Page 58 of Fa-La La-La Land
“You think I’m scared of Danny?” I say quietly. “I’m not. I’m scared of losing the only songs that still feel like mine. If I walk away from VibeHouse, I walk away from everything—including ‘Fa-La La-La Land.’ Not only their version, butmine. All of it.”
Stella exhales, her frustration simmering. “What about the song you gave me? ‘December Dreams’? They don’t own that.”
“Yeah, nah. I played it for Danny, remember? Anything I write is theirs. My contract expires in a couple of years. Until then, they own me.”
Her expression morphs from surprise to straight-up anger. “Nobodyownsyou, Rhys. No amount of money is worth playing a part you don’t want to play anymore. You’re happier performing your own music. And you’re better. You’re more authentic and likable, on and offstage. I’m not saying that as your girlfriend. I’m saying it as your social media strategist.”
Her mouth presses closed in a hard line of certainty while her eyes flash a thousand shades of brown.
But something beyond her eyes has caught my attention. “You’re my girlfriend?” I ask, trying not to smile.
That quiets her for a second, but only long enough to ratchet up her defensiveness. “Of course I’m your girlfriend. Do you think I’m one of those girls who jets off to Italy with any rock star who offers?”
Adam sticks his head between us. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, sounding more irritated than sorry as he hands Stella a key. “Lock up when you’re done here, will you?”
“Yes.” Stella snatches it out of his hand, then turns her glare back on me as Adam and Bear head out. “VibeHouse may be paying me, but you’re my client, Rhys. I want what’s best for you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be pressuring you to forget about Danny and VibeHouse.”
I close the distance between us as she talks, her anger slowly softening as I do. When I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her to me, she doesn’t resist even as she fights to stay mad.
“I’m keen to know if my girlfriend agrees with my social media strategist.” I kiss the corner of her jaw, right where I know she likes it, then trail my lips to hers.
“Mmm,” she sighs against my mouth before returning my kisses, stopping only long enough to say, “She thinks you should saysayonarato anyone who doesn’t know your worth.”
Stella kisses me once more before pulling back and linking her fingers together at the nape of my neck, runningher thumbs through the hair there. “Rhys, I get that there are huge consequences if you break your contract with VibeHouse, so I promise not to keep bugging you. You need to know, though, that you can be bigger than they’re allowing you—not without growing pains, but you’ve got the talent. If we strategize and capitalize on your social media presence?—”
I stop her with a deep kiss. In between the kisses that follow, I say, “I’d like to speak to my girlfriend before making any career-imploding decisions.”
“Pretty sure I know she agrees with me,” Stella says in a staggered breath.
With my hands on her hips, I kiss her again while walking us toward the door. Gotta get as much of this in as possible before going back to our separate rooms at Gia’s.
I’m too wound up to sleep, though. I can’t quit thinking about what Stella said, not only about being her boyfriend, but about being myself on stage.
There’s a battle going on between my head and my heart, and I don’t know how it’ll end. The version of “Fa-La La-La Land”Adam and I played tonight—the one with his changes—threatens to break my heart, it’s so good. And I’ll never be able to play it, regardless of whether I leave VibeHouse.
Walking away from my contract means walking away from the rights to their version. But my “Fa-La” is too similar for them not to sue for copyright infringement. The only chance I have of performing my version is if VibeHouse gives me the go-ahead. If they do, and then I leave, the song stays with them, along with anything else I’ve written since signing their predatory contract.
Losing my song, even more than losing the revenue from VibeHouse’s version, scares the hell out of me. Reinventing myself means changing everything. I know other artists havedone it, but results are mixed. I still don’t buy Post Malone as a country singer.
Problem is that seeing Granny Sparks tear up today over the son she lost over twenty years ago brought words and lyrics to my mind that I’ve been itching to write down for hours now. Since I can’t sleep anyway, I crack my notebook and get the lyrics on paper, even if singing them is only a wish. Doesn’t matter. I can’t shake them.
Next morning, I send my mates off on the long drive back to LA. One day in Paradise isn’t enough, but Archie’s on the outs with his dad, so he doesn’t have use of the Forsythe jet anymore, and Frankie’s got to be back in Serenity Cove for her diner job. It’s bonkers to me they’re living like they’re broke when their dad’s a billionaire.
Once they head out, Stella and I go to Main Street. It’s not a far walk from her mum’s house, but we have to trek through crunching snow to get there. After turning down Adam’s gig last night, I figured I’d have a quiet weekend. Didn’t plan on freezing to death at a parade instead. Should have taken Stella’s warning seriously.
We pass the booths set up in the town square selling homemade goods. The air is heavy with the smell of cinnamon baked goods, floral soap, and fresh cut pine trees.
“Tell me again why they hold an outdoor parade in a place where they’re guaranteed to have cold weather the day after Thanksgiving?” I ask through chattering teeth.
“I don’t know,” she says, without a shiver even though her coat’s only half-zipped. “Tradition, I guess? I mean, if NewYork City can do a parade on Thanksgiving Day, why can’t we do one?”
“Because Paradise is basically the North Pole’s next-door neighbor.”
She lifts a wry eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s technically true, latitudinally speaking. But if it is, then that’s why Paradise is the perfect place for a Santa parade.”
While Stella waves at and cheers for the little girls—including Charly—on the first “float,” which is a tractor pulling a flatbed trailer behind it, I stamp my boots and rub my gloved hands together.
“I think I’ve got frostbite,” I mutter. Stella’s cheering too loud to notice.
