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I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and lay my fingers on the keys. I am more focused now, able to look at the song objectively and sing a couple of the verses, making sure the pace feels right. Once I have a good draft of the song, I can record a rough track using the equipment in the room. Bret mentioned there was an engineer on sight I can schedule when I’m ready. Once the track is recorded, Bret will send it out to the management companies of artists looking for songs. I’m not sure how I feel about that right now, but it doesn’t stop me from creating.
I have good bones to the song I’m working on and start back at the top, singing while I play the piano, adjusting lyrics where they don’t work with the melody. I look at the clock, noticing I’ve been working on this song for about an hour and haven’t even touched my cup of coffee - which is now cold. I want to run through it one last time with the change in chorus to make it hit a little harder, and make the hook stand out more. This time I belt it out to make sure it hits the mark, and about halfway through, I hear the door to the studio fly open, hitting the wall with a thud and excited talking fills the room.
I turn around to see a group of musicians standing on the threshold; mostly guys in their early twenties, studded belts, tattoos, Mohawks, and attitudes. There are two girls with them, platinum blondes wearing miniskirts and too much makeup. The guy that looks like the most trouble has his arm around one of the blondes. Maybe it’s the lip ring or the tattoo creeping up his neck, or maybe it’s just the cocky look in his eyes that gives me pause.
I’ve seen that look before.
He’s a narcissistic, hungry musician who thinks he’s special, but he’s just one of many who will probably never make it in this business.
I raise my eyebrows at them. “Can I help you?” I ask as I narrow my eyes, annoyed and not hiding it in the least.
“Nah, just came in to see who was singing.” Trouble speaks for the group.
“You in the habit of barging in on people’s sessions?” I stand up from the piano and put my hand on my hip. My stature sure isn’t imposing, but my attitude can be.
“When I like what I hear.” He looks me up and down starting with my black boots, ripped jeans, and t-shirt. I push the hair off my face, not used to the shorter cut as it brushes the tops of my shoulders.
“Am I supposed to be flattered?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he answers and winks at me.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.” I don’t think he knows who I am, and that’s a good thing. I’ve been out of the public eye for a while now, and I’m enjoying my anonymity.
He chuckles darkly.
I tap my foot. “This is your clue to get the fuck out now,” I say.
He signals his crew to leave the room. They pile out together like a mass of black smoke, but he remains. His arm rests on the doorframe. Red flags should be going up right now. It’s late and I’m here alone, but even though he looks like trouble, he doesn’t seem dangerous.
The blonde urges him to move and it takes him a minute, but he finally leaves.
Fuck off, I mutter under my breath as he lets the door slowly close behind him. I’m used to assholes and male egos in this business, but it doesn’t mean I have to put up with it.
CHAPTER TEN
Do You Cry Easy
I PULL THE tape off one of the boxes, not sure if I’m ready to see what’s inside. All of this stuff is from storage, and I haven’t looked at it in ages. I pull the cardboard back to reveal concert merch with Mogo’s logo on it. I bring the brushed cotton t-shirt to my nose and smell. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find, but all I smell is the musty scent of the storage unit.
Underneath the t-shirts are some rolled-up posters, and when I pull it open, there’s a picture of our first album cover. Cash and Jack are fighting and Wade is trying to break it up. I’m standing in the middle looking right into the camera, with heavy eyeliner and a braid in my hair. I think it sums up our dynamic perfectly. I always loved that picture.
Wade has repeatedly told me that Cash is fine, but I’m growing angrier by the day at being cut off. I’m sure he’s doing what he feels is right for him, but it’s not easy to deal with the silence. I have no right to be angry, but feelings don’t care about right or wrong. I’m in limbo, not knowing how he’s feeling or what he’s doing. If he hates me, I understand, but just serve me the damn papers and get it over with.
I close the box and shove it to the side angrily. There are several more boxes just like this and I’m keeping them in a pile so I can organize what can be kept and what can be destroyed. I don’t know who would want t-shirts of a band that isn’t even together anymore, but Bret insists that some of this can still be sold.
I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve never owned a home or rented a place by myself. This loft will be the first time I’ve ever lived alone. I went from being with my parents to moving out to L.A. and sleeping in a van with Jack. Even when we moved into the squat we shared a bed, and when Cash and Wade joined us, we shared a tour bus. I’ve slept a few feet away from someone almost my entire life. The absence is suffocating, and I feel it every time I climb into my bed alone at night.
I should feel a sense of independence, but looking around at my sparsely decorated loft, all I feel is loneliness.
“You should have let Bret hire you an assistant to help with all of this,” Wade says as he stands in the doorway, his voice startling me, but seeing him brings a smile to my face. He’s wearing his favorite faded jeans and t-shirt.
“I thought you were meeting me at the restaurant!” I stand up and move across the room so I can hug him. He has the best timing.
“You should really lock your door,” Wade chastises me.
“Yes, sir.” I salute him, causing Wade to roll his eyes at me.
“I wanted to see how the place was coming along.” He steps inside, looking around. My loft is just one big open space aside from the bathroom which is walled off and has a door. It’s only about six hundred square feet, but I don’t need a lot of room and I like the cozy feel of it. I don’t need a bigger place when I really only spend most of my time in one room anyway. I don’t cook, so having a kitchen isn’t my main priority. Give me a fridge and microwave for takeout and I’m all set. Throw in a coffee maker, and I’m even better.
