Page 121 of Until You Say Stay
The sun has fully set and Vegas is doing what it does best. Every surface is lit up in neon, the track glowing under massive floodlights that turn night into day. The crowd noise swells and falls in waves. Music pumps from speakers. Announcers’ voices boom overhead. The whole circuit feels alive, pulsing with energy.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out to see the continued flood of messages. My parents both sent tearful voice memos about how proud they are after watching the livestream. Maren sent approximately fifteen texts in all caps with heart emojis and exclamation points. I’m grinning at my phone, feeling so loved and supported it makes my chest ache in the best way.
I wonder if Jack saw my performance. If he heard the song I wrote for him. What possessed me to sing it instead of one of my other songs, I don’t know. It wasn’t even on the original set list. But in that moment every part of me was reaching out to him, trying to tell him something I couldn’t say to his face. That I know we’re right for each other. That he’s it for me, and I know I am for him. I can feel it like an invisible thread, connecting us even when we’re apart.
I sigh and take another sip of my drink. The huge screens flash above me, cycling through the starting grid. Driver photos appear stories high, giant faces that loom over the crowd with their team colors and starting positions. Luca Rossi in P4 for Ferrari, looking confident in his race suit.
Then I choke on my drink.
Jack’s name is on the screen. Jack Midnight. Ferrari. Starting position P18.
My mind is spinning. Jack’s the reserve driver. He shouldn’t be racing tonight unless something happened to Davis. It doesn’t matter what. What mattersisJack is driving.Tonight.Starting from the back of the grid.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with stage fright or performance nerves. I know how much this means to him. This is everything he’s been working toward for eighteen months.
And more than anything, I want to be there right now. By his side. But I’m out here behind barriers with thousands of other people, and he’s in there preparing for the most important race of his life.
“Lark Reyes?”
I turn to find a nice-looking older man standing beside me at the railing. He’s maybe mid-fifties, wearing an expensive blazer and the kind of warm smile that usually means someone wants something from me.
I suppress a sigh. I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve officially hit my limit for human interaction tonight. My brain is already operating at maximum capacity between Jack and the race and everything that just happened on that stage.
“Yes?” I manage. He does look vaguely familiar though. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“Walter Becker,” he says, extending his hand. “Horizon Records.”
Holy shit.
Horizon Records. That’s where I know him from. I’ve seen his photo on their website. They’re one of those labels that artists actually want to sign with. They represent some of my favorite indie artists.
“Oh my God,” I manage, shaking his hand. “Hi. I mean, it’s nice to meet you. I know who you are.”Great. Real smooth Lark.
He laughs, looking genuinely pleased. “Well, this feels quite serendipitous. I had tickets to this race tonight because my niece is a Formula One fan, and I almost didn’t bother checking out the musical acts. But you? I caught your performance. You’re really something special.” He pauses. “Are you represented by anyone? I assume you’re here with Tidal Records based on the showcase.”
My brain is short-circuiting. Horizon Records. Walter Becker. This cannot be happening right now.
“Um… No, I’m not with them,” I say. And I probably need to rip this Band-Aid off before he finds out from someone else. “I should be honest with you about why. Tidal wanted me to perform these really polished, commercial versions of my songs. They had me re-record everything with their producers, changed the arrangements, simplified the lyrics. I said yes initially, but tonight I performed my original versions instead. The ones I actually wrote. Without their approval.”
He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t look horrified, which is something.
I meet his eyes. “So that bridge is pretty much burned. I just thought you should know before this conversation goes any further.” Like he wouldn’t find out anyway. There’s zero chance Tidal isn’t already bad-mouthing me to everyone in the industry.
Walter nods, looking more intrigued than concerned. “And why did you make that choice?”
Because apparently I’m incapable of playing it safe even when my entire career depends on it.
“Because those versions weren’t my songs anymore,” I say. “They wanted something safe and marketable, and I get that’s the business. I really do. But I’d rather fail with my own music than succeed with something that doesn’t sound like me.”
He smiles like the Cheshire Cat. “Good. That tells me everything I need to know. Artists with conviction who fight for their vision? Those are exactly the people I want to work with.” He pulls out a business card. “Call me this week. You have something genuinely special, and I’d love to talk about what Horizon could do for you.”
I take the card with slightly shaking hands. “You’re serious? Even knowing I just walked away from another label?”
“Especiallyknowing that. I like working with people who have a backbone.” He gestures toward the stage. “Most artists play it safe. You didn’t. I know a star when I see one. You commanded that audience, and your sound is fresh. I hope you and I can have a further conversation.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I can hear the relief in my own voice. “I’ll call. I promise.”
“Good,” he says with a warm smile. “I’d better get back. I’m not supposed to be doing business tonight as it is. Enjoy the race.”
