I frowned as I tried to unravel his logic. “But if I called, you’d have assumed I wanted something from you. So I really couldn’t win.”
“I suppose I wanted to keep that night in a box too, Justin. I didn’t want to ruin it.” Gray brushed his hand across his stubbled chin and pursed his lips. “I’ve been thinking about you every day for weeks now. When you showed up at the house, I knew Seb was up to something, but I didn’t have time to process it. Or maybe I didn’t want to. I was just happy to see you. At the risk of sounding romantic…” He smiled when I rolled my eyes and then continued. “I’d give anything to relive that night. To be on a rooftop with the city beneath us and feel free for a while…and yet connected. It was magic.”
“Yeah. It was,” I said in a low voice.
“It seems unfair to let anyone else in. I don’t want anyone to take that away from us.”
I nodded but didn’t speak. We sat quietly, letting the café noises fill the empty space between us. Edith Piaf played through the speaker system under the din of conversation, clinking silverware and the occasional hum of the espresso machine. After a long moment, I set my instrument in the case before clicking it shut and shifting to face Gray.
“So, who’s Seb?”
“He’s my best friend, Charlie’s dad…and yes, he’s a successful producer. He’s one of those hands-on, über-innovative types. He’s always thinking of a new twist to keep his projects fresh and relevant with younger audiences. I won’t delve into his résumé, but it’s impressive.”
“The Baxter Chronicles.”
“Exactly. The most recent one will be released this summer.”
“And you’re working on the soundtrack.” I tried to mentally connect the dots, but I still couldn’t figure out what this had to do with me.
“It’s finished, or nearly there. But nothing’s ever really finished with Seb. He decided he wanted to add a couple of songs. In Seb’s mind, these unwritten songs are already smash hits. He can hear them on the radio, see them climb the music charts and hang around for weeks on end. Hell, he can hear the cellular ringtones and commercial ads ginormous companies will purchase the rights for later. And while he knows the lyrics and music are crucial, he’s a movie guy. He wants a backstory that loosely complements the scripts. So one night at dinner, Charlie tells his dad about a band that just blew up. It’s a compelling story…bisexual love triangle, beautiful singer catches her boyfriend fucking the drummer and goes ballistic and…”
“Oh, my God.” I swiped my hand over my jaw, then slouched in my chair and crossed my arms. “So he asked Carmine to invite her and her idiot ex to perform. Wow. And Xena knew about the producer and the movie stuff all along. No wonder Declan was pissed.”
“No. Not exactly,” Gray hedged, biting his bottom lip. “She knew Seb would be there but to be fair, she didn’t know what he wanted.”
“They must have struck an agreement of some kind, ’cause I haven’t heard a thing from her since,” I snarked. Because I was kind of an asshole, I made a tongue-against-cheek gesture, complete with a hand motion.
“Not that kind of agreement. He wants her to sing the song.”
“The hit ringtone song?”
A ghost of a smile flitted at the corner of his full lips. He nodded slowly, then said, “And he wants you to write it.”
I gaped. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re a good songwriter. The material you played was strong. Seb was impressed.”
“I don’t know how to write a song for a movie. Geez, I’m just trying to get my band off the ground,” I replied in a bewildered tone.
“You wouldn’t be doing it alone. We’d cowrite. He wants two or three songs, but the big one is a ballad. A love song.”
“A love song?” I repeated, making a “yuck” face.
Gray chuckled lightly. “Yes.”
I propped my elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. Your friend wants you and me to write a love song for his movie…for my ex-girlfriend to sing.”
“That’s correct.”
I cautioned myself not to make any hasty decisions. I glanced over at Johnny helping a customer behind the counter, and I could practically hear Tegan begging me to think before I said anything stupid. This could be the break we were talking about. People made bank writing songs for movies. I could fund Zero and hire a manager. I could pay back the ridiculous amount of debt I inherited when Gypsy Coma imploded. Geez, I could get my own apartment and maybe a car too. I could be set. And working with a well-respected songwriter for a big Hollywood movie was the chance of a lifetime. Even if it sucked, I’d probably learn something in the process and network with smart people who knew other aspects of the business. It was a no-brainer. An automatic “Fuck yeah. Where do I sign my name?”