“Nope.”
They both look at me. I drain my beer in one long swig.
“Fuck Lacey,” I say succinctly. “We’ll do our set without her.”
“We can’t do it without her,” Linc sounds incredulous. “She’s our whole act.”
“No, she’s not,” I snap, an edge to my voice. I’m so sick of Lacey Briggs, I could spit. “I wrote those songs. You guys can play them backward and forward.”
“Your point…?”
“If I tweak some of the lyrics to fit our style and move the octave down a few steps… I’m thinking you guys can manipulate the tempo so we sound less Taylor Swift, more Tim McGraw…” I shrug. “We might be a disaster. Or, we might just salvage the night.”
“He has a point,” Aiden mutters. “We won’t play ‘Liar’ or ‘Warn Ya’ or any of the candy confection pop-princess songs. But ‘Hurts Like Hell’ and ‘Burning Stars’ are solid, especially if we strip away all of Lacey’s god-awful gyrating. And even ‘Told You So’ can work if you take out the lines about your boyfriend doing you wrong.”
I laugh. “Yeah, those need to go.”
Aiden grabs a pencil and starts scribbling down notes, rearranging things. “If we switch from a major key to a minor as we come out of the chorus…”
I walk over and join him, watching with interest over his shoulder.
“Let me get this straight. You two want to revamp our entire setlist.” Linc’s eyes dart between me and Aiden like we’ve both gone nuts. “You realize the show is three hours away.”
“Then we’d better stop wasting time debating about this and get to work,” Aiden mutters.
He laughs. “You crazy ass motherfuckers.”
I grin. “Does that mean you’re in?”