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“Thanks, Alice,” he says, his voice soft.
“For what?” I ask, leaning against the door of the booth.
His voice is rough when he says, “Working together.”
I tap my knuckles on the frame. “Go finish the song, rock star.”
He chuckles, saluting me. “Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t help but grin when I close the door behind me.
After two hours, he plops down in the chair next to me and looks at the console.
“Want to hear your part?” I ask, taking a sip from my coffee and pushing playback.
“Sure.” He nods.
My hands move over the panel, making small changes here and there. “I want to leave the mistakes in,” I tell him.
“I like that,” he says, bobbing his head to the beat while watching me work.
“Your dad was right,” he drawls, sitting back and putting his feet up against the chair.
“About what?” I stop the playback.
“I needed to be honest in my music. Jack sure does love to dish out his hippie quotes.”
I laugh. “Yep, he does. He always loves to quote Janis Joplin.”
He grins, holding his head to the side. “The man knows his lyrics.”
“Jack is a real piece of work,” I reply, watching my dad dance to the beat of Wyatt’s piano solo.
Rone chuckles. “Yeah for sure.”
We both smile, looking at each other.
“I like recording here with him. How he changes the studio set-up. Mixing the old amps with the new ones. It sounds great.”
“Thanks.” My smile is shy. “Took Dad and I a couple of tries to get it right.”
“Hey, don’t forget your brother’s record. Didn’t Jack and Axl win their first Grammy with his debut album?”
“They did. I’m still discovering new things on there. Dad did both the production and engineering on their record,” I say, pulling my legs under me. “Sometimes it still feels like a dream,” I say, motioning to the awards and gold records on the wall. “Dad lives for the music. He loves to pick up old guitars and amps here and there. The accolades are cool, but having you record here ...”
“Is not what you thought it would be?” He studies my face. I see the gentleness coming back into his eyes before it’s gone again.
“Brings back a whole lot.” I smile, shaking my head. “You’re different, you know.” I look at him sideways.
“We both are.” He scratches his stubble with his knuckles before brushing a stray lock behind his ear.
“You’re not—” I try to find the right words.
“Drunk.” He finishes the sentence for me, and puts his hands into his pockets.
I push him in the shoulder and he grins.
“That too, but something else.” Searching his eyes, I say, “I can’t put my finger on it.”
