Page 50 of Can’t Say No

I pop my neck and take a deep breath. Losing our biggest collaborator is unthinkable. It feels like the rug is being pulled out from underneath me, like everything I’ve worked so hard for is slipping through my fingers and I can’t get a grip. Drowning just a little bit more.

A steady hand warms my shoulder. “You okay?”

Turning to face Connor, I fight back the tears pooling in my eyes.

“Yeah… I mean, not really, but yeah.” I take another shaky breath. “It’s gonna be fine. Dad is flying out tomorrow.”

Connor nods. “Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

I snort out a dry laugh. “It’s a both and situation. Basically, we’re being passed over for some big songs I thought were a done deal, so he’s coming out to game plan or whatever.” I kick at a rock on the sidewalk, knowing that if I look at Connor directly, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to keep the tears at bay, and a public meltdown is the last thing I need right now.

Connor hooks a finger under my chin and levels me with his gaze. “Funny thing, I just heard some new stuff the other day written by this up and coming songwriter… maybe you’ve heard of her?”

The twinkle in his eye makes my stomach flip.

“I’m not one to get all woo woo,” he continues, pulling both of our suitcases out from under the bus, “but maybe this is perfect timing. Now’s your chance to do your own thing. Let Molly Jo have those songs. Hell, make a whole show of it, like it’s a big, kind gesture. That’ll help your image right? Then record all those songs you’ve been working on.”

I stay silent, letting Connor lead us to our parked cars. He’s not wrong. Flipping the narrative to make it seem like I passed those songs to Molly Jo willingly would be some expert level puppeteer shit. And recording a song or two that I’ve written would make for a good storyline, too.

But I’m weary, down to my bones. I’m tired of playing the game. I’m tired of the endless loop of being used and using people in return.

Connor is right, the timing is perfect. But perfect for what? Is it the right time to dig my heels in and claw my way back to the top? Or is this the universe telling me it’s finally time to let go?

My dad thundered into town with a rage I haven’t seen in a while. His office in our house is dark and uninviting. When I was a kid, I thought he designed it like that on purpose, a scary cave, to keep me out of his hair.

That theory has been proven true time and time again.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the heavy oak desk, and steeples his hands. “This is bad, Delaney. Word is spreading that Touchstone would rather work with Molly Jo than you, and I’m afraid other writers are going to start following their lead. If we don’t play this right, you’re gonna end up blacklisted.”

I take a deep inhale and resist the urge to snap back at him. Poise and self-control, that’s the only way to deal with my dad.

And a little bit of disassociating.

“Have you talked to Remi about it? Did she have any insight as to why they don’t want me on the songs?”

He glares across the desk. “You’re a liability, Delaney, a loose cannon. All the shit you pulled this last year is catching up to you. Writers want their songs to get airtime. If you’re clouded in controversy, you’re not gonna get played.”

I can’t stop the eye roll. “I’m not clouded in controversy. I showed up late a few times and was a little sloppy on stage. You act like I did something awful.” I sit up straighter, as if perfect posture will prove my point.

Calm, cool, collected. Not controversial.

“I don’t drive drunk, I donate to charities all the time, hell, I feed stray animals. This standard you’re holding me to is all in your head.”

He slams his fists onto the desk. “It’s not, Delaney! This is the reality of where you are in your career. You need to be beyond perfect. We are selling a fantasy, Delaney, and sloppy behavior does not fit that dream. Your fans want escapism and cheesy, catchy pop music. You think those parents down at the high school were happy when they found out you were coming to volunteer? You’re lucky that school needed money so damn bad. You would not believe how much we had to donate to get the board to agree to this arrangement.”

That stops my righteous fury in its tracks.

Foolishly, I realize I’d let the hope of a future in Ridgecrest take root. A backup plan. A soft place to land if I needed it. But my dad’s words shatter that vision.

I might have won some brownie points with Mrs. Crane while on the choir trip, but that’s far from a job offer. I might be in town to play girl next door for the tabloids, but that’s not fooling anyone here.

There’s no future for me in Ridgecrest.

“And clearly, it’s not even making a difference, because Touchstone doesn’t want you anymore.”

And now there might not be much of a future for me in L.A., either.

“Connor had an idea,” I say, all confidence drained from my voice. “It might… um, it might work.” So much for poise and self control.