29. One-Time Buyout
A Chevrolet led the way, followed by a Ford, heading south along the road outside the school for half an hour, finally stopping outside a solitary warehouse in a remote district far from the city center.
“Ta-da! Allow me to introduce—Good Morning Band’s secret base...”
Noah’s demeanor had completely changed; he was enthusiastic and eager to please the newcomer. He pulled out a key and opened the iron gate, ushering everyone inside.
Is this it?
Dean looked around. The warehouse was furnished in a very rough manner; the four walls were coated with a thin layer of cheap filler, and a blue metal lampshade hung from the ceiling. In the corner opposite, a narrow staircase led to the second floor.
The only decoration worthy of mention was a cluster of posters plastered across the walls—famous bands and singers from the sixties and seventies: The Beatles, Elvis Presley, and Queen, who had just clinched the Billboard Hot 100 Single award and remained active to this day.
“This year belongs to Queen,” Robert said, pointing to the poster of the gap-toothed uncle in a white jumpsuit with exposed chest hair. “But I assure you, with your songs as support, Good Morning will surpass their glory and create new miracles.”
Who can’t boast?
Dean thought to himself, then his attention was drawn to the dazzling array of instruments at the front of the hall: microphones with stands, drum kits, guitars, basses, electronic keyboards, speakers... Even a violin and a saxophone, which seemed out of place for the band’s style—who used them, he wondered.
“The band’s finances are limited... Renting this warehouse long-term in expensive Las Vegas is already a feat,” Robert explained, noticing the surprise in Dean’s eyes. “Most underground bands train in conditions so basic they resemble a sewer.”
“How do you record songs, then?” Dean asked. “I don’t see any recording equipment.”
He recalled that any decent music studio would at least have soundproof glass, a mixing console, monitor speakers, headphones, and a pile of professional gear whose names he couldn’t even guess.
“Of course, we go to a professional recording studio!” Caroline said with a resigned expression. “A small band like ours can’t afford the purchase or maintenance costs.”
“Recording studio owners are bloodsuckers,” Kade said, grimacing.
“All right! Liam, Kade, Noah, show these two around downstairs, take good care of them, let them listen to our previous works,” Robert glanced at Last and Britney. “Last, Britney, want to try the drums?”
Liam was full of enthusiasm.
“Caroline, come upstairs and help me discuss the cooperation with Dean.”
...
The second floor was much better, with a quiet atmosphere and blue wallpaper. Dean glanced around—a bookshelf, a desk, a genuine leather sofa, a water dispenser. Two pots of green plants in the corner released a faint, elegant fragrance.
“Take a seat, I’ll find something,” Robert said, heading to the desk and rummaging through the drawer.
Dean sat on the leather sofa, shifting uncomfortably.
Caroline sat very close to him, her head bowed as if wrestling with some major dilemma. Her pale arm unintentionally brushed Dean’s sleeve, her warmth and the scent of shampoo from her golden hair making Dean feel slightly restless.
“You said you’ve written many works before—are any of them suitable for me?” Caroline suddenly looked at him, her moist, large eyes filled with expectation, and her pursed red lips as soft as a flower.
Dean’s gaze wandered. The girl’s skin was luminous and delicate, her face small, her features more gentle than most white girls, making her look exquisitely beautiful. Yet her figure was excellent; even sitting, the curves beneath her black tank top and a glimpse of her slender waist were visible.
Dean couldn’t help but think of his girlfriend from his previous life—her looks paled in comparison to Caroline.
“Yes, I have a few songs for female lead vocals, but they need some polishing,” Dean replied casually.
“Got it! Caroline, stop sitting there, go make some coffee,” Robert said, placing a pile of documents on the desk and calling Dean over. “Buddy, you’re eighteen, right?”
“I know what you’re worried about. I’m legally of age, I qualify to sign contracts alone.”
Dean opened the folder to find a sample contract for song transfer, packed with dense clauses that made his eyes swim, unable to grasp the key points.
After a quick glance, he closed the folder again.
