Page 22 of Starstruck
“Hey, Ad.” I grin back at her, leaning my elbows on the counter. Levi and Colt greet her in their own ways as I continue, “I’m good, how are you?”
“Doing well, Bax. Thanks for asking.”
“Glad to hear it. Let Jere know we’re on our way up for me, would ya?”
She nods as I turn toward the elevator. “Sure thing.”
I shoot her a wink as the elevator dings, the doors opening for us to enter.
Once inside, Colt scoffs. “You’re such a fucking flirt,” he jokes. “Almost as bad as Levi.”
“Hey!” Levi contests. “Nobody’s as bad a flirt as me.”
I laugh. “Can’t help myself.”
The elevator counts past floors one through six before landing on seven, where the meeting is being held. The seventh floor is the production department and home to Revolution Records Publishing.
The producers are responsible for making sure the album is the best it can be before it goes to the engineers for mastering, and then they plan releases post-recording to make sure everything is set to go. Then the publishers are the ones responsible for selling the rights to songs and making sure songwriters and composers get paid. I never work with publishers myself; my team does on my behalf.
We enter the conference room to find about seventeen people—some producers, a cover artist, my publishers, my mastering engineer, the head of artists and repertoire, my publicist Maria,Jeremy, and my manager Kevin. Colt, Levi, and I make our way into the room, taking the three empty seats by the door.
With my arms crossed over my chest, I lean back in my chair. “Let’s get to work.”
“It’s good,” Jeremy says, nodding as track nine on the album comes to an end.
Brad, one of the producers, pipes up from across the table. “It’s missing something, though.”
I furrow my brows. Track nine is titled “That Girl.” It’s one of the handful Lennon inspired, but I wrote it as a conversation between two people—a man and a woman. It’s not like my usual stuff, but it was about time I stepped outside of my musical comfort zone.
I do agree that something’s missing from it, but that wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.
I grit my teeth then say, “And what might that be?”
He quirks a brow at me, a smirk crossing his face. His gaze shifts between me and the mastering engineer, Matthew, who gives him a simple nod, urging him to continue. I raise my brows. Apparently, they’ve been having a silent conversation the whole time we’ve been in here.
“It needs to be a duet,” Brad finally states, and I feel like I’ve been slapped.
I rear back. “Fuck that,” I roar, angered that he would even dare suggest something like that. I don’tdoduets.
“Baxter, just hear us out,” Matthew adds.
I raise my voice, since he clearly didn’t hear me thefirst time. “No fucking way. You know duets aren’t my thing.”
“Come on, man. Don’t you want this album to be your best yet?”
I narrow my eyes, leaning forward in my seat. “It already fucking is.”
Colt places a hand on my shoulder, and I snap my head toward him. He shoots me a look, his brows raised. I roll my eyes, my shoulders tense as I lean back again.
“That may be true,” Matthew begins. “But a woman’s voice would do wonders for the song. It would make the conversation seem real. Having a different voice for each of the two perspectives would create a new dimension, one that your voice alone could never accomplish.”
I grind my molars, my knee bouncing. I’m a solo artist, and while I’ve been featured on other people’s tracks to helpthem, I don’t have features on my albums. I’ve never needed to, and I definitely don’t work well enough with others to co-write a song.
Which is exactly what I plan to tell them, but nothing comes out. Because when I take a moment to actually think about it, he’s right.
My shoulders slump. I wrote this song alone, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be a duet. It could use a woman’s touch—and voice—next to mine.
Fuck.
