Page 63 of I Do With You

“Or what?” he snaps, the laughter gone in an instant.

Back to fighting. It’s where we always end up, and I don’t know why. We never used to argue like this. Back when we had nothing but each other, we never fought unless it was at each other’s sides. I sigh, not wanting to fight any more.

“What happened to us, man?” I wonder aloud. The simple question is harder to ask than it should be.

“Just living the life,” he retorts snidely, throwing his hands wide as he relaxes back into the couch. “I mean, didn’t you dream of traveling to small towns, staying in shitty trailers with penis fungi all around while some local girl looks at you like you’re worth something?” He lifts his left brow, letting me know he’s coming for blood. Mine. “Right, no. We dreamed of getting the hell out of the ’hood, making music, making money, not having to worry about where we were gonna sleep or when we were gonna eat. Remember that, Benjamin? Or is that all distant history that you’re too good to own up to now?”

I do remember. I remember it vividly. And it’s why we work so hard. I never want to go back to that life. Neither does Sean.

“I’m not too good for anything,” I reply, my voice rising with anger and passion with each tortured syllable. “Hell, I’m poisonous to most things. You, especially. I know I’m ruining everything, and I’m sorry! But I can’t live like this, not for them!”

It’s a deep, heavy confession that’s been slowly growing in my gut for a while, but I haven’t had the courage to give it air. Until Hope.

AMM Records signed Sean and me when we were hungry—literally and figuratively, couch surfing from one shitty place to another and angry at the world for beating us over the head with the short end of the stick we were dealt. They used all that against us, and we were too stupid and too desperate to see it.

No, that’s not true.

We knew it was a sweet deal for them, but we were in no position to negotiate. We wanted the moon, they offered a paper-plate cutout of it, and like idiots, we signed our lives away in trade.

And now that we could actually have the moon, they want us to still be happy with that paper plate while they reap the rewards, controlling everything and taking every penny. Pennies we’ve earned with our own blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice.

Sean doesn’t care. To him, a million is better than nothing, and it’s a million we never imagined we’d have. But it pisses me off that while we’re splitting a tiny portion of profits three ways, AMM is raking it in. On our hard work. We do the lyrics, the music, the shows, the tours, the marketing, the merch design ... all of it. Mostly because we want that creative control. But the end result is, they get everything for nothing.

And I let it go. For so long, I did. Sean and I both felt unbelievably grateful for being plucked out of hell and thrust onto a black altar draped in dark satin with pyrotechnics going off behind us. It felt like a dream come true, which is why it was the stage setup for our first big tour.

And it was a dream ... until AMM wanted to change my lyrics into something more mass-marketable. Until they wanted to rewrite Sean’s music, adding basic guitar riffs anyone can play while takingout the dramatic and complex drum solos Sean is exceptional at. Until they started stirring the pot clockwise and counterclockwise to see what would create drama they could monopolize on, creating an army of fans that rally for me, Sean, or Trent but never all of us. AMM is corrupting us, and I won’t stand for it, even if Sean doesn’t see the problem.

And that’s why I’m ruining us.

“What do you want to do, then?” Sean barks. “We signed away our fucking souls. There’s no take-backsies.”

“What if there is, though?” I try for the millionth time. “We don’t need AMM. We could hire a lawyer—a good one this time—and get out of the contract. Do it on our own, or find another label that’s not bleeding us dry and forcing us to turn on each other.”

“Whatever.” Sean waves a hand, dismissing the idea outright.

“We could do it. We could even fight back against AMM if you want to stay with them,” I concede, though the offer is bitter on my tongue. “Together, we can do anything.”

I truly believe that.

That might be the crux of the issue. Somewhere along the way, I started to feel worth something. Having people listen to my music and sing along, seeing what they write online about it, and watching as they show up to concerts has slowly led to me feeling like I’m not completely worthless. As much as I hate people and as nervous as they make me when I’m onstage, their acceptance of Midnight Destruction gave me a confidence I’d never had before.

For some reason, Sean hasn’t grown the same way. He’s still happily settling for trash scraps like they’re champagne and caviar.

Not that I want that fancy shit. But a little trust from AMM, some freedom to grow musically, and a fair cut seems reasonable.

“You’ve seen what I’ve been writing,” I add, trying a new tactic. “You know it’s good, because you’ve been sending back tunes in record time. It’s the best we’ve ever written.”

Sean grunts, agreeing with me but not giving in because he wants to see where I’m going with this. I’m not even sure I know where I’m going.

I want to convince him to fight with me against AMM, but there’s something more pressing. Something I should’ve already done.

“It’s her. It’s Hope. She’s the inspiration. I’m going to tell her.”

He knows instantly what I’m talking about and surges up from the couch, pointing a thick, tattooed finger at me. “No. The. Fuck. You’re not. She’s the inspiration? Fine. Use that, write songs or the whole damn album for all I care. But you don’t get to risk everything for all of us because of some pussy.”

His breath is jagged, like he can feel our record deal slipping out of his hands right this moment.

But it won’t come to that.

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