“You don’t have to explain,” he interrupts, not even a hint of anger or surprise in his tone. “From the outside looking in, who the hell wouldn’t want to be us? I get it. I thank my lucky stars every fucking day, and never more so since this thing with my vocal chords. I need to be a lot better about resting, being more cognizant that I don’t overdo it.” He pauses. “But as far as what you need going forward—tell me this: Do you have songs you’ve written?”
I laugh. “So many fucking songs, King.”
“Next time we have a day off, let’s sit down and look at some of the ones you think are your best. Just the two of us.”
“For what?” I’m momentarily confused.
His eyes meet mine. “So I can give you some brutally honest feedback on your stuff. I’ll tell you whether I think it’s the kind of thing that’ll sell. Whether I believe you truly have a shot. That way you don’t get blindsided after you’ve already signed a deal or whatever.”
Part of me is pissed off he would suggest such a thing because I don’t need validation from anyone. I’ve already written hit songs. It’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing… Well, except for the almost nineteen years since I’ve actually done it.
At the same time, he’s not being a dick. He’s genuinely trying to be helpful, and if anyone knows what sells, it’s Kingston Knight.
“I appreciate it,” I say after a beat. “I’ve been writing lyrics my entire life but I stopped thinking about melodies or making them into full songs until recently. And I don’t know what that means.”
“Everyone carries grief and trauma differently,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe this is your trauma finally letting go. Or maybe it’s just the right time for you. Whether you sign with Hart Records or not, who said you can’t write music, sell your music, whatever the case may be. There are a lot more options than just the two you’re grappling with, my friend.” He nods and then heads in the opposite direction.
I stare after him thoughtfully.
Why did I give up on writing music for others? I guess there’s a part of me that’s selfish, wanting to keep my songs for myself, but I’m still struggling with the idea of starting over in my forties.
Selling my songs for others to perform might be lucrative, keeping a finger in the rock and roll pie I love so much without actually having to give up the security I have as Onyx Knight’s tour manager.
Fuck.
Now I’ve got yet another option to consider.
In fact, there are probably a couple that I haven’t thought of yet either.
I need to sit down and write down the pros and cons of all of them.
But not tonight.
It’s time to get out there and rock the house.
“Break a leg, babe.” Wynter squeezes my arm and leans up for a soft kiss.
“Thanks.” I kiss her soundly, letting our lips linger as I pull her close with my hands on her hips. Her body molds against mine and I kiss her again, this time sliding my tongue against hers. She winds her arms around my neck and our mouths move together hungrily. Even though I was inside her just a couple of hours ago. It’s never enough.
How the hell am I going to survive months at a time without her?
I don’t want her to leave.
It’s that simple but also that complicated.
“Ninety seconds!” Pete calls out.
I squeeze Wynter’s arm and then turn, ready to focus on the music. The crowd. And maybe play guitar in front of a crowd for the first time in…nineteen years.
I’m itching to do it and Z offered up one of his amps so I could try out the new guitar.
Give me a sign, Joey.
I don’t know what the hell to do and every day I put off the decision makes things that much harder.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wynter
