Page 23 of Another Fox Bites the Dust

I have to sign this.

But there will be no backing out. No more excuses. No moreI’ll try again tomorrow. I have to make the commitment and see it through.

“Tell me what you envision for your first album. Do you have any thoughts on what the feel of it should be?”

“I would like it to be acoustic, mostly. I want the focus to be on the lyrics.”

She considers me for a second and then nods. “I was thinking the same. You have a specific sound that fits with the acoustic rock market, similar to Jack White and maybe The Head and the Heart.”

Before this gets any further, I really need to tell her about my not-so-little problem.

“You know, I really want to be a songwriter.”

Her forehead creases. “But you have a great voice. Why wouldn’t you want to sing your own songs?”

She’s right. It’s a ridiculous question. Who wouldn’t want the fame and adulation that come along with singing in front of a crowd?

Me. It’s me.

“I’m not really in it for the applause. Attention makes me a little uncomfortable.”

She shrugs. “So you’re not Lady Gaga. Who is? Once you’ve proven your worth as a songwriter, you’ll have people knocking down your door for a chance to work with you. But we have to get your name out there first. They have to hear it and know you can create something marketable.”

I nod and return to reading the contract. I already know this. I’ve learned over the past year that a singer who doesn’t write is a lot easier to sell than a songwriter who doesn’t sing.

The terms are all aboveboard. I’ve done enough research on what a typical label offers, and although I’m not getting a sign-on bonus, the royalty rate and marketing she’s committed to are more than most artists get. Of course, I understand her reasoning—we’re both taking a big risk, but considering my . . . limitations, she’s taking the bigger risk.

I need to tell her the truth, but the words cling to my tongue, refusing to budge.

I’ll shove them out quick, like ripping off a bandage. It’s five words, max.

I have crippling stage fright.

After taking a fortifying sip of coffee, I open my mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ll sign.”

Wrong five words.

Her eyes widen. “Really? Are you sure you don’t want to read it over more, have someone else double-check, like an attorney?”

“I’m sure.” I have an almost perfect memory, which was very helpful during medical school. One more read-through when I’m not being hammered with the force of her presence, and I could recite this thing in my sleep.

“That’s wonderful. I mean great.” She smiles then, but calling it a mere smile is like calling the vastness of the universebig.

It’s a true grin, one that reaches her eyes and sets her entire face alight. Having its force directed at me is like being struck by lightning.

After a minute of being blinded, I return to my body.

“ . . . timeline is tight, but I think if we work together on really fine-tuning at least sixteen songs for a decent LP before the producer arrives, we’ll be able to pick the best and then knock out the album in a week or less. We won’t need a lot of overdubs or vocals because your voice is so strong.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks. That sounds great. So, when do we leave?”

ChapterSeven

Luke

A week after my fateful meeting with Mindy at Think Coffee, we’re driving to Whitby. We left the city behind over an hour ago with our suitcases, my guitar, and recording equipment loaded in the trunk.

“Tell me more about this kids camp. What made your sister decide to change up the family business?” I shift in the plush leather passenger seat of the Cadillac Escalade and angle myself toward Mindy.

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