Benny
Since Bree Belacourt was standing in my kitchen when my meeting was supposed to begin yesterday, I called in sick.
I can’t risk her finding out that I write songs under a pseudonym, or that I’m still working with my old manager, or she might start asking questions.
I definitely can’t risk her finding out that I’ve been supplying a third of her songs for the last four years.
I’ll have to be careful. No more writing music outside or leaving my windows open while I work. Not for as long as she’s here, at least.
How long will she be here?
I’m sitting at the desk in my workroom, my laptop open to Zoom. I fiddle with my guitar while Justin goes on about the requests piling up.
No one in the business knows the truth behind my identity, but my songs have still managed to gain a reputation over the years, and there’s never a lag in demand.
Justin is a middleman, handling the artists, labels, even accepting awards on my behalf.
We’ve been able to pull it off for so long because he enjoys all the people-schmoozing and I live for the solitude and anonymity he provides. We make a good team.
“Don’t shoot me down until you hear me out,” he says now, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
Justin is one of those men who started graying in his late twenties but looks more sophisticated than old.
I almost wonder if he would have added the gray himself even younger if he’d thought of it.
He wears his hair a little longer, but he’s still in need of a trim.
It’s shorter than my hair, though. Do I need a trim? Did Bree take one look at me and think I’ve let myself go?
Stop thinking about Bree.
Think about Justin more. Especially if he wants me to leave my mind open for whatever he’s about to ask me to do. I’m probably not going to like it.
Justin is looking right at me via Zoom. “You have to agree to hear me out all the way before I pitch anything to you, Ben.”
I play a riff before setting my guitar down.
Justin has been with me for half of my life.
He was my manager from the beginning. When I decided the whole fame and spotlight thing wasn’t for me, he didn’t try to convince me to stick it out.
He supported my choices and found a way for me to use my passion and skills to make a living away from the spotlight, shifting away from manager and into the agent role.
He even found me a good therapist in Montana who didn’t treat me like a celebrity and helped me manage the panic attacks that used to grip me in a crowd.
It didn’t take long to figure out that my anxiety was directly related to the pressure that came along with being a public figure.
Once I stepped away from the spotlight, my anxiety went away too.
I owe Justin a lot. But the guy also likes to dream up in the clouds, and it’s on me to bring him down to reality. “I can’t write long, sappy love ballads, man. It’s just not in me.”
“I’ve moved on from that.” Justin scowls into the camera.
“Fine. I’ll hear you out.”
A grin spreads over his face, showing me his perfect veneers. “One word: collaboration.”
“No.”
“You promised—”
“So did you,” I argue, picking up my guitar again.
“You don’t have to be face-to-face with anyone. You don’t even have to let the other person know who you are. All you have to do is take what they’ve written and work with them to improve it.”
“You’re asking me to doctor a badly written song so the artist can have credit and also success? What’s the objective here? Are they shooting for a Grammy?”
Justin’s silence speaks volumes.
“Not interested.”
“You should see the cash they want to advance you for this.” Justin’s eyes are wide, his head shaking. Yeah, he’s an agent because he likes the income, but he’s not driven by money enough to force me into selling out. If he’s pushing this, it must be a lot.
“How much?” I ask.
“Well, that’s the thing.” He clears his throat. “If you’ll agree to do the work as a silent partner, then you’ll get double the advance.”
Silent is code for keeping my name off the song. “Double what though, Justin?”
He whispers the number, and I put down my guitar so I don’t accidentally drop it on the floor.
I don’t need money. I’m doing well and might secretly have a huge stash put away on top of my real estate portfolio.
But even I’m tempted by the cash when Justin tells me what I could earn for doctoring one song.
One song.
But…I can’t fix a song and hand over full credit to someone else so they can win songwriter of the year. It’s not who I am.
“Who’s the artist?” I ask, pulling a pick from my desk and running my finger over the sharp edge.
Justin sips his drink, then leans closer to the camera. “I can’t help but feel like telling you now would be the nail in the coffin.”
“It’s that bad?” So it isn’t for Bree, then.
