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But…shit does it looks nice in here.
I frown as I slowly walk the length of the room into the kitchen, where my jaw promptly hits the floor.
The transformation in the living room was incredible. The transformation in the kitchen is nothing short of a miracle. Mostly because what was here before was a fucking biohazard.
But now? The dishes are done and put away. The stove doesn’t look like a nuclear waste dump. The fridge is…no longer growing new versions of penicillin.
But more importunely…
Where the hell is Melody?
I glance around, raising a brow as I scan the empty living room. And then, dimly, softly in the background, I hear it.
Music.
My ears tune, and my jaw and gaze harden in the direction of the recording studio I never finished. The one that was never used to record shit. The one I’m the only one who ended up playing in.
When our first record hit the stratosphere, we of course all did the stupid shit you’d expect a bunch of kids who’d never had money before would do with sudden fame and fortune.
We went fuckingnuts.
Cars, drugs, girls, clothes, apartments all over the world, lavish trips to Vegas…all of that. And of course,gear. The rarest custom guitars. The most expensive equipment we could get our hands on. All of that shit. But I, being, well,me, took it a step further. As always.
I didn’t just buy a bunch of gear. I bought a whole mansion on its own goddamn island, with visions of us all making it our getaway home. Complete with a recording studio, where we’d record our follow-up masterpiece.
None of that ever happened.
I mean I obviously bought the house. But once you’re big, you lose control. Even if you fight like hell to hang on to it. When you’re making the record company that much money? When you’re that high and drunk off your own ego, bullshit, and, of course,drugs, control is taken from you. The ship is steered by more experienced, sober individuals. Which is at times probably a good thing.
Except it meant we never all came here. Not ever. I managed to get Iggy out here;once. But that was it.
I blink as the music—an acoustic guitar, floats through my head again.
As of last night, I’m the only person to have ever played in that studio I set up here. As of this morning, it would seem that streak has ended.
Dark clouds roll across my face.
I told her to stay in one place and not to fuck with my shit. She ignored that, but I’m willing to overlook it—mostly—because she cleaned the absolute shit out of my living room and kitchen.
But this is a bridge too far.
She’s in my studio—my inner sanctuary, whereno onehas ever been. And she’s fucking around with my guitars.
You don’ttouchmy guitars. Not even Iggy would have done that without asking. Soul Scream once had to cancel the last four shows on one of their US tours. Because at a hotel party in Chicago, their lead singer, Leighton James, decided it would be hilarious to stagger drunk into my suite, grab one of my guitars, and start hacking outWe Are the Champions.
Publicly, Leighton James broke his arm after getting drunk and falling off a balcony into a pool—or,mostlyinto a pool.
In reality, he had some help going over that railing.
My eyes narrow, and my teeth flash as I stalk through the house towards my studio. No, I’m not going throw Melody off a balcony. But I am about to unleash some unholy-fucking-hell on her for—
I stop short, two feet from the half-open door to the studio.
I stop. The world stops. Time stops. Fucking everything else about reality just grinds to a halt. Because in that instant, all I know is the sound of her voice floating through the air.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. But even more insane, it’s like nothing I’ve everfeltbefore, and all I do, all day, every day, all my life, is feel the world through music.
