Starstruck (Heartstrings Duet #1)

22. take a ride

[ 22 ]

TAKE A RIDE

LENNON

Four Months Until the Concert

“WORK” BY JIMMY EAT WORLD

I make my way back to my office from the lounge, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, poking my head into Connor’s office as I go.

There are about fifty people who work in each publishing office, and we have one at each Revolution Records and Six-String Entertainment location. Connor is twenty and one of the newer music publishers here in Toronto. When he started about a year ago, I took him under my wing, and since then, he’s become like my surrogate little brother. I’m no expert at the job, but I’ve been doing it for years, and growing up with two rock stars for parents and writing my own songs for the label has given me an understanding of it that the other publishers don’t have.

The job of a music publisher is to be in control of the lyrics and written music on behalf of songwriters and composers. We hold the ownership rights for what songwriters and composers at Revolution produce, and we’re the ones who deal with licensing agreements and distribution of the songs. We’re the ones who reach out to record labels with new songs for their artists to record, so even though this publishing house is owned by the company, we don’t only work with Revolution artists.

Where Revolution Records’s job is to protect their recording artists, Revolution Records Publishing’s job is to find songs for those artists to record and protect the individual who wrote it. Once all is said and done, we’re also responsible for ensuring that the individuals we’re working on behalf of get paid.

Anytime you hear a song in a movie or on TV, it was a music publisher who created the licensing and worked with the music supervisor of the program so they could use it.

It’s a pretty gruelling job sometimes, seeing as we can represent just about anyone, and it requires a lot of backbone to be able to look out for the artists we represent. But I love it. Revolution has a handful of songwriters who work exclusively with our artists, and I’m one of them. Getting to be on both sides—the publishing side and the writing side—makes me extra knowledgeable about what goes into the making of music.

“Hey,” I say to Connor, who is sitting at his desk with a look of determination on his face. “Did you get everything sorted with Westwood?”

He nods. “Just finalized things this morning. We came to an agreement for them to use four of her songs, and we’ll be getting paid any day now.”

“Oh, you’re an angel.” My shoulders slump in relief. “Thank you so much for all your help lately. I haven’t said it enough, but I appreciate you.”

He smiles softly. “Just doing my job, Lennon. I’m happy to help out in any way I can. Just as long as you’re doing better.”

I return his smile. “Still, it means a lot. And I’m getting there,” I tell him, though I’m not entirely sure either of us believe it.

He nods anyway, not commenting on my little white lie.

My phone dings with a new notification, and I pull it out, checking to see what it’s about. “Let me know if you need anything else,” I say quickly as I read the text sitting on my lock screen .

“Yeah, you, too,” he returns as I take a step back out of his office.

I wave in his direction as I turn and head down the hall to mine.

Lover Boy

Are you doing okay?

I sigh, swallowing. He put his number in my phone the other day when he came by and sent himself a text. Now he’s been texting a few times a day to check in, and knowing he cares enough to worry only adds to my fear of how he makes me feel. I haven’t seen him since he left my apartment, and I’ve been doing my best to avoid texting him back. Something shifted in me having him there, while he held me as I cried, and it’s not something I’m ready to confront.

At some point after my panic attack, I fell asleep. When I opened my eyes again, I was in my bed. My blinds were closed, my phone still plugged in on my nightstand where I’d left it that morning, and next to it was a glass of water and two ibuprofens that I know I didn’t put there.

And when I looked to my right, Baxter was lying in bed next to me.

He was on top of the duvet while I was tucked under it, and the idea that he had carried me to bed and then stayed to make sure I was okay overwhelmed me as I stared at him.

Lying on his left side with one arm under the pillow while the other was sprawled out on the bed, he was still fully dressed in his black Henley paired with black jeans. His hair was mussed from being slept on, with a curl falling right in the middle of his forehead. He looked so peaceful lying there—not at all like the world’s most famous and notorious rock star.

Without thinking, I brought my hand up and gently brushed the curl back into place. Then I placed my hand softly against his cheek, letting my fingers play with his neatly trimmed facial hair as I watched him sleep.

I stared for what felt like hours before his eyes fluttered open, instantly catching on mine.

“Hi, Lenny girl,” he said, his voice raspy with sleep as a slight smirk dusted his face.

“You didn’t have to stay,” was my response, but I didn’t remove my hand from his face. Instead, I let my thumb trace his cheek as we continued staring at each other in the darkness of my bedroom.

It didn’t feel lustful, though. Rather, it felt more like for a brief moment, we were more than two almost-strangers who occasionally have great sex.

After he left, that was the only thought I had.

What if we could be more?

I’ve been blaming it on the emotions of the day, the delirium of being in the dark and knowing that despite our situation, he took care of me. And that’s what I’m going to continue telling myself it was, because if I let myself think about it any harder or ignore him any longer, nothing good will come of it.

Resigning myself to that fact, I send him a text back.

Me

I’m okay.

Are you free tonight?

For you? Always.