Page 70 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

I look back at Al to find him already watching me. “What happened?”

But Al can’t speak and I’m starting to get really annoyed. “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

“We’re being sued,” Dave says.

Of all the things that could have been said, that was not something I had even contemplated. I thought someone died. “Sued?”

Thankfully, Al seems to have found his voice. “Yes, uh . . . a man named”—he pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket—“Logan Samuels? He has filed a copyright infringement lawsuit against the band.”

“But I thought—” It hits me then and it’s as if I’ve been punched in the gut. The air is knocked out of me, and I turn to look at Key, whose hands are balled up tighter than Fort Knox in his shaggy hair. “Wait, One-Punch Logan is fucking suing us?”

James and Dave look at each other. “One-Punch Logan?” James asks.

I shoot out of my seat. “Yeah, this absolute fucknut we were in military school with,” I say, gesturing to Key. “He was always hanging around us, following us around. He played mediocre guitar . . . the three of us, well, we sort of formed a band.”

“Well, he’s claiming that most of your songs . . .” Al sighs. “He’s saying he was the one who wrote them.”

Fire burns through my veins. “He what?” I spit.

“Joel, you can back this up, right?” Dave says, trying to stay calm. “Key says he was the sole writer on ‘Neon Crush’ and ‘Firebird’ and?—”

But there’s a scraping of wood against flooring and Key is halfway across the room.

“You fucking think I’m lying about writing those goddamn songs?” he yells.

Dave is on his feet, his hands up. “Of course not!”

“Then knock off the shit about ‘oh, well, Keysays.’” His eyes are red as he looks around, his face a little puffy. “Here’s what Key says right now and willforeversay: Those aremysongs. I wrote them.Me. For fuck’s sake, I wrote some of them as a kid!”

James is on his feet next. “We believe you, man,” he says. “But there’s one huge problem.”

I frown. “Which is?”

Dave runs a hand down his face. “He says he has proofhewrote them.”

“Proof?” Key says. “Proof? I’ll shove his proof up his fucking urethra.”

I place my hand on Key’s shoulder. He’s shaking, the tension in his muscles as hard as a rock.

“I don’t know what kind of proof he’s claiming,” Al admits. “But Key, please tell me you have something. Anything to prove you wrote those songs.”

“They’re mine! I don’t need to prove anything to anyone!”

James steps forward. “No one is denying you wrote them, but if this thing goes to court?—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Key shouts, louder still. “You know what?” He shrugs my hand off his shoulder then stomps away to the edge of the living room. “Fuck all of you. I don’t need this bullshit.”

The sound of his footsteps retreating to his room echo off the walls, then a door slams, then silence. I turn toward the others. Becks sits ramrod-straight in her seat, her green eyes wide and unblinking.

“Well,” James says with a sigh. “I think that went well.”

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “Look, I’ll talk to him. He’s . . . he hasn’t been having a good go of it lately, and then this? I’m sure we can come up with something.”

Al mops at his sweaty forehead as the front door slams shut. Izzy appears, holding a stack of newspapers under her arm. When Dave sees her, he’s immediately wrapping her up in his arms.

“I thought you were going to Memphis?” he asks, holding her out at arm’s length and scanning her face.

“I rescheduled that interview.”

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