“Have you joined any composer or broadcast music associations?”
“No,” Dean answered honestly; he had no idea about any associations.
“Good!”
Robert pumped his fist in excitement.
“What’s up? Not joining means you can easily fool me?” Dean joked.
“No, not at all! I’m just thrilled—I can be your guide, bringing a newly minted genius like you into Vegas’s music scene and helping you grow into a renowned composer. That’s a capital worth bragging about.”
---
Robert took the steaming coffee from Caroline and sipped it.
“Do you know how hard it is for outsiders to get in? Countless young men and women chase pop star dreams, willing to pay any price—money, their bodies, anything—to become insiders. But ninety-nine percent are just daydreaming; their voices are mediocre, they lack talent or creativity, and end up losing everything to scoundrels in this circle.”
“But I’m different—I’m a professional with principles. As for you, ‘Amazing Day’ is your best ticket, solid gold... Give it to Good Morning, and after its successful release, music associations will naturally extend an olive branch to you, the author. You’ll keep writing songs for Good Morning, and from a legal perspective, it’ll be as easy as eating or drinking!”
Caroline rested her chin on her hand, her gaze shifting thoughtfully between the familiar band manager and the new friend.
“No problem singing for Good Morning,” Dean nodded. “Let’s discuss song copyright transfer and future single release revenue sharing.”
The plump manager spoke.
Dean raised his coffee cup and looked at Robert’s eager face, smiling.
A lawyer negotiating song rights with an eighteen-year-old outsider? Treating him like a fat sheep?
But Dean didn’t mind.
“I have a few conditions. After the song is released, my name must be credited. Of course, the other Good Morning members’ names can be included—I don’t mind.”
He hadn’t planned to gobble up everything at once. He wasn’t afraid of losing out, but he needed to take a step forward, just as Robert said—to make a name for himself in the circle, leave a calling card, and facilitate future song sales.
He dropped a bombshell.
“I won’t take a penny of the copyright revenue after the song is published.”
“Buddy, are you kidding?” Robert looked astonished. He’d never seen a newcomer voluntarily give up their rights; most rookies were arrogant, eager to claim one hundred percent of a song’s profits.
Every percentage point was like cutting their own flesh, and they could argue for days.
Robert’s professional instincts made him suspicious—was there something wrong with this song?
“Dean, you don’t have to do that,” Caroline shook her head anxiously. “We never intended to take advantage of you; we’d prefer a long-term friendly partnership!”
“I’m serious. And rest assured, this song was written just two days ago—it’s clean as a mirror, no copyright issues. You can register it any time. But I require...” Dean paused, staring straight into Robert’s eyes, speaking word by word, “You must pay me a one-time buyout fee for ‘Amazing Day.’”
Dean had no interest in wasting time wrangling over copyright.
Besides, he didn’t want to be a pop star—getting paid behind the scenes was much more satisfying.
A buyout was faster than revenue sharing; he urgently needed his first payment.
“One-time buyout?”
Robert nodded; this was entirely acceptable, and he could add the band members’ names to the song.
‘Amazing Day’ would then become their original track.
A band should sing its own songs; this was a huge bonus for listeners.
But things were progressing almost too smoothly. Robert observed Dean—this Chinese kid’s eyes were shrewd; he was no fool.
Robert tapped his fingers on the table, probing, “How much do you want?”
Dean flashed a grin.
“Ten thousand dollars—after taxes.”
Damn!
Robert’s composure collapsed like a levee breached by a flood, instantly crumbling.
Caroline’s mouth dropped open—he dared to ask such a sky-high price!
“Buddy, do you know the market? Are you aware what a new, unproven songwriter’s track usually sells for?”
“I don’t know...but I’m sure ‘Amazing Day’ will generate value far beyond ten thousand dollars—ten, maybe a hundred times more.”
“Think about it—if I wasn’t a newcomer, would you get this song for that price?”
Dean’s tone was bold.
“Ten thousand dollars for it is a bargain—you’ll make a killing.”
