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Remy’s eyes widened, and theWhat?he intended to say was lost somewhere in his throat.
Miller went on, “You’ve got real producing chops, Remy. We’d like to keep you here so you can continue helping our artists. You’re able to understand what people are trying to say and just capture it so perfectly. It’s a gift.”
“The last song I produced for was about sending nude selfies,” Remy said, stunned.
Miller shrugged. “And you made it sound sexy instead of sleazy. You make the love songs more romantic and the party anthems more epic. You magnify the songs, and we need that. We need you. We can get you on contract and really let you loose with some of our new talent.”
Miller already had the contracts drawn up, of course. He pulled them from a folder like a wizard tugging a rabbit from a hat then rose and walked around the desk. He took the seat beside Remy and placed the contracts on Remy’s lap, tapping them twice with a pen before depositing that as well.
“Let’s do it, kid. You’ve got talent. We’ve got means. We can make this happen,” Miller said.
Remy looked down at the papers but didn’t touch them, like they might bite. “I need to talk to Val about this first.”
“Why?”
“He’s my brother.”
“But this is about your career. It involves him, sure, in the way that everything involves family one way or another, but you don’t need his permission.”
“Before I sign with the label that literally just dropped us on our asses?” Remy said, a flare of anger peeking out from the professionalism he usually exuded.
Miller looked a little surprised but then nodded, sat back. “I get it. It sucks. Dropping artists is never fun, for what it’s worth. It’s not something I enjoy. But you can still play in Quiet Coyote. We’re not taking anything from you and Val—you’ll still have your music and your band and your brother. We’re just trying to giveyousomething extra. A chance to help people tell their stories.”
“About nude selfies.”
“About everything,” Miller corrected.
“I need to talk to Val,” Remy said more firmly. He rose, clutching the contracts so tightly, they bent in his grip.
“Okay,” Miller said. “But keep in mind, our figures areverycurrent. We can’t guarantee that offer will stay on the table for long.”
“Of course,” Remy said and reached forward to shake Miller’s hand. When he did, Miller smiled, and Remy couldn’t help but notice it was a carbon copy of the smile he’d given Remy and Val ages ago, when they’d eagerly scribbled their names on the Quiet Coyote contracts. Before they’d given away their hearts.
No, nottheirhearts. Val had given his heart, and Remy had kept his guarded the entire time. He’d held back. He’d encouraged Val to push on. And now, Val was a broken thing, and it was Remy’s fault.
When Remy returned to the apartment that evening, it smelled of malt liquor and smoke. Val was on the tiny balcony, surrounded by bits of tinfoil and red Solo cups. He was grinning.
“Finally! The fuck have you been?” Val asked excitedly. Before Remy could stumble onto an answer, he went on, “Remy, man, I’ve got it.”
“What?”
“A second song. No way the label won’t want this shit. It just hit me while I was in the shower, and it was like, I had to run out here and start immediately before I lost it.”
“That explains why you’re wearing a towel,” Remy noted.
“I wasn’t, but then the lady in 4B complained,” Val said darkly. “Anyway, listen.”
Val played through a song, loud, angry, as powerful as he’d play it if he were at an arena concert. There was a howling chorus, a chant, a B-section that paused in all the right places. Remy’s mind immediately began clicking, whirring, working, thinking of the ways he could improve it, of the ways he could make an already great song greater by highlighting the theme of it: Creation. Singing loudly, writing loudly, living loudly in the faces of those who want to stop you.
It wasn’t a new theme, by any means—but it was executed with the rage of a childhood spent in Florida, an adulthood spent writing songs for others, an existence spent being told that despite Val’s passion, he wasn’t marketable enough or quick enough or famous enough to be worthwhile. Remy felt himself molding it into something amazing, the same feeling he’d had when he’d first heard Val play through “Everything but the World.”
This was, perhaps, Quiet Coyote’s second song.
But Quiet Coyote didn’t need a second song anymore.
“Yeah?” Val said brightly when he finished.
“It’s great,” Remy said, and he tried to smile but failed.
