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“Maybe you deserve it. Marcus told me you stole one of my songs. Where does that fall in the risks and rewards category.”
Alwin and I are centimeters apart now, both of us glowering, and I can feel the sweat trickling down my back.
“Did he say that I stole it?”
“He called it your song and read my own lyrics back to me.”
“Fuck you, Chris. I rewrote half the damn thing. You know we’ll be sharing credit on it if it makes it to the final cut.”
“I’ve been working fucking hard on these songs.”
“Why? When did we suddenly become the Chris Rächer band?”
“Because no one else fucking wrote the one hit song we have!”
“Oh, fuck you and your high horse.” Alwin pushes me, and I’m so surprised he gets another shove in before I can respond. My back hits the door, and when Alwin’s hands grip my shoulders, I try to shove them off, which results in a wrestling match. I hook my foot behind Alwin’s knee, and in a flurry of cleaning supplies and expletives, we tangle on the ground.
Neither of us can get an advantage, and after a few minutes, we’re gasping for breath. I’ve somehow got a grip on Alwin’s hand, pulling his arm behind his back and wrenching his shoulder while his other arm has me in a headlock.
“You’re not the only songwriter in the band. Say it!” he says, tightening the arm around my neck. In response, I pull on his hand, and I hear him grit his teeth.
“I’m a better songwriter than you,” I grunt. “That hit is mine.”
“God, you’re fucking competitive. We’ll see about that tomorrow. I’m going to blow your fucking mind.”
The absurdity of the situation hits me, mostly because I'm facedown next to a urinal cake. I ease my grip on his arm, and he loosens his choke hold.
“If only the paps could catch us now,” he says.
I slump, letting go of his hand and allowing my forehead to hit the floor. I chuckle, and it blows some hair that’s come loose from my bun. “Members of Verduistering Try to Murder Each Other.”
“Lead Singer Found in Compromising Position with Guitarist,” he says, and I feel his laughter on my back.
“We Were Right About Rächer All Along,” I say. “Always Knew He Was Gay.”
Alwin rolls off of me. “God, we’d give them such fodder. They are obsessed.”
I turn my head to face him, and he looks over at me. A dust bunny by his eyebrow reminds me that we’re on the floor of a dirty storeroom.
With a groan, I roll to my feet, offering Alwin a hand. We dust ourselves off.
“Seriously, though. Not every song we come up with is going to be a hit, but we need an album. Perfection is the enemy of done, right? And we all need to chip into this album, or it’s not going to feel like ours.”
“The shit Ram has been sending me isn’t going to end up on our album.”
“Not if you smash it down before it gets a chance to grow.” Alwin scowls. “Even Ringo wrote a hit song.”
“Did you just compare us to The Beatles?”
Alwin grins at me for a moment.
“I’m John Lennon,” we both say at the same time.
“Fuck you,” I say. “I do yoga and eat vegan.”
“That makes you Harrison. Ono says John was bisexual, ergo . . .” Alwin waves his hand over himself.
“That leaves June as McCartney,” I say.
