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She blurts out, "I'm going backward."
"How?"
"My career. I should be on stage singing. I'm not developing."
"You're supposed to be working on material for your demo," I remind her.
She bites her lip.
"Isn't that what you said you needed? A demo?" I question.
She nods. "Yes, but that requires me to write something. I-I can't."
I release her hands and sit back in the chair, inquiring, "How many new songs have you written since you got here?"
She winces again.
"It can't be that bad," I assert.
She closes her eyes, shakes her head, and confesses, "None."
Shock fills me. I blurt out, "Surely you've written something. You've been here almost two months."
She covers her hands over her face and groans. "I have nothing."
"What have you been doing all day?"
She glares at me. "I've been trying to write. It's just not coming to me. It's not that easy, or everyone would do it!"
I put my hands in the air. "Hey, I'm not judging."
"Sounds like you are," she says.
I soften my voice. "I'm not, pet."
Silence ensues. I curse myself. I promised her she'd be farther along in her career after a year with me. It's time to make good on that.
My phone vibrates. I glance at the screen.
Chainsaw: Ready for you.
Excitement fills me. I've been waiting for this longer than I ever expected.
Me: Be there in an hour and a half.
I ask, "What do you need to write?"
She scoffs. "A new brain."
My lips twitch.
"This isn't funny," she claims.
I rise, bend down, kiss the top of her head, and declare, "Your brain is fine. In fact, it's impeccable. Stop worrying, and it'll come to you. I have to get to work." I go into the bedroom, change, and leave.
I fight traffic, finally get in front of the warehouse, and hit the remote. The garage door opens. I reverse the Porsche in, then close the door. I take an envelope out of the glove compartment and exit my vehicle. I step inside the large, almost empty space.
Chainsaw sits on the desk, his arms crossed. The man, who I assume is Snake, is tied to a chair, his wrists bound behind his back and ankles strapped to the metal legs. He's huge, not unlike anything I'd imagine for a bouncer at a high-end strip club in L.A. A white cloth fills his mouth. Several layers of duct tape circle around his head, securing the gag.
