Page 13 of Fa-La La-La Land
“I told you she was amazing,” I say in the voice I reserve forDanny—my cheerful, this-is-a-great-relationship voice. My, I’m-so-glad-you’re-the-boss voice. My just-tell-me-what-you-want voice.
“So you two already know each other?” Danny says, glancing between us.
“My mate Dex is married to her cousin Britta.” My cheeks ache from keeping the smile in place.
“We’re practically family,” Stella adds. “That’s why I can show people who the real Rhys is and get his image back on track. Fans will be swooning over him again in no time.”
My head jerks toward her.The real Rhys?That’s not what we talked about this morning.
“The real Rhys?” Danny laughs, but there’s nothing friendly to it. “Rhys showed them that in Seattle. Nobody wants that. They want to see the Rhys who dances and jumps rope during his shows without missing a beat. The Rhys who pulls girls on stage to serenade them. The Rhys who’s shirtless under a green and red sequin vest singing ‘Fa-La La-La Land’ at the top of his lungs with a smile on his face. That’s the Rhys they want. That’s the Rhys we’re going to give them.”
I tune him out and fix my eyes on the city skyline through the window. Skyscrapers block the view of the ocean, but I picture the waves anyway, rolling in slow and steady, each one a little different from the one before.
I don’t look at Stella, even though I can feel her eyes on me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to argue. Maybe she’s wondering if I will, now that she knows how I feel about “Fa-La La-La Land” and the version of me the label created when I was sixteen.
Danny’s voice cuts through the waves in my head. “We need to get him out in public more. Interacting with people. Fans need to see him going places, being friendly, being silly, beingthatRhys.”
The sound of the surf in my mind goes still. “Nah,” I say flatly.
“No?” Danny repeats, like he can’t quite believe it.
I glance at Stella. Her eyes are warm, dark, steady—and for a second, she gives me the courage I’ve been missing.
“No,” I say again, shaking my head. “I can’t pretend to be silly and happy while I’m worrying people are taking photos to sell off or post online with some garbage headline. I’m not ready for that again. I don’t want to do it.”
“You’d better get ready,” Danny says in that same tone he’s used since I was sixteen and too eager to agree. “You’re playing Winter Lights Live, and we need to sell out the venue. We need people to want to hear ‘Fa-La La-La Land’ again—and whatever other song you’re going to be playing there.”
At the mention of Winter Lights, my chest tightens.
He knows I haven’t written the new song yet. The one that was supposed to prove I still had something real to say. After they moved me from headlining the show to midline, I agreed to stay on only if I could perform a song that was mine. Not theirs. Not the label’s.
But I haven’t written a single word.
“With all due respect, Danny,” Stella says smoothly, “I think Rhys makes a good point. Filming him in his own environment will help him be more relaxed, more himself. I can get the footage I need and then edit it to show people the Rhys they want to see.”
“Nobody wants to see a testy introvert sitting at his piano, tinkering with songs,” Danny says.
Stella smiles, patient as ever. “I see your point, Danny, but my experience running Georgia Rose Beck’s social media is that the moments I captured of her being totally comfortable and herself were what got the most clicks, the most likes, the most engagement. So, what if we balance out Rhys at his pianowith Rhys hosting a party at his house? He’ll be seen with people, but in his own environment, he won’t get weird.”
Danny raises a brow. “We’re better off getting him to big events.”
“Uh-huh. I agree,” Stella says, “but let me ask you this—do you have any experience with breeding steers?”
My head snaps toward her.
Danny frowns. “Breeding what?”
“Steers? I mean…cows.”
I’ve got no clue where she’s going with this, but I’m oddly invested. I like the idea of myself as a bull. Big. Solid. No one pushes him around.
Danny gives an awkward laugh. “I assume it’s a matter of getting the dude cow in the same place as the lady cow.”
Stella’s smile turns condescending in the prettiest way. “Your method would be a lot easier, but not as successful. If you want a prize-winning steer, you need bull semen, rubber gloves that go to your shoulder, a strong stomach, and a very comfortable, happy heifer.”
“I don’t follow,” Danny says, and for once, I’m right there with him.
“Prized-bull semen is expensive,” Stella explains. “You want results the first time you artificially inseminate a heifer. That means you keep her in her own environment, make sure she’s fed, petted, and loved before shoving your arm up her?—”
