“Done. There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Are you kidding me?” I spit.
He thinks on it. “Rachel? Cindy?”
My jaw drops. “Oh my God, you don’t remember last night either.” I laugh.
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Not a damn thing after my sixth Jell-O shot.”
“But you said we did it twice.”
“There were two condoms on the floor.”
“And you didn’t bother to ask my name before you got drunk? We danced, after all.”
“I asked. I just forgot it.” He cocks his head. “What’s my name?”
“Gage.”
“Wrong.”
“Jerry.”
He chuckles. “Wrong again.”
“Greg.”
“We could be at this all day. Why don’t we continue this conversation while driving?”
“I’m not getting into a car with a guy I don’t know.”
He holds out a hand. “Garrett Young.”
I shake, wondering what that hand did to me last night. “Reece Mancini. Nice to meet you.”
Chapter Five
Garrett
“She’s in there?” I ask Joe when we approach the conference room in his office.
“She is.”
“Is anyone else with her?”
“Her attorney.”
I stop and lean against the wall. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d look like a pussy in front of my friends, I’d put my head between my legs. I feel sick.
Liam puts a hand on my back. “Dude, you okay?”
I shrug it off. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”
I let them all go in before me. I’m going to see her for the first time in six fucking years. It’s amazing how we lived in the same city for over five years and never saw each other. At least I assume we both lived in Stamford. After I walked out of her apartment that day, I never saw or heard from her again. She tried to contact me a few times, in the form of letters, since I changed my phone number the day after she ripped my heart out. I tore them up. Didn’t even open one envelope. There was nothing she could have said to excuse what she did to me. I’m not sure how she found my address. Not even my family knew it.
Jeremy, our manager, sticks his head out. “You coming?”
I take a few deep breaths and go in. My palms are sweaty, and my pulse races. I try not to make eye contact. I look out the window. At the art on the wall. At the water bottles and croissants in the center of the table.
“Does everyone understand the purpose of this meeting?” Joe asks.
“We’d like to avoid further litigation if at all possible,” says the man I’m not looking at on the other side of the table. “Nobody wants to see this go to court. Our hope is to come to a mutually satisfactory agreement.”
“Let’s get started then,” Joe says. “Mike, can you and your client look this over?” He pushes a piece of paper across the table. It’s a copy of my handwritten lyrics. “These are the lyrics in question, are they not?”
Mike looks it over and says, “Ms. Mancini?”
I realize what I didn’t yesterday. They are calling her Reece Mancini. I look at her for the first time. She’s not looking at the lyrics. She’s gazing at me. Tears pool in her eyes and spill over. No one in the room fails to notice.
My heart is in my goddamn throat. Her hair is longer and it’s a lighter shade of blonde. Long bangs are swept to one side and tucked behind an ear, a strand left hanging down the side of her face. Her face is fuller, telling me she’s not as thin as she was when she was eighteen. She no longer looks like a girl. She’s a woman.
“Do you need a minute?” her lawyer asks.
She wipes her face and looks away. “No. I’m fine. Yes, these are the lyrics.”
My insides twist at hearing her voice again. Even her voice is more mature. She looks sad, but her words came out with authority—something I didn’t expect based on the person I knew back then.
“And Ms. Mancini claims they were written by her and her alone?” Joe asks.
“Her assertion is she wrote them, while Mr. Young may have made a few minor changes during the process.”
“Did she ever file a copyright?”
“No.”
Joe pushes another piece of paper across the table. “Here is the copyright Reckless Alibi filed six months ago when the song was in production.”
Mike barely gives it a glance. “This doesn’t mean anything, and you know it.”
“I understand Ms. Mancini and Mr. Young had a romantic relationship some years back. It’s also come to my attention that Ms. Mancini hoped she would have a career in the music business but instead is working at”—he looks at his notes—“Mitchell’s Restaurant, here in New York City. Therefore, it’s our position that Ms. Mancini is trying to capitalize on their previous relationship and the success of Reckless Alibi to try and improve her financial situation.”
She works here in the city? Not in Stamford. And why the hell is she still waitressing? I’m confused.
I allow myself to look at her again. I expect more tears, but she doesn’t look sad anymore. Just pissed.
Part of me wants to feel bad, because I know I’m a douche. We wrote the song together. Bits and pieces of that night keep coming back to me. I haven’t allowed myself to think about it in a long time, not even when we play the song. But I was drunk, and I can’t remember how much she wrote and how much I wrote. I don’t let myself feel sorry for her though. Not after what she did to me. I deserve the song. She’s the one who fucking left.
The two attorneys talk. It’s legal jargon I’m sure most of us don’t understand. Her lawyer gives something to Joe, and Joe shows it to me. My eyes widen. “Two million dollars?” I shake my head. “So this is all about money.”
“The two million is just for damages,” Mike says. “You’ll have to cease selling the song and remove it from the album it’s associated with. Ms. Mancini is willing to negotiate the sale of the song, however. Triple the amount, and she’ll grant Reckless Alibi an exclusive license and walk away.”
“Six million?” Liam says in disbelief. “She wants us to give her six million for a song she can’t even prove she wrote? Man, you’ve got some balls, lady. Garrett, you were right all along. She’s a goddamn gold digger.”
Reece turns red. She starts to speak, but her lawyer shuts her up by whispering something in her ear. “Let’s all calm down,” he says to the rest of us. “There’s no need for name-calling.”
“Why should we consider entertaining your offer when it’s his word against hers, and Reckless Alibi already owns the copyright?” Joe asks.
Mike slides an iPad across the table. “Press play.”
Joe glances at me as if I know what’s on it. I shrug.
The second the video starts, it all comes rushing back. I ball my hands into fists and dig my fingernails into my palms as she sings.
A younger Reece plays the guitar and belts out the lyrics to the song now titled “Swerve.” My bandmates stand and gather behind Joe and me, watching the video. She stumbles over words and changes them as she sings. I can hear me encouraging and praising her, offering suggestions here and there. At the end of the song, she walks toward the camera, heat in her eyes. I turn the lens on us, and Reece is in my lap, kissing me. “We should write down the lyrics,” I say. “You were fantastic. You’re going to be a star one day.” The video stops, and all eyes are on me.