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“You can’t pull off a beard like that, mate.”
“Is that what you came to tell me? Because you can fuck right off.”
“No. No one’s heard from you in months, not since Roger’s last check-in when you said you wanted to write and that you needed to be alone.”
“I still want to be alone, and I’m still writing.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
But Fritz pushes past me, breaking my iron grip on the door, and walks inside. I’m not in the mood for this today.
“You stink, Bren.” He says while stacking loose papers from the couch so he can sit. He starts reading through them, not looking up at me. “If you want to keep writing, that’s fine and all, but give us your finished songs so Adrian and I can start making some of the music at least. We can have some demos for you when you come out of your cave.”
Fritz is pissing me off, but I say nothing because these days, everything pisses me off. I even scared off my cleaning staff, so this place has turned into a pigsty over the last several months.
“I’m going to go shower.” Fritz peers up at me from his reading. “And stop reading that trash. The good stuff is in piles on the kitchen table.”
Fritz stands and walks to the kitchen as I go upstairs
After my shower, I come into the kitchen, and Fritz stands. He looks at me, and he runs both hands through his hair. “What?” I ask, annoyed at the funny look in his eyes.
“Bren...these are...”
“Shit?” While the songs here are better than those in the living room, I doubted every last syllable I wrote.
Fritz shakes his head. “No. They’re phenomenal, Bren. We have enough here for the next three albums. We can start recording next month—”
“No,” I roar. “I’m not fucking recording next month.”
“Bren. It’s time to move on.” Fritz takes a step back, no doubt finding murder in my eyes.
My fists are clenched at my sides. “I’m not done writing,” I hiss. I grab a stack of songs I’ve revised to within an inch of their lives and hand it to Fritz. “Take those. Entertain yourselves for a while making some music. Have demos for me when I’m done writing.”
“When will that be?” Fritz asks.
My lip curls in distaste. “When I’m done,” I say.
“And who is going to sing in the demos?”
“Karl has a good voice. Use him.”
“Are you kidding? With his pre-pubescent-sounding voice? We’re not a boy band, Bren.”
“Just for the fucking demos. Fuck, Fritz. I don’t want to talk. Take the songs and call it a win. Record music, sneak off to Mexico like you tend to. I don’t care what you do as long as you get the fuck out of my house.”
* * *
A month later,on the dot, someone else is at my door. This time, it’s Karl with two women on either side of him.
I open the door and want nothing more than to punch his pretty little face and that happy little smile. “What do you want?”
“I brought you gifts.” His smile is broad, and he shoves the two women forward. They are both wearing trench coats, and they unbelt them seductively, revealing lingerie underneath. The brunette on the left is wearing a crimson lace bra that only makes me think of Sofia in Napa Valley. My dick twitches for the first time in weeks. I look back at Karl, who believes he has found a way to get me out of my anger, and I laugh bitterly.
“Hookers, Karl?”
Both women close their coats and pout, looking at Karl for instruction.
