.
It's a bookstore and a record shop,
both sharing one soul.
I didn't plan to come here.
I don’t even remember turning down the block.
But here I end up again,
stopped at the storefront,
the city rerouting me
when I'm not paying attention.
It's a pulse. A hum.
Maybe it's 'cause Dad once played here.
Or because this place gives more than it takes.
Or for a reason that isn’t supposed to make sense yet.
Either way,
I keep showing up as if I’m waiting for it,
following the pull,
hand on the handle,
something more powerful than me
dragging me in.
And again—
The door sticks,
the bell jingles,
the warmth wraps around me as I step inside.
Right away,
the scent of espresso and dust-soaked pages
fill my senses,
and the record player's crackling,
Guns N' Roses humming
through one blown-out speaker.
At the espresso bar,
the barista hands me a coffee—
black, extra shot, extra hot.
I sip it slow, savoring the burn as I wander.
I grab a magazine off a shelf,
pass a girl sitting at one end of the long table,
her face hidden behind a dog-eared McFadden novel,
her hand clutching a chipped mug.
I drop into the armchair tucked in the back,
sunken in and buried by shadow.
I barely make it through two pages of the Draven-Raines ego war before
I notice him.