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The panic on his face subsides along with his words when I snatch up my notepad, plonk my backside onto the edge of the mammoth bed, then commence scribbling down lyrics like a deranged woman.
Unlike every other man I’ve sat across from while penning lyrics, Laken doesn’t interrupt me or try to tell me how to do it better.
He watches me with interest, but not a single word escapes his mouth until my pen shifts from scribbling to tapping out a beat to match the song I scored in under twenty minutes. “You make that look easy.”
I laugh. It’s either laugh out my relief or cry. I went for the one that wouldn’t have Laken looking at me with anything but the awe he’s hit me with the past twenty minutes.
“It isn’t always like this. I’ve been struggling with writer’s block for months.” My heart beats in my ears when I peer up at him. “I’m not facing the same issue tonight. Inspiration hit like a bolt of lightning.”Kind of like your introduction to my life.
He smiles sheepishly, aware of what budged the clog but unwilling to take credit for it.
My smile mimics his until he asks, “Do you mind if I take a look?”
“It’s a mess.”
My breath catches in my throat when he replies, “All songs are until you find the right melody to go with them.”
He slots his backside next to mine before carefully prying my songbook out of my hand like he knows its sentimental value will forever exceed its bankability. It was the last gift I received from Colette, and I treasure it more than I do my heart.
After reading the scribbled lyrics three times, Laken holds out his hand palm-side up, silently requesting my pen.
I’m hesitant to hand it over. Not because I haven’t memorized the words, but because this is usually when my creativity gets squashed like a bug.
I haven’t penned a single lyric since Apollo, the producer Knox hired to produce my album, declared that country pop was dead, so he didn’t think I should waste time on unmarketable songs.
I don’t believe any genre dies, so I fought to keep some of the songs he’d discredited before giving them a shot.
Since Knox sided with Apollo, my bid was unsuccessful. Every song on my upcoming album is straight pop. Even the acoustic guitar riffs are played by the band Knox Records uses for all its artists.
I miss holding a guitar while standing before a microphone, but I’ve missed this even more. Songwriting is all I know, so going without it for so long felt like missing a limb.
After several painfully long minutes, Laken says, “This section will make a brilliant chorus.” He highlights the verse I’d already picked for the chorus without the pen’s tip touching the paper. “But I’d probably slot it in a little sooner than you have it.” He moves the nib up to the top half of page one, two spots below the intro. “Just after—”
“The second verse?” I interrupt, speaking with him.
He nods, the praise on his face growing. “And I’m not sure what you’re thinking…” I grin when he murmurs, “I’m not overly skilled at hooks, but the instrumental component you choose should be repeated throughout. It doesn’t need to change, because the hook won’t tell this story. It will—”
“Unfold it,” we say simultaneously before I finalize our mutual thought. “Because the lyrics are the story.”
“Exactly.” After a few more minutes of silence, he taps the pen against his jeans-covered thigh. “What about something like this?”
The beat is similar to the one that played through my head while I’d waited for him to destroy my work. It’s just a smidge slower than I’ve become accustomed to the past year.
“You’re close.” I love the vibe he’s drifting toward, but Apollo would tear it apart. He’d say it’s too country for the audience we’re aiming for before drowning out the lyrics with a heap of remixed DJ samples. “It just needs…more.”
I almost add “pop” to the end of my sentence, but before I can ruin lyrics too magical to be overwhelmed by electric guitars and drums, Laken gives the “more” I’m demanding by strumming his fingers across the knots in the wooden bedpost.
The acoustics are amazing. Even Apollo would have a hard time acting negatively toward them.
Within seconds, the words I recently jotted down flow from my mouth in a harmonizing melody that reminds me of when I started in this industry.
It is a Nicole Reed original instead of the mass-produced songs wannabe pop star Nikki J will perform on repeat starting three p.m. tomorrow afternoon.
“Yes,” Laken praises, as in love with our impromptu performance as I am.
When his boots occasionally add a much-needed tempo to the soulful melody, he doesn’t outshine me or drown out my voice that Apollo often complains is too soft. He rocks along to the beat with me, his sole focus on finding the perfect melody for a song that would rocket up the charts if I were a country-pop artist.
With my voice the key element of our performance, I give it my all. I sing with all my heart to ensure I gift Laken the performance of his life.
