Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“Except I’d never write a mean-spirited, whiny little bitchfest of a temper tantrum and try to pass it off as a song. And, please, let’s not pretend you give a flying fuck about art, okay? Music is nothing but a money-making venture to you. Period.”
“That’s categorically false,” Reed retorts, sounds surprisingly indignant. “I genuinely care about putting great music into the world. And I also expect that music to make me a shit-ton of money. The two things can co-exist, Ruby Tuesday.”
“Stop calling me that. Cooper’s so-called art slanders me, so I need you to pull the plug on it, right fucking now.”
Reed chuckles. “Explain this slander thing to me. I’m genuinely baffled.”
“What’s to explain? The motherfucker literally says my name, repeatedly, in a song that trashes me. How is it not slander?”
“He doesn’t say ‘Ruby Connolly.’ He says, ‘Ruby Tuesday.’ That’s a term of art in the world of music.”
“It’s my name, Reed.”
“No. Ruby Tuesday is a phrase that’s so legendary, it’s transcendent. Poetic. For all we know, he’s singing about a woman called Sheila. Or a man named Bob. Or maybe someone who doesn’t exist at all.”
“Everyone knows Cooper was recently dating Ruby from Fugitive Summer. Don’t bullshit me.”
“Everyone? Maybe your short relationship with Cooper is a known fact in your tiny corner of the world, but casual fans of both your bands wouldn’t know either of your names, let alone that you dated.”
Ruby looks at me, like she’s losing confidence, so I gently squeeze her forearm and nod encouragingly.
“Even if ‘casual music fans’ of our bands don’t know about Cooper and me, they’ll find out soon enough after this stupid song drops, and everyone starts googling to figure out the lyrics. I hard-launched him while he traveled with me for two months, Reed. There are photos of us holding hands and kissing, all over the internet now.”
I grimace. There sure are. Because Cooper is an insecure little prick who couldn’t keep his hands off Ruby, especially when cameras and other people were around.
“You should want people to connect the dots and figure out you’re Ruby Tuesday,” Reed says calmly. “Because that will help make the song a smash hit, which is in everyone’s best interests—yours, Cooper’s, and mine.”
“How do you figure? Why on earth would I ever want a slanderous, misogynistic breakup song about me to become a smash hit?”
“Because there’s no such thing as bad publicity. A rising tide floats all boats.”
Ruby looks at me for encouragement again, and I give it to her.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, Reed, but you’ve left me no choice. If you don’t pull the plug on this song, I’ll be forced to sue you, River Records, Cooper, and his band for defamation and emotional distress and whatever else my lawyer can figure out.”
A small snickering noise wafts from the phone, one that sounds like Reed stifling a much bigger reaction. “Ruby, if you follow through with that threat, you’d only fuck yourself over.”
“No, I’d fuck over you, Cooper, and your label. It’d be like an anti-slander, vengeful gang bang.”
I can practically hear Reed’s smile over the phone line. “Ruby, think. If you filed a lawsuit claiming the song slanders you, then you’d have to explicitly admit that ‘Ruby Tuesday’ is you. That’s how slander works.”
Ruby’s jaw drops. “Oh.”
“Lawsuits are publicly filed. Anyone can read them. Do you really want to admit, in writing, for the whole world to see, that you’re ‘Ruby Tuesday?’”
Tears prick Ruby’s eyes, and I stroke her arm.
“At the moment,” Reed continues, “that song is subject to interpretation. And I assure you it’ll stay that way, because I’ve firmly instructed Cooper not to publicly confirm his muse. Will people speculate? God, I hope so, because speculation and theorizing will only help the song go viral. But unless you confirm you’re Ruby Tuesday, nobody will ever know for sure.”
Ruby hangs her head and wipes her eyes, so I rub her back to console her.
“This conversation is a moot point, anyway,” Reed says. “The song has already gone out to all our distributors. Even if I wanted to stop it, which I don’t, it’s too late.”
“You could still do it, if you wanted to,” Ruby squeaks out, her shoulders slumped.
“Maybe,” he concedes. “I guess we’ll never know.”
When Ruby lifts her head, full-blown tears are streaming down her cheeks. “You’re not concerned about the Rolling Stones coming after you?”
“For what?”
She wipes her face with the back of her hand. “For Cooper using ‘Ruby Tuesday’ in his song.”
Reed tsks. “Song titles aren’t subject to copyright or trademark protection. All song titles, even ones as famous as ‘Ruby Tuesday,’ are fair game. Ever heard of a restaurant called Ruby Tuesdays? Case in point.”
Ruby lets out a long, defeated exhale. “Reed, please. I never consented to Cooper airing our dirty laundry like this.”