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“I’m honestly surprised we convinced you to do it,” said Matt. “Totally not your style back then to put yourself out there in front of everybody.”
“You, Ms. Crane, and I were very persuasive,” Jimmy recounted. He turned to Giselle. “She was your favorite teacher, so I knew you couldn’t say no to her.”
“You were right. Knowing all of you believed in me… well, I couldn’t let you down,” Giselle murmured. “Those stupid popular kids bullied us during the school week, but we rehearsed like maniacs on the weekends.”
“In the end, we showed them what we were really made of,” Matt grinned.
“Thank god it all paid off,” Jimmy said.
“High school had its ups and downs, for sure, but that was a bright spot. Being our rockin’ selves out and proud. That’s what Tortured Hearts has always been about, you know? Stickin’ it to the bullies and writing anthems for the underdog, right?” Giselle said excitedly. She added, “We lived it, and now we write about it.”
Jimmy and Matt glanced at each other, and Giselle knew them well enough to note the subtle worry in their expressions. Her heart sank a little.
“But I know… I mean, of course we can’t write about high school stuff forever,” she admitted reluctantly. “We’re certainly not teenagers anymore. Even though that angst is still there, we can’t just make the same album again and again.”
“Wow, that’s extremely mature of you, Giselle. Seriously,” said Jimmy in awe.
“If only Bruce was here to hear you say that,” Matt chuckled.
“Ugh, don’t say his name. You’ll summon him,” Giselle moaned, rolling her eyes.
“Have you spoken to Bruce since Griffith Park?” Jimmy inquired, taking down the pencil tucked behind his ear and nervously tapping out a rhythm on the desk before him.
“We had a phone conversation in between appointments on Monday. Just a short talk. I assured him I’m not hurt and I’m not pushing for any kind of investigation into the event because screw that. If one of our roadies configured the prop wrong, that’s no reason to hang ‘em out to dry. Accidents happen, and Bruce understands that,” Giselle said. “Still, he’s going to show up any minute now, I know it.”
“It’s midnight. I think we’re in the clear,” Matt replied. “He’s probably tucked away in bed at his gigantic mansion, sleeping on silk sheets, with a big-ass chandelier—”
Tap-tap-tap.
“Is that the door?” Jimmy mouthed at them.
“Who’s there?” Matt called out from his spot on the bean bag chair.
“Bruce Jimenez, sorry to interrupt,” came the deep-voiced reply.
The three of them stared at each other in disbelief. Giselle jumped up with a dramatic huff to answer the door.
“I told you we’d summon him,” she hissed under her breath.
She fixed a smile on her face by the time she pulled the door open.
“Hey, Brucey. What a surprise,” she greeted flatly.
“I don’t mean to intrude. I know you creatives go into the zone or whatever, and I wouldn’t normally do this, but I just wanted to see how things are going,” he said, looking past her at the other two.
“Things are going great, sir. We were a little shaken up by that incident on Sunday, but working through it. Nothing we can’t deal with,” Jimmy said, standing up to go shake his hand.
“We’re having a very productive jam sesh, Mr. Jimenez,” Matt agreed, giving him the ‘rock on’ hand gesture from his bean bag perch.
“That’s very encouraging to hear. We’re working with the PR team to draft a media response. Might involve a few interviews for you, just to show the fans you’re alright. Answer questions without feeding the hype. But enough about that. Any new songs generated from your work with Mr. Tate and Mr. Norton?” Bruce asked earnestly.
Everyone looked at Giselle. Her face burned, and she hoped it wasn’t obvious. She shifted her weight and averted her eyes to the ceiling, like she was deep in thought. Really, she was stalling for time.
“We are certainly, uh, working toward something,” she said confidently.
Bruce furrowed his dark brow. His suit looked uncomfortably tight as he folded his arms over his broad chest. “I hope you all are getting along by now. I know you were taken off guard by this change to the songwriting process, but I really believe it’s for the best,” he said.
Giselle prickled a little. It was her instinct to recoil at the implication that she didn’t know what was best for her own band. She wanted to stomp her foot and shout to the heavens that every song she wrote came straight from her heart, and what could be purer than that?
