My head is spinning. I truly have no fucking idea how to respond to that steaming pile of bullshit.
Finally, I ask him, “When did you decide I needed to appeal to kids? That was never Lips on Fire’s demographic, and I don’t see that changing for my solo work. That’s not the kind of music I write.”
“But it could be,” he says. “And I don’t mean kid music like the Backstreet Boys or any of the boy band shit. I just mean something that’s going to get that younger demographic excited. They’re the ones who make things go viral. They can launch you to the top of the charts without the record company spending a dime.” He exhales, swiping a hand across the back of his thick neck. “And honestly, we’re going to need that, buddy. They’re threatening to cut our already nonexistent promotion budget. When I say they aren’t feeling the soft stuff, I mean they really aren’t feeling the soft stuff.”
I grunt but don’t respond, distracted by the bright red flush spreading from his cheeks up to his forehead. He’s put on at least twenty pounds since I saw him last, and Chip wasn’t a small guy to begin with. At five feet six, he’s probably pushing two hundred pounds, making him nearly as wide as he is tall. And he’s not the kind of big guy who’s in great shape and at ease in his healthy-at-any-size body; he’s the kind who looks like he’s headed for a heart attack before forty.
Chip’s work hard, drink hard, kindness-and-exercise-optional lifestyle is catching up with him, and all the money he’s hoarded won’t be able to buy back what he’s throwing away.
The thought sparks an idea, and the notes of a new chorus float through my head.
Chip wants me to write something angry and hard?
Well, I just might be able to oblige him.
I take a step back toward the recording studio. “I think I have something. Let me pop into the studio for an hour or so and see what I can do.” I start to turn, but pause, returning my full attention to Chip’s face and pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Don’t bother Colette while I’m gone.”
He lifts his hands in the air again with a startled laugh. “Jesus. Of course! What do you take me for, man? I’m not going to mess with your girl.”
“I’m serious, Chip,” I say, refusing to let him laugh this off like I’m the crazy one. “Don’t look at her inappropriately, don’t stand too close to her, and don’t ask her to get you anything. She’s my guest, not your servant. If you make her feel uncomfortable in any way, you’re the one who’ll be gone, not her. Are we clear on that?”
His grin goes stiff, and anger flashes behind his pale blue eyes. “I said, I get it. I’ll go straight up to my room and work on email. I assume it’s okay to ask her which room is free for me?”
I want to tell him I’d prefer he make tracks after dinner instead of spending the night, but he’s already pissed, so it’s probably wise not to alienate him any further. He might be a dick, but he’s a dick who’s on my side, fighting to convince the record company to take me seriously.
And yes, I can find another manager if he quits, but I’d rather not switch horses so close to the finish line. When I head to Nashville to lay down the final cuts for this album at a sweet-sounding old studio where I’ve always wanted to record, I don’t want to be thinking about anything but the music.
I nod. “Sure, she can show you which rooms are empty. There are three or four. Feel free to take your pick.”
He inclines his head, his smile returning as he claps his hands together. “Great. Go make magic. I can’t wait to hear what you come up with. I have a feeling I’m going to love it.”
Lifting a hand, I jog toward the studio without saying a word.
I’m not sure he’s going to love it. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be offended as hell, in fact, but I’m trusting his mercenary side to be stronger than his pride.
Chip wants something edgy and catchy he can sell? Hopefully, he wants it badly enough to overlook the fact that assholes like him are my “angry” song’s target.
Either way, I have to write it. The lines of the first verse are already tugging at my chest, demanding my attention, threatening to bail if I don’t get my ass in a chair with a guitar and get going.
The need to capture the music is so intense that I head straight for the studio without running into the house to talk to Colette first. But I’m sure she’ll understand. And now that I’ve made it clear to Chip that his bad behavior wasn’t flying under my radar, I trust he’ll leave her alone until I’m finished.