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After swiping a drink from the fridge, I grab the sound proof headphones off the keyboard in the corner next to Jordan’s favorite guitar. I connect them to my phone and collapse on the couch, taking a pull of beer. Then I hit play on the voice recording Brana sent.
He sings a melody, soft and hypnotic, starting slow, and before I know it, three and a half minutes have passed and I haven’t moved a fucking muscle. Absolutely brilliant.
I hit play again, listen again, and then I’m moving to the keyboard. Switching it on, I slip a headphone partially off one ear and join in when he hits the chorus again. My eyes fall closed while I harmonize, my fingers sliding over keys behind his perfect pitch.
An hour later, I’ve recorded both pieces together, and sent it back to Brana. We’ll go back and forth like this for a while until he’s satisfied.
While waiting, I’m bent over a piece of paper, scribbling down lyrics in the music room. Nothing anyone’ll see or hear, just words I need out of my head. I’ve switched to an acoustic. The notes are nothing like what Brana first sent by now. This is something all its own, each strum of the strings only existing because of the ones before.
It used to be like this a lot—Jordan and I up until the first signs of sunrise filtered in, writing and jamming. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the hell out of it. In another timeline, Beta Void kept making music. We said fuck the system, bailed on the idea of professional lives, and we’re all drunk together right now after a show.
I hit the last chord of the song a final time before I set the guitar down and stretch. The lyrics slip off my knee and fall to the floor. I lean forward and grab the paper. The words without the music feel like a ghost, a hopeless dream, and as I reach the last line, I crumple the paper into my fist. Words don’t have to mean anything.
I sigh and toss it toward the bin in the corner of the room and snag my phone off the floor.
When I see the time I curse and open my messages. It’s after seven in the morning, and I haven’t heard from Brana since five. I take a deep breath and swallow the ball of anxiety in my throat, telling myself he probably got the music out of his head and fell asleep.
Not the first lie I’ve told myself today.
I’m royally fucked—all because of a punk ass kid with a chip on his musically inclined shoulder. I check the time, cursing him in every way imaginable. Brana’s MIA. I haven’t heard from him since the recording he sent me of a drum backing for the song he was working on.
The buzz in my pocket has me grabbing for my phone like it has the answers to all of life’s questions. Even with everything falling apart, I smile at the message Charlie sent. It’s a painting she’s been working on today at Cys’s studio. The finished painting is beautiful—exactly how I remember Charlie’s high school work. She leaves a piece of her soul on the canvas.
Like I’ve done all day when she sends me an update, I reply with one. I hold up my phone and snap a picture of the license plate stuck to the wall beside me, stamped with THE HUB.
Thanks to Brana, I haven’t had a chance to talk to her since my asshole apology yesterday morning. I’m just glad my second take at an apology went over better than the first one. Right now, talking through images seems to be working for us. And it keeps me from fucking things up more than I might have already.
I’m shoving my phone back in my pocket after one more text to Brana when I notice Hector on his way over, a crease in his brow while he looks around for my artist.
“What’s the word, Benj?” he asks as soon as he reaches me.
When I shake my head, the manager of The Hub spits out his own line of curses. Hector knows me. He knows my artists are solid, and he’s been asking for Brana for some time now. But the look of annoyance he has now still feels aimed at me, like I have lost control of my client.
And fuck, maybe I never had any over him.
“We can’t wait any longer,” he says, throwing a nervous glance at the stage. The current band should be close to the end of their half hour set.
“Can you move up the next act?”
Hector gives me a yeah, sure look that I understand too well. They’ll need time to set up, finish getting high or whatever their pre-performance ritual entails.
“I’ll see what I can do.” He starts walking away, then he stops and turns back, a regretful wince on his face. “Benj, you know the club rules—”
“Yeah, man.” I nod and run my tongue over my teeth. “Artist no shows, they’re banned.”
“Typically goes for their reps too,” he adds, and my eyes close on a groan.
“Come on, Hector.” I take a desperate step toward him. “You gotta let it slide this time, man. You know my other groups. They don’t deserve this shit because of a fuck-up from another musician.”
The band thanks the crowd, indicating they're close to finishing. It has me glancing over to the exit, begging the Universe to just send Brana stumbling in with enough brain power to get through one song.
“Pull an artist out of your ass while I get the other group ready, and you have a deal.”
I scoff at his proposition as he grabs one of the guys from the next band, barking orders and trying to salvage his lineup. My hands run through my hair and drag down my face.
I’m fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked.
The music cuts off then. I step back, making room for the group to prance off the stage, high on their own shit—which they deserve to be. They killed it. I look around, feeling my career slipping. If I can’t get a group into The Hub, I’ll have a hard time signing anyone.