“You’re asking too much. Be realistic, rookie...” Robert added two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee. “We’ve bought seven songs before—the most expensive was two thousand, and that’s before tax.”
“Did that song help you release an album?” Dean turned to Caroline. “Did it win any past Vegas Song Contest championships?”
The girl pressed her lips, her expression crestfallen.
“Those songs—can they compare to ‘Amazing Day’?”
Dean pressed on.
---
“I repeat, your demand is too high!” Robert shook his head. “If you don’t believe me, you can offer the song to other bands and see if any sucker will pay over ten thousand for it.”
“Why not? Let’s call it a day. I’ll try other bands and consult a professional lawyer.”
Dean suddenly stood, striding gracefully to the stairs, mentally counting.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Wait, Dean, I must warn you—your song isn’t registered yet, and other band managers aren’t as principled as I am. They’re crafty old foxes... You understand? To them, you’re just a lamb waiting for slaughter,” Robert couldn’t help saying.
“You mean they’ll plagiarize my song?” Dean suddenly turned, his meaning ambiguous, almost tempting, “What about you? Would Good Morning Band plagiarize it?”
A strange expectation rose in Dean’s heart—if they really stole his song and deprived him of his work, wouldn’t he have ample reason to demand even greater compensation?
That wouldn’t really be wrong, would it?
Robert’s face darkened, his eyes darting as he pondered the possibility.
“Dean, can’t you lower the price?”
Caroline rushed over, gripping Dean’s hand tightly, gazing up at him and pleading gently.
“We can hardly scrape together such a large sum in a short time. But Good Morning needs this song to make a breakthrough... For Last and Britney’s sake, okay?”
After a moment’s stalemate, music drifted up from downstairs—a pleasant melody.
Drums, guitar, keyboard, complex accompaniment, someone singing ‘Amazing Day’...
It was Last’s voice.
Dean figured his performance was about done.
After all, as a newcomer with no connections or fame, if he submitted to a major label or another band, the song would likely sink without a trace, maybe even get tangled in messy trouble.
Most crucially, only God knew if a song from twenty years in the future would really be popular now.
“All right, for Last’s sake... How much are you willing to offer?” Dean returned to the negotiating sofa.
“Three thousand,” Robert lit a Marlboro and handed it to Dean. “We’ll handle all copyright issues and retain your credit.”
“You’re treating me like a beggar—three thousand doesn’t match the effort I put in,” Dean declined the cigarette, replying firmly, “Final price—five thousand.”
That was Dean’s expectation.
“You win, buddy—five thousand, a one-time buyout for ‘Amazing Day.’” Robert bit down hard on his cigarette, reaching out to shake Dean’s hand.
Beside him, Caroline clutched her chest and let out a long sigh of relief. She couldn’t imagine letting such a good song slip away.
“You should be grateful it’s me, Robert. If it were another manager, they’d exploit legal loopholes and eat you alive,” the agent squinted. “Don’t your people believe in reciprocity? I’ve been so honest—shouldn’t you give me something in return? How about giving me the agency rights for your lyrics and music?”
“Let’s wait until Good Morning wins the Vegas Song Contest with this song,” Dean refused decisively, then asked, “Are we signing and paying now?”
“Not so fast—we need to get the song’s copyright registered first!” Robert shook his head. “We’ll list Good Morning and your name.”
“How long will that take?”
“With your full cooperation and my industry connections, at least ten days to half a month.”
Dean’s expression changed; half a month later would be the summer break.
“But I urgently need the money—preferably cash.”
“Listen, young man—take it from someone experienced: never ask for cash in a contract. That’s what crooks use to evade taxes. You don’t want the IRS knocking at your door. Just give me a bank account, or I’ll write you a check.”
Robert explained kindly, seeing Dean’s troubled look and having an idea.
“How about this—I’ll lend you twelve hundred on behalf of the band, to cement our friendship.”
“I don’t have a bank account,” Dean smiled innocently. “You’ll have to help me sort everything out.”
...