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Then remembered it was lying on the table in the tiny galley kitchen in Grey’s studio.
Tempting to leave it until morning, but he didn’t want to miss a message from Chen. And it was early. He could get in a few more hours work once he was there.
When he reached the studio, the laptop was right where he’d left it and he turned it on and watched impatiently as it started up and connected to the Wi-Fi.
He found the e-mail from Chen, which, luckily, was only from midday, not two days ago. Apparently he was interested. Asked Zach to send a demo to let him play around with and see if he could come up with a sound.
Zach sent him one of his favorite songs from the current batch he was working on. It was simple and spare. A good blank canvas.
Chen had a reputation for having an ear for finding new directions to push musicians toward. He did the sort of innovative stuff that Zach needed to make his album stand out.
After he’d sent the track he scrolled through the rest of the e-mails. There was a message from Davis Lewis’s manager saying that Davis had no availability. “No availability” was producer speak for “not interested.” Damn. He’d tried to ignore the sting in his gut. Davis—the other producer he’d gone after—had been a long shot. The man was a legend. And these days he mostly worked with artists who’d already hit the heights. Back in the day he’d been a star-maker, though. But apparently he wasn’t going to be making a star out of Zach.
But Chen had been his top pick, so he was less worried about Davis now. Grey had always said you shouldn’t chase a producer who didn’t like your sound. Said it never ended well. After two Fringe Dweller albums during which he’d seen the studio pushing to mold the band’s sound into a more radio-friendly version of the grungy indie rock they’d started with, he’d learned that was true.
He didn’t hate the music Fringe Dweller played—he wouldn’t have stuck around if he did—but he did think Ryder, as self-appointed bandleader—was too quick to agree to bend when the studio asked.
But they were doing okay—or had been until two weeks ago—so what did he know?
But for this album, even though he would use the marketing might of a studio if the right one was interested, he was in the fortunate position of not needing their money to fund the recording. Which meant he was going to get the sound he wanted and then find it a home. Present the studios with a done deal.
And if they didn’t bite, well then, he hadn’t ever spent much of his trust fund. He’d release the damn thing himself, sink some money into promotion, and see what the hell happened.
But to do that, he needed to have songs to put on the album.
Which meant he needed to stop worrying about what happened after they were written and focus instead on getting the job done.
“What the hell is that?” Zach turned on his heel to see Faith standing at the studio door. He hit pause, glad for the excuse to turn the disaster off. He’d listened to the song five times already since he’d opened his e-mail this morning to find it waiting for him—apparently Chen worked fast—and every time it sounded worse. It was a hell of a start to his Saturday.
“That is the mix of my song Chen Li sent me.” He tried not to sound as gutted as he felt. Chen had worked fast but, in this case, fast wasn’t good.
“Oh hell, no,” Faith said. She marched over to the computer. Hit play. Then winced as the jangly electronic beats blasted into the air again. “Please tell me this isn’t the direction you were thinking of.”
Zach shook his head. “No.” He didn’t trust himself to say anything more. He’d been so sure Chen would have the right vision for him. But the mix he’d sent him was so far from what Zach wanted, it wasn’t even funny. In fact, it felt like someone was hazing him. Bubblegum dance music had its place. But it wasn’t what he wanted to do. “Maybe he just wanted to make sure it was nothing like Blacklight or Fringe Dweller,” he said as his voice—made weirdly tinny through whatever process Chen had applied—kicked in on the track.
“Maybe he’s insane,” Faith retorted. She paused the music. “You can’t work with him.”
“He’s a hit-maker.”
“He’s not going to make you a hit with that.” She scowled down at the laptop, hands on hips. “Play me your version of the song.”
He frowned, surprised by the request. “The track I sent him?”
“How about you pick up that guitar and just play it?”
Faith in CEO mode. He looked at her, standing there in running shorts, an ancient CloudFest SEX AND SAND AND ROCK ’N’ ROLL T-shirt, hair wild and looking completely sure of herself. Being in charge looked good on her. He grinned.
“What?” she demanded.
“You’re cute when you’re running the world,” he said.
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m cute all the time, big brother. So pick up the guitar.”
He did. Settled himself on the stool, feeling weirdly nervous. It had been a long time since he’d last played for Faith. And the song—about a guy trying to apologize to a girl—seemed a little close to the bone. So. Maybe he would sing it for her. It was a love song—weren’t all songs love songs?—but maybe this once it could be a “hey sis, I’m sorry” song.
He let his fingers settle on the strings and began to play, losing himself in the music, letting it take him to that place where nothing else mattered and nothing could get to him.
When he finished, the echoes of the last notes fading as he came back down to earth, Faith was looking at him a little … weirdly.
