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“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Celeste said, eyes wide.
“You’re going to play the tennis party? The one where they wanted you to change the words—”
“I’ll be playing Quiet Coyote’s hit, ‘Everything but Colleen.’ Just shut up and let me call him, fucking hell goddammit fucker,” he said and stormed into the house.
But a half hour later, he emerged, looking beaten but triumphant all the same. “They’ll have a ticket for you at will call, brother.”
Then
Even after being dropped, Remy wasn’t terribly worried about money. They still had plenty from their hit, plus a nice stream of royalties from the songs they’d written for others during their time at the label. For a while, it seemed almost likethiswas “making it,” rather than sitting in a room trying to come up with a second song. They slept late in the day. They played at clubs and bars. They were free, free, free, and stretched their wings to lengths they’d forgotten about entirely during their time as label darlings.
Then two things happened, at nearly the same time: they ran out of money, and they met Celeste.
The first was inevitable, though it still came as a shock to Remy. He anticipated opening their bank account—technically Val’s bank account, though they shared it—and seeing a five-figure number, maybe even a low six-figure number. It was a four-figure number. The account was riddled with cash withdrawals, sixty here, forty there, a hundred nearly every other day.
“We’re basically broke,” Remy said, panicking, waiting for Val to return his tone.
“We are not, Remy. We left Florida with basically nothing. We made it. This isn’t broke. You’ve just gotten spoiled,” Val said, dismissing Remy with a wave.
“We don’t have an income right now! We barely get anything for gigs, the royalties aren’t producing as much as they were. Val, this is serious,” Remy said, slapping a printout of the account down on the table. Val was writing music—or rather, Val was staring at paper, drawing notes and then erasing them.
He didn’t answer.
That night, they had a gig at a local bar called the Manhattan, a place for rich people dressed up as a dive bar—dark enough to feel scandalous but with clean bathrooms and bottle service. They arrived at the loading docks with the van and eventually made their way to the bar, where Remy scoured his phone for additional industry jobs and Val struck up a conversation with the bartender. She was a pretty woman, of indistinct ethnicity—black hair, brown eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose, full lips. She was wearing a sleek dress and neon fuchsia lipstick that somehow worked, despite the unnatural shade.
“Quiet Coyote?” she asked, reading the band logo off Val’s exposed chest. He’d gotten the tattoo to celebrate signing their deal. Two days before they left Nashville. Three weeks before they recorded a new, sleek cut of “Everything but the World,” the one that climbed the charts and made them famous.
Val buttoned his shirt back up and said, “You know our song,” then hummed a few bars of the hit until the girl nodded in acknowledgment. Val leaned over the bar and nursed his drink in a way that somehow convinced girls he was worth their time. It was the closest Remy had ever seen to actual witchcraft.
“I know it,” the girl said, drying a glass. “You wrote it?”
“Yeah, and my brother down there produced it. It’s my heart song. Piece of my soul, even after all this time,” Val said, swirling his drink.
“You’re playing it tonight?”
“Yep.”
The girl frowned then leaned over the bar and looked closely at Val’s eyes. Val looked pleased—like he was proud of how quickly he’d won this girl’s affections. But then she snorted and leaned away. “You’re high as fuck.”
Val looked appalled but then laughed, loud enough that the sound carried through the empty bar. “What’s it to you?”
She shrugged, put the glass away, then began cutting Meyer lemons into perfectly even wedges. “You don’t play a piece of your soul when you’re high as fuck.”
Val’s laughter faded, and his face went blank. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t know shit about me.”
The girl gave him a tired look. “I live in LA, and I run a gossip blog. I remember Quiet Coyote. I covered one of your concerts, when you were hooking up with that girl from your opening band.”
Val scowled, like he’d forgotten the opening band girl ever existed and was displeased to be reminded. These things were likely true.
“That concert was amazing because the music was amazing. You played it like you cared about it, not like the overproduced bullshit reality stars that Steve hires to play this bar andforces me to endure,” she shouted loud enough that Steve, who was on the second-floor balcony, could hear. Steve flipped her off without looking in her direction.
“And because I like to have a little fun, it’s not going to be good anymore? It’s gonna offend your delicate LA sensibilities?” Val asked.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” the girl said, shrugging. “Whatever.”
“What’s your name?” Val asked.
“Celeste,” she said and reached across the bar to shake his hand, even though Remy could see hers was covered in lemon juice.
