Page 97 of Sing Your Secrets

“Well, you guys have fun. You can leave me and Miles out of it.” I glare at my dad. “If I need someone to break Miles’s spirit, there’s a whole wide world full of internet trolls and label gatekeepers to tell him he’s not good enough to live out his dreams. I don’t need you to pile on.”

“Oh, Reese,” Petey grumbles loudly. “He gave me the same speech.”

The door across the hall opens and Mrs. Mercer, my eighty-two-year-old, no more than ninety-pound neighbor, appears at the door wearing her floral nightgown and holding a bat. She eyes my dad and Petey coolly. “Reese, darling”—she tightens both hands around her Louisville slugger—“you need some help?”

I have to hold my breath so I don’t laugh at the visual of my geriatric little neighbor taking a few swings at these men. Heart of a fucking lion. I hope I’m half as fierce as Mrs. Mercer when I’m eighty.

“I’m sorry we’re being so loud,” I explain. “This is my dad, remember? And this is my friend—Petey. Do you know him? He’s big in the hip-hop music world.”

“Oh, I don’t listen to that mishegoss,” she mumbles. “I only like The Beatles.”

“They are a national treasure,” I say with a chuckle. “But I’m sorry if we disturbed you, Mrs. Mercer. We’ll keep it down. We were just headed inside. Have a good night.”

“You call me if you get into trouble, darling.” She shakes her bat in the air as Petey and Dad turn their backs and shuffle into my apartment. I give her a wink and shut the door behind them.

“So, this is your place?” Petey asks examining my quaint apartment. “It suits you.”

“Tiny?” I ask.

“No—just full of character.” He pats my decorative turquoise chair before wedging his ass into a seat that is most definitely too small for him.

“You missed dinner,” Dad states.

“I realize.”

“Reese—Sundays are our thing. You’re overreacting. And your mom was disappointed. Don’t drag her into the middle of this.”

Okay, shit.That’s a fair point. Mom has been working really hard to relax and find more ways for us to connect. I should’ve texted her at least. I take in a deep breath and blow out the last remnants of my anger. “Dad, sarcasm aside, you blindsided me. Miles is so down on himself right now…he’s hurting, and it’s my fault. I didn’t want to do that to him. You made me look like I was playing games with his head. I wouldn’t have gotten him so excited about working with you if you didn’t see potential.”

“Of course I see potential. It’s why I gave him the speech.”

“What speech?”

“The speech,”Petey jumps in and emphasizes. I whip my head around to face him, my thick curls slapping my cheek. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but the very first day I got into the studio with Mac, he told me I was lazy, weak, and didn’t have the confidence to make it in the rap game. He said my lyrics were choppy and better suited for slam poetry, or something like that.”

Dad sucks in his lips, trying to hold in his smile. “I didn’t say you were lazy…” He clears his throat. “I called you sloppy. There’s a difference.”

“Whatever he said, it pissed me off so much I wanted to prove him wrong. I locked the bedroom door and didn’t come out for twenty-four hours. I wrote the first four songs of Depth in those twenty-four hours.”

“What?”

Petey plants his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “Mac pushed me to find that fire and strive for more than what I was willing to settle for.”

“Yeah, except at the time you were a resilient, cocky little shit,” Dad says to Petey. “I didn’t realize Miles would actually believe me.” He rolls his eyes. “I asked Sedi if he was sensitive…he didn’t prepare me.”

“So, this is all some Jedi-mind-trick bullshit? Because it didn’t work. Now, Miles wants to give up.”

“Look, he’s talented, and the songs he wrote aren’t bad, but I think he could be great if he takes the time to search for a little more substance. I told you I’d teach you how to be a good producer, right?”

“Right…”

“A good producer takes the artist’s vision and makes it the best it can be. But a great producer helps the artist see a bigger, better vision. There’s your first lesson. Don’t let an artist that you think has big potential, settle for what everyone else is doing. If he’s different, honor that. Protect it. Don’t let him get washed out in the fray.” He shoots a glance at Petey.

“Thanks,” Petey undertones. “Real subtle, Mac.”

“I’m calling a spade a spade,” Dad says with a shrug. “You’re home, now.”

I blink at Dad, the hard lines on my face relaxing. “You think Miles has potential.”