Page 68 of Tell Me When It's Over

“They’re wide open. You know what they see? My annoying ass sister torturing me for no reason. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Wait!” More laughing. “God, you’re so touchy. At least call Mom sometime. She wants to hear from you.”

Sighing, I give her that. “Fine.”

“I love you, Kyler.” I swear she’s wheezing still, so I roll my eyes at her theatrics. She enjoys my pain too much.

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, too.”

After hanging up, I begin to take my drink upstairs with me when I glance out the window by the front door to see Leighton and Chase. I overheard them talking about dinner, so they must not have planned on doing anything after.

When I see him lean down slowly, I notice the way her head tips up. My stomach clenches when I see their lips touch, staying a little too long, and then slowly gliding along one another’s.

I peel myself away before she walks in or before I storm out.

I don’t trust myself not to, especially after my conversation with Mia.

Teeth grinding, I close myself in my room and wonder what that means for them.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

That bothers me more.

“Fuck,” I murmur.

I spend weeks keeping my mind busy and far, far away from my sister’s inquiries, and it leads me straight into the firing squad, all dressed in expensive Armani suits. There are at least four different things I want to call Kalvin Brooks right now, but I bite my tongue like Gordy is silently pleading I do rather than stir the pot. It’s not easy and I’m fairly sure I taste blood, but it’ll be easier for him if there isn’t bad PR to cleanup on the trail my ass leaves behind from the recording studio.

The Englishman in front of me is pushing his luck for the umpteenth time since I came back to this fucking state. I didn’t realize how grateful I was for the videocalls Gordy set up for us when I was still over on the east coast. At least then I could feign computer problems and hang up when the fucker got on my nerves.

“I didn’t sell you the song to rewrite the parts you don’t like,” I grind out, losing what little patience I have. They can’t expect me to sit here and take it. “What the hell is wrong with the version we signed a contract for?”

My friend pinches his nose but doesn’t say anything. Gordy knows better.

Kalvin leans back in his chair. “The artist doesn’t feel like it’s fitting for his audience. We’re inclined to agree.”

“The contract—”

“Doesn’t say adjustments can’t be made,” he finishes for me, a cocky smirk on his face that I’d love nothing more than to smack right off it. “However, we have discussed other options that would prevent said changes from impacting the song.”

I wait, already knowing I’m not going to like what he says.

“Record the song yourself.”

Snorting, I stand and walk toward the corner of the room to distance myself from the prick. “Let me ask you something,” I pry. “Are all men with accents complete fucking dickheads, or do you just fancy yourself to be one?”

Gordy mutters, “Christ,” while dropping his face into his palms.

“Relax,” I tell my manager, “this dick has definitely been called worse.”

Kalvin laughs. “By all of my exes,” he confirms, a wider smirk stretching over his face. “Call me what you want, but this is business. You know how it works. The song is definitely not fit for the original artists’ audience, but yours…”

“Even if I was stupid enough to say yes, you already signed a contract giving the song to Thompson.”

“We signed a contract proclaiming the rights to your song for the label itself, not an individual artist. That’s interchangeable as we see fit.”

One of my brows arches.

“We want you to record the song.”

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