A little part of me hoped he’d say her name.
Would I be willing to collaborate with Bree?
No, probably not. Seeing her again has gotten in my head and made me think weird things, but at the end of the day, she’s just my neighbor for a short time, and then she’s going back to her life and friends and the spotlight she loves so much, and I’m going to stay right where I am, comfortable and alone.
Well, not alone. I have family. A cousin. My grandma. An ocean view and my dream job. I’m doing all right.
I’m starting to feel antsy. “Anything else on the agenda?”
“Fine,” Justin says. “I’ll tell you who’s asking. It’s Jaida.”
“Definitely not,” I tell him.
“It’s not a terrible song, Ben. Give it a few hours, some tweaking, maybe a little rewrite—”
“An entire rewrite. I’ve done this before, remember?” Jaida is the reason I don’t agree to doctor songs anymore in the sham name of collaboration. “She’s impossible to work with.”
“But the money.”
“And the pain,” I counter. “So much pain.”
“Think about it. I’ll get with Brad and buy you another week to give them an answer.”
“Who’s Brad?”
“Jaida’s agent. He’s pretty flexible, because she really wants this. Just promise me you’ll consider it. Think of it like a transaction. She’s buying a Grammy, and you’re the supplier.”
Justin looks so hopeful I can’t bear to let him down. I’m shaking my head, even as I agree. But it leaves an icky feeling in my gut when the words leave my mouth. “Fine. I’ll think about it. You’ll get an answer tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” The flash of his teeth shows he thinks he’s won. “The only other thing we need to discuss is the Bree Belacourt song you’ve been working on.”
My stomach tightens. “It’s not quite ready.”
Justin gives a weird laugh. “You’ve got time. You might not have noticed in your little hermit world out there—”
“We live in the same state, man.”
“—but she’s gone missing. Her agent stopped pestering me for that song a week ago. I don’t think they know where she is.”
My chest burns with the very real desire to tell Justin exactly where she is: doing yoga on the back deck next door. I might have noticed her setting up and getting started before I joined our meeting.
“They don’t want the song anymore?” I ask to clarify.
It’s a weird double feeling of relief and disappointment.
I’m not sure if it’ll be easier to write while she’s next door.
Up until now, Bree has been an elusive concept.
I see her on social media or award shows and know she’s out there singing the words I write, but there’s a disconnect, too.
When she showed up the other night, her physical presence broke through the glass wall separating us and reminded me how real she is.
“I’m guessing they’ll want it eventually, but you have time. Enough to fit in some doctoring, maybe.”
There’s that relief and disappointment again, but now for the other reasons.
Either way, I’m going to ignore his effort to guilt me into doctoring Jaida’s song.
He wants me to contribute to one of the things that drove me away from the industry in the first place.
“You want to hear what I have so far or not?”
“Fine. Yes.”
I situate the guitar on my knee, the smooth wood falling into place with ease and familiarity, then begin to strum.
Bree started in pop, but her music has a heavy country influence, and I’ve enjoyed writing for her latest two albums more as the country vibes have grown stronger.
Her last album was pop, but this song might tip her over entirely to country, and I have a feeling she’ll love it once she hears it.
I play the beginning and sing the first verse, then move on to the chorus.
Justin listens, his ear tuned, head bobbing along. When I come to an abrupt halt, he looks up. “That’s a strong start, man. Really good.”
“Thanks.”
Justin blinks. “You have a gift, you know. Sure seems wasteful to keep all that talent locked away for one artist.”
“One?” I scoff. “I’ve written for so many people.”
“Maybe in the beginning, but lately I have to turn everyone down. She’s the only artist you choose to write for.”
“I sold one to Benson Boone a few months ago.”
“Bree Belacourt never could’ve pulled that one off, and you know it. Name one other person who hasn’t had to call me begging to get a hit from you in the last four years.”
This isn’t a fun game. “Shoot, I think my wifi is tripping.” I move my laptop screen up and down a few times. “Better let you go.”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Justin says through frustrated laughter. “Call me tomorrow, Ben.”