Page 44 of Before You Fell

“No.” Phoenix’s smile vanishes. “You wanted the kind of song people feel in their fucking ribs. Willow gave you that and now you want to change it because some label fuckhead with soft hands and a softer cock got nervous. Has he ever written anything that didn’t come with a profit margin and a lunch meeting? No. So when he wants changes, you can tell him to shut the fuck up and learn what a real song sounds like.”

I stare down at my notebook because looking at Phoenix would be a mistake. Looking at him would make me feel things I have spent two days trying to bury beneath sarcasm, caffeine, and not nearly enough sleep.

“Run it again from the second verse,” Phoenix says. “Nothing fucking changes.”

Damon’s stare hardens through the glass. “That’s not your decision, you arrogant prick.”

“It is if you want the vocals today.” Phoenix’s mouth curves.

The room goes still.

Jett’s gaze flicks to me.

Damon holds Phoenix’s stare, and for one long second, the whole studio is poised on the edge of something ugly. Jax stops tapping his stick against his thigh. Cruz’s grin fades to something watchful. Even the engineer keeps his hand above the board, not touching anything.

Damon presses the talkback again. “You really want to hold up a session over two lines?”

Phoenix leans closer to the mic—his rings catching the low studio light. “I’ll hold up the whole fucking album if you keep trying to turn her songs into label-approved shit with no teeth.”

Damon’s jaw flexes. “Careful.”

Phoenix lets out a low, dark, humorless laugh. “Why? You going to put me in time-out? Call the label and tell them the big bad singer hurt your feelings?”

Damon exhales through his nose before he presses the talkback with two fingers. “Fine. We will keep the lines for now.”

“Smart man.” Phoenix’s mouth hooks at one corner.

“Don’t push me.”

“Don’t give me shit lyrics to sing.”

Damon looks toward the engineer. “Again from the second verse.”

The room breathes again, but nothing about it is easy.

By night, the studio has grown feverish. Everyone is exhausted. Empty coffee cups sit in sad little clusters. Someone’s leather jacket hangs over the back of the couch, forgotten or abandoned.

My head is starting to split again. Just a slow, mean pressure behind my eyes, a tightness in my jaw, and an ache creeping down the back of my neck, as if the day has decided to put its hands there and squeeze.

I glance at the clock on the wall behind the soundboard.

8:47.

I wait until everyone has turned away before I slip out.

The bathroom near the back hallway is small. I lock the door, set my bag on the sink, and carefully unzip the inside pocket.

I tip a pill into my palm and stare at it for half a second.

It’s just to take the edge off. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Just enough to quiet the ache, walk back into that room, and keep being the girl who always has another lyric ready.

I swallow it with water from the tap, then straighten up. I smooth my hair, fix the lipstick on the corner of my mouth with my thumb, and by the time I return, nobody looks up.

Time continues to pass in bright red numbers.

9:03 soon becomes 9:26. Then 9:51 is right behind it.

Damon’s voice still cuts through the room.