Page 10 of The Ex-Best Thing
I’m sitting at the desk in my workroom, my laptop open to Zoom. I fiddle with my guitar while Justin goes on about the requests piling up.
No one in the business knows the truth behind my identity, but my songs have still managed to gain a reputation over the years, and there’s never a lag in demand. Justin is a middleman, handling the artists, labels, even accepting awards on my behalf. We’ve been able to pull it off for so long because he enjoys all the people-schmoozing and I live for the solitude and anonymity he provides. We make a good team.
“Don’t shoot me down until you hear me out,” he says now, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Justin is one of those men who started graying in his late twenties but looks more sophisticated than old. I almost wonder if he would have added the gray himself even younger if he’d thought of it.
He wears his hair a little longer, but he’s still in need of a trim.
It’s shorter than my hair, though. Do I need a trim? Did Bree take one look at me and think I’ve let myself go?
Stop thinking about Bree.
Think aboutJustinmore. Especially if he wants me to leave my mind open for whatever he’s about to ask me to do. I’m probably not going to like it.
Justin is looking right at me via Zoom. “You have to agree to hear me out all the way before I pitch anything to you, Ben.”
I play a riff before setting my guitar down. Justin has been with me for half of my life. He was my manager from the beginning. When I decided the whole fame and spotlight thing wasn’t for me, he didn’t try to convince me to stick it out. He supported my choices and found a way for me to use my passion and skills to make a living away from the spotlight, shifting away from manager and into the agent role. He even found me a good therapist in Montana who didn’t treat me like a celebrity and helped me manage the panic attacks that used to grip me in a crowd. It didn’t take long to figure out that my anxiety was directly related to the pressure that came along with being a public figure. Once I stepped away from the spotlight, my anxiety went away too.
I owe Justin a lot. But the guy also likes to dream up in the clouds, and it’s on me to bring him down to reality. “I can’t write long, sappy love ballads, man. It’s just not in me.”
“I’ve moved on from that.” Justin scowls into the camera.
“Fine. I’ll hear you out.”
A grin spreads over his face, showing me his perfect veneers. “One word: collaboration.”
“No.”
“You promised?—”
“So did you,” I argue, picking up my guitar again.
“You don’t have to be face-to-face with anyone. You don’t even have to let the other person know who you are. All you have to do is take what they’ve written and work with them to improve it.”
“You’re asking me to doctor a badly written song so the artist can have credit and also success? What’s the objective here? Are they shooting for a Grammy?”
Justin’s silence speaks volumes.
“Not interested.”
“You shouldseethe cash they want to advance you for this.” Justin’s eyes are wide, his head shaking. Yeah, he’s an agent because he likes the income, but he’s not driven by money enough to force me into selling out. If he’s pushing this, it must be a lot.
“How much?” I ask.
“Well, that’s the thing.” He clears his throat. “If you’ll agree to do the work as a silent partner, then you’ll get double the advance.”
Silent is code for keeping my name off the song. “Doublewhatthough, Justin?”
He whispers the number, and I put down my guitar so I don’t accidentally drop it on the floor. I don’t need money. I’m doing well and might secretly have a huge stash put away on top of my real estate portfolio. But even I’m tempted by the cash when Justin tells me what I could earn for doctoring one song.
Onesong.
But…I can’t fix a song and hand over full credit to someone else so they can win songwriter of the year. It’s not who I am.
“Who’s the artist?” I ask, pulling a pick from my desk and running my finger over the sharp edge.
Justin sips his drink, then leans closer to the camera. “I can’t help but feel like telling you now would be the nail in the coffin.”
“It’s that bad?” So it isn’t for Bree, then. A little part of me hoped he’d say her name. Would I be willing to collaborate with Bree? No, probably not. Seeing her again has gotten in my head and made me think weird things, but at the end of the day, she’s just my neighbor for a short time, and then she’s going back to her life and friends and the spotlight she loves so much, and I’m going to stay right where I am, comfortable and alone.
