Page 76 of P.S. I'm Still Yours
I’m sure the seven million dollars he spent on the beach house didn’t even make a dent in his bank account. So, someone tell me why in the ever-loving hell does he still have the guitar I bought him when he was fifteen…?
The black guitar gives my heart a squeeze.
This thing is old.
Like old old.
It was already old when I got it off Craigslist with my babysitting money five years ago, which means it’s practically a relic now.
“You still have it,” I whisper.
He waits for me to elaborate.
I point to the guitar in his hand. “You… You should have another one by now. A nicer one.”
“Says who?” He shrugs and throws open the case on the floor before sliding his guitar inside.
Odds are he has a bunch of them and he only uses this one when he’s playing for fun. Either way, he most definitely didn’t keep the guitar because I gave it to him.
I push the thought aside, clearing my throat. “Do they not let you write your own songs?
He throws the strap of his case over his shoulder, eyes darkening as he grits out, “Why would they do that when they have an entire fucking village of songwriters with a thousand hit songs under their belt, just waiting to pop out a catchy tune?”
That’s bullshit.
Surely, they know Kane is a gifted songwriter by now. “I’m Still Yours” stayed in the charts’ top ten for months and months after it released.
“They let you put out ‘I’m Still Yours,’ though.”
“Yeah, but only because it matched my brand.”
I have to admit his other songs are much darker. Like “Golden Cage,” for example. He wrote it when we were kids. It mentioned his dad’s abuse and how he resented Evie’s decision to stay with him in spite of it all.
There’s also the one I heard earlier.
The one talking about how the real monster is him. How he feels guilty and his sins are haunting him. I’m not sure what this one is about, but it’s not exactly the type of song you would expect from America’s heartthrob.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m a fucking product, Hadley. I’m a puppet. I exist to fill a bunch of old fucks’ pockets. Doesn’t matter what I want to sing about. If people want love songs, then they’re going to get some fucking love songs.”
That’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it?
What the public wants.
Young girls are his target audience, and most of them want romance. They want to feel special, like they’re being serenaded by their celebrity crush. His label probably thinks no one will relate to what he’s been through.
Realization finds me.
Didn’t his label let him go after the Joshua disaster?
“I thought your label dropped you?”
“They did,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Isn’t that a good thing? It means you’re free. You can sing about whatever you want now, can’t you?”
He scoffs, looking at me like I’m a child who needs to be reminded how the world works. “It’s not that simple.”
On that note, he sets off toward the house. I’m certain that’s the end of our conversation until he stops and looks back at me.