Page 69 of Tell Me When It's Over

“I already said—”

“Kyler,” Gordy sighs, stepping into the conversation for the first time since we got here an hour ago. “Man, I’ve always gotten you out of this kind of stuff, but I have to agree with them.”

The fuck?

“We all heard the demo you cut for this song,” he continues, ignoring the betrayed glare I cast in his direction. “There isn’t anybody who could do it better than you, and that was just a rough version.”

The song itself is probably one of the best ones I’ve written in a while. I sang it a few times before doing the demo so they’d get an idea of the sound, but it wasn’t for this. “I can’t tell you no in many more ways than I already have.”

“Who’s it about?” Kalvin pushes.

My face screws. “Nobody.”

“I don’t believe you,” he states casually. “But that’s neither here nor there. Thompson can’t pull this off. Your manager is right.”

“Then find someone else who can.”

“We have.” His eyes are pointed.

I look at Gordy. “You’re not going to stop this? It’s damage control you’ll have to face when I walk out of here.”

His hesitation tells me that he’s considering his options, but there’s a determination not often in his eyes when it comes to going against me. Gordy chooses his battles wisely. “I’m going to stop you from making a stupid decision, which would be giving this song to somebody else. Record it once. Doesn’t have to be today. Think about it.”

The dick in front of me chimes in. “We may have others who would do it justice, but not the way your vocals could. Acoustic only. Raw.”

Since when do they allow me to do acoustic off the gate? They’ve only allowed me to do acoustic once before and it was over a year after the song released—a special edition to rake in more money.

He can tell he’s got me interested, so I wipe all emotion from my face. “Take a week. If you say no still, we’ll move forward. Call me whatever the hell you want, but I’m persistent among my many titles.”

I’ll give him that. “And Thompson doesn’t care that you’re passing the selection on after working with him on changes?”

The smirk he gives is woven with amusement. “Unlike you, he’s too much of a pussy to call me out on anything.”

Again, Gordy mumbles under his breath.

“One week,” he repeats.

Reluctantly, I agree. Gordy and I walk out to his waiting car, and I think I already have my answer even before the front door to the studio closes. When I open the back door to the Ford Explorer, I turn to him. “You knew,” I accuse.

He shrugs, not looking worried or guilty over my accusation. “You wouldn’t have even gone if I said anything. I meant it, Kyler. Everyone in that studio heard the way you sang that song. Nobody can record it but you.”

My jaw ticks. “Did Harry hear it?”

Confusion pinches his brows. “Not that I know of. The last Kalvin heard anything from up above, it was when I brought up the Matthews collaboration. Harry has been unusually quiet.”

A few months before I packed up and left, Harry informed me that he’d bought Studio 51, the label I use. That’d been the last straw for me. He’d given me years of freedom, but the second I told him I wanted a break, he went behind my back and purchased what little freedom I had from him. “He has a lot of people doing his bids these days, G.”

Understanding flashes in his eyes. “He hasn’t heard the demo. Even if he did, it’s your choice. Your song. Your one chance to do something on your terms. Kalvin didn’t bring it up during the meeting, but he told me he’d let you do it your own way.”

That explains the acoustic comment. “I don’t understand why he would now.”

“He knows it’s the only way to get you to agree. The dude is everything you’ve ever called him, which I wish you’d stop doing to his face, but he’s also smart. Even one song from you would bring in the kind of cash flow that would make you both set for life. They need it. Harry has run their place into the ground by expanding their artists, and none of them are bringing in the kind of money you did.”

“Well—”

“And don’t tell me you don’t want to be used,” he stops me. “Admit it, Kyler. You’ve always loved recording. You enjoyed being behind the mic, guitar in hand, singing your heart out. You’re a great songwriter with a lot of credits under your belt, but you’re a phenomenal singer, and your fans have waited long enough for something like this. Don’t you miss it? Miss hearing them sing along? The smiles on their faces when you watch the crowd? The covers on YouTube we used to watch together? It’s everything else you hate.” There’s no point in disagreeing because we both know every one of those statements are true.

“Humor me,” he continues, raw determination in his eyes. “Record the song. Do it at home for all I care. You can go back to writing for others after if that’s really all you want to do. What’s a few minutes of your time?”

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