“Looking back, I think I sold my soul.”
“To the Devil,” Johnny said.
Billy set his jaw and made a tic that was almost a nod.
“That is one fucked-up tale, my friend. And your producer has probably taken you for a ride in more ways than one, but does he have to be the Devil incarnate?”
“He showed up in my darkest hour and made me a star. Played every hole in my heart like a flute.”
“And now you feel like payback time is nigh?”
“I do.”
“Okay, even if I accept the possibility of a Devil, you still didn’t make a deal for your soul as far as I can see based on what you’ve told me. Did that happen later?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out. I think it was subtle, like I was supposed to recognize the moment and what it meant, but I didn’t. I didn’t see anything about a soul in the contract. Sometimes he seems to talk in symbolism. As a songwriter, I hate to admit I don’t always get it. But I never raised my left hand and made an oath. I never signed a piece of parchment in blood.” Billy chuckled nervously at how hokey that sounded. “Maybe just telling him I would do whatever it took... Maybe letting him put this ring on my finger.” Billy rotated the platinum band on his right hand with the thumb and forefinger of his left, a wheel turning on an axle.
Johnny smiled. It was a kind smile, not condescending. He said, “Well I think you’re alright, bro. It doesn't sound like you made a pact. But you’re going up to that studio in a couple of days. Is that to work with this same producer? Satan himself?”
“Yeah.”
“If you want my advice, you should call it off. Just cancel and take some time to step away from all the head games.”
“I can’t. I’m under contract. Last disc didn’t do so hot, and now they say they’ll drop me if I don’t play nice with the King Midas who produced my one hit.”
“Well then, at least get some rest before you drive up. You look like shit.”
“Thanks, Johnny. You always know how to make me feel better.”