Page 143 of All Twerk, No Play

I was a shuck of a human, nursing a warm beer and staring at the green room’s scuffed coffee table, abandoned setlists, and half-empty water bottles.

“Not the performance I was expecting, Cruz.” Polished wingtips stepped in front of me, and I looked up at a guy in a pretentious suit.I didn’t want my shitty mood to reflect on the band’s ability to get booked again so I stood, shoving my hands in my jeans. The guy flashed a slick smile. “Cameron Crane, Exacta Records.”

A record executive? My body was still buzzing from the set, but my mind was racing ahead, trying to process what the hell he was here for. I searched the room for Rodriguez. “Listen, I don’t handle the bookings. You’re looking for—”

“I’m here for you: The reluctant, heartbroken romantic. You played it perfectly, the crowd ate it up,” Cameron said, and my jaw clenched at the implication that I was full of shit. “You’re a triple threat: the voice of Ed Sheeran, the emotion of Chris Carraba, the sex appeal of Jared Leto. We want to talk about developing that into a full-fledged solo career.”

I stared at the condensation pooling on a nearby beer bottle. I dreamed of this conversation, never thinking I’d actually hear these words … and now that it was happening, resentment brewed in my chest.

Because he didn’t want me, not really. He wanted the viral love songs, the hopeless romantic angle, the guy who sang his heart out for the woman who got away.

“This would start as a 360 deal—Exacta would fund the recording, production, distribution, marketing, and touring. In exchange, we’d take a percentage of your merch, ticket sales, and streaming royalties.”

I ran a hand down my face. “So you own my soul.”

“Standard first-album deal," Cameron chuckled. "You’re not just a local presence like most upcoming artists, you’re national. Global, even. That gives you leverage. We’re talking a high six-figure advance on the first album. The better you perform, the better the terms on album two.”

High six figures. That was more money than my entire band had made in years. More money than I’d ever thought I’d see playing music.

“We’d pair you with a producer, get a team to polish your image—”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “So you don’t want me, you want some radio-friendly, cleaned-up version of me.”

Cameron rubbed his jaw. “Your fanbase is already deeply invested. We’re not trying to change you. We’re just trying to make sure you don’t flame out after one viral moment.”

And in those fantasies of a future as a rock star, I hadn’t been having this conversation alone. I’d had people to turn to for decision making, a team that could celebrate together. I looked over his head at Rodriguez and Stacy, who were trying to play it cool but definitely lingered nearby, their expressions cautiously hopeful. “And the band?”

“You can keep them as touring musicians, but the label’s investing in you,” he said, sliding me a business card. “I’ll send over the paperwork, you should have a lawyer look it over. But don’t wait too long. In this business, timing is everything.”

I stared at the embossed logo, the weight of thick cardstock heavy in my fingertips.

“And hey,” he clapped my shoulder. “Soon your Snake Girl will realize that dumping you was the biggest mistake of her life.”

"The 1," Taylor Swift

Victoria

Thursdayfeltmoreoverwhelmingand isolated than ever. Urgent email notifications flickered nonstop: a job posting for a new CFO, a vague press release about Spencer’s departure. The list was neverending, the weight of responsibility crushing … but after tossing and turning until dawn, I was too drained to care.

When 1pm rolled around, my hand moved to press play, my hand still sore where it smashed Spencer's nose. But instead of Cruz's face greeting me, I skipped through an ad for pet insurance. Good, he’d monetized, finally benefiting from all his time and effort.

Then his face filled my screen, though the camera didn’t disguise the gauntness in his cheeks and deeper lines around his mouth.

“I’ve got a surprise for you today, baby. A song easy enough to play on your piano, just like you taught me,” Cruz said over two simple chords. He usually recorded from the home office, but the living room fireplace behind him indicated his computer was propped on top of my piano.

No,hispiano. I'd left it all behind.

“Even though I know this video will be taken down, and I’m in favor of Taylor’s right to protect her IP, and I always choose Taylor's Version,” he smiled, but his eyes were lackluster, “I wanted to tell you this story from T Swizzle Tuesday.”

I felt my lips rise, remembering my last workout. I complained during push-ups about the grass dew on my palms—the bratty bullshit I whined about to get him to take care of me. And he happily complied, promising me a second of kissing for each push-up—and clarifying that this offer only applied to me, so nobody else should try to out-brat me.

When I cranked out 23 push-ups, the students whooped and he turned on ‘You Belong With Me,’ handed the stopwatch to Kate, cradled my face in his hands and spent 23 of the best seconds of my life kissing me until I was breathless.

My shoulders tensed at the memory of those push-ups. I missed that feeling—the sunshine on my face, the ache in my muscles, his encouraging laughter. I missed the time to take care of myself.

The video showed a picture-in-picture edit, his face in the main screen and a smaller video of his hands in the split screen. His fingernails were black now. Had he seen Adriana or painted them himself?

“There were some song requests, fan favorites that …” he sighed. “I couldn’t play them without you there, so I put Spotify on random, and heard an unfamiliar song. You know herFolklorealbum came out when I was underway on the sub, so somehow I missed this one.”

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