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Present day—Southern Brick Studios, Nashville
When I stumble into the studio the next day, the boys are already working on a new song. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. This morning, when I looked in the mirror of the bathroom, there was a shit show staring back at me.
Why did I keep replaying that night in LA over and over again in my head while I was lying alone in my bed? I question why I ever left him. Should I have stayed? Could we have worked it out together? Could I have helped him even though he didn’t want my help?
I cringe when the snapshots of the night before in his distillery and bar flash before my eyes. They are still spinning in the back of my mind when I take my seat behind the console in the studio.
Dad gives me a look I ignore. “Nice of you to join us, Squirrel,” he says, shaking his head and smiling like he knows something I don’t.
Denver is sitting behind the piano, and Rone’s fingers brush over his blue aquamarine Les Paul, strumming along to the tune. He fixed the guitar? I gasp, my heart skipping a beat.Somehow Rone feels me staring and gives me a nod before focusing on the song again. The boys have years of writing rounds under their belts and it shows.
My father snorts.
“Don’t start, Dad,” I groan out. That gets another chuckle from him, and he shakes his head as he focuses on the console again.
We work for hours, finishing the songs they were working on last week.
At the end of the day, I take out my phone and scan the messages while the boys run through one of their last songs. One text from Max makes me grin.
He’s coming by the house later this evening with his boyfriend. He started shooting a new movie here in Nashville a couple days ago. I send him a message back, grinning again when I read one of his dirty jokes. I read another from Nina letting me know the charity strip show made fifteen thousand dollars for the kids’ school, because of one single donor who laid down ten grand for Dallas’s old kindergarten class. What the hell?
“Squirrel,” Dad says.
“Yeah? Sorry, what were you saying?”
“We’re almost done with this song. Rone still needs to lay down the groundwork on the guitar part we talked about. I’m going to go over the drum and bass parts with the guys,” he says, nodding to Navarone who’s joking and laughing about something with Sterling. “Can you lock up later in case I forget again? And do not tell me I’m like Axl,” he finishes, chuckling.
“I won’t, Dad, and spill. What are you doing later?” I ask, sitting back in my chair.
He shrugs on a hoodie over his tie-dye shirt. “I have a date,” he says, pointing to a clean white shirt and tie hanging over the chair. “This is the vibe I’m going for.” He looks nervous as he brushes his hair behind his ears.
I stand and kiss his cheek. “You’re very handsome, Dad, and not a hippie shirt in sight.”
He kisses my forehead. “Thanks, Squirrel. I wrote a couple things down for you to finish with Rone.”
“Okay,” I say, watching him walk into the studio and begin adjusting microphones here and there, giving the guys pointers on the setup for the next song.
Navarone takes his seat in the small enclosed studio, pulling the red, white, and blue guitar strap over his head. He motions to me and I nod, indicating he can start playing. I stare at Navarone’s fingers moving over his guitar. Sometimes, he swears as he tries to find the right chord change.
After walking to the sound-proofed booth, I lean against the open door, listening to the tune.
He stops when he notices me. “What do you think?” he asks, pulling back his headphones.
“I like it,” I admit, taking my seat across from him. I try to sound professional and wonder if he can see right through me.
“What if you change it up right here?” I suggest, taking his fingers and adjusting them on the guitar. “Like that, and then play.”
He stares at me, focusing on my mouth. I still have my hand on his fingers and I let them go like he’s burned me.
“Alright give me a sec,” he murmurs, trying out the riff.
He swears under his breath, changing the chords. “That’s it.” He smiles, brushing his hair back. He leans forward and writes the chord changes on a piece of paper.
“I’ll be back there,” I say, motioning to the control area. “Need anything?”
He shakes his head before putting his headphones on and turning back to his guitar. “This is probably going to take a while.” He grimaces.
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be there working,” I say, motioning to the console.
