Page 63 of Wild Eyes
I nod eagerly, leaning forward just a little. “Put me to work. I want to make this happen. And I want it to be fucking incredible.”
Ford grins from where he lounges like a king in his castle. “Is this album payback?”
“Would it be off-putting for you if I said it was?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. Because my parents have fucked me around my entire life, taken advantage of my work for financial gain. And I want them nowhere near this.”
He rakes a hand through his mussed hair. “I will get you an ironclad contract.”
“My dad and agent might try to contact you. To weasel their way in. They’re going to want answers.”
Ford just shrugs, looking suave and unaffected. “There’s a pretty famous song about not always getting what you want.”
I chuckle at that. “They are relentless.”
The man across from me leans forward, eyes flashing. “Skylar, they are irrelevant to me. I don’t owe them answers. I don’t care about being liked. They can contact me all they want. I will happily delete their messages.”
A relieved sigh rushes from me. It’s like I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear that. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ford steeples his hands. “Now let’s talk vibe. What are you after?”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I prepare to talk about my music. And it strikes me that I haven’t felt this way about creating in a very long time. “Something stripped down. Something simple. Something…imperfect. Do you think that would be possible?”
“Definitely.”
“I…” I grimace and press my lips into a flat line. “I have to be honest. My voice is good, but I’m no generational talent. Technology has been a huge help.”
He just shrugs. “Plenty of excellent musicians haven’t been the very best at their craft. I think it’s more about what’s in here.” He taps at his chest, a chain with a small key is dangling there. “Have you got the heart to create something special, Skylar?”
My teeth gnash. “Yes.”
And something about saying it out loud makes me believe myself.
“Good—”
“The only thing is…I don’t write my own music. Or, well, I haven’t.”
His lips twitch as he mulls that over. “Okay. We can buy songs. But I’m going to need some time to get the right ones for us to look at. Then we can workshop them and see what fits with your vision. I’ll call in some favors, see what I can do about musicians and hammering out recording timelines. How’s the voice? Do you feel like you need coaching?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll practice this week. I’ll be good.” The truth is, I feel too raw to sing in front of anyone right now. I think if I sing, I’ll cry.
“Okay.” His hands slap his thighs. “We’ll reconvene next Monday. And I’ll bring my daughter, Cora. I promised her we’d work on this together. In fact, you were her pick. Is that all right?”
A watery smile touches my lips. How utterly, painfully sweet of him to do this with her. It makes my heart squeeze painfully to think of my own dad and our fucked-up relationship. I push past those feelings and tell him in the brightest voice I can muster, “Looking forward to meeting her. And I could use a breather. A week off will be wonderful.”
My week off is miserable.
My plans to fill it with work and people and business goes up in smoke before my eyes. Instead, it’s dark and sadand somehow deeply necessary. It makes me realize I’ve spent almost no time alone in my life. Just me, with my thoughts and feelings as my only company.
Okay, Cherry pipes up and calls me boring from time to time.
Still, there’s something profound about those few days I spend on my own. They’re fucking depressing because rather than sweeping away every uncomfortable thought that pops into my mind, I sit with it. Dig my fingers into all the tender spots and let myself feel the pain.
I practice singing in the shower. And it makes me cry.
In fact, a lot of innocuous things seem to make me cry. I cry, and no one comes to rub my back or tell me to pull it together.
