by Cari Quinn
Too bad the high road was so far in her rearview mirror it was a speck.
This was not the first day anymore. They were on day three and had finally started laying the track to one of the many songs that had been argued through in the room they were using for writing.
She jammed her thumb over the click pen release again and again until she realized it followed Deacon’s bassline. The same song they’d been working on since dawn.
The melody was trapped in her head, and yet it still was missing something. Gray and Jazz were squabbling over the bridge and chorus, Nick hated the whole damn thing, and Simon had been sulking since they’d gotten off the elevator.
Oh yeah, they were making awesome progress.
The door opened and Nick came out of the Beatles studio with a cigarette bouncing between his fingers. “Lila’s going to skin you alive.”
Nick tucked the cigarette behind his ear and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Li will kill me if I don’t smoke it. Believe me. It’s the only thing saving your fake husband from getting his balls kicked into his chin.”
Margo seethed. “There’s a lovely picture.”
He shrugged. “What are you doing out here?”
“Resisting the same fate—your balls though.”
He hissed and covered the front of his zipper. “Why are my balls in peril?”
“Because you won’t stop squabbling with everyone like a damn two year old.”
“Me?” Nick’s eyebrows shot up, honest shock chasing over his angular face.
“Yes, you. It’s hard enough for everyone to share songs without you shitting on every single one.”
Nick pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and put it between his teeth. “When you have lyrics to share, you can bitch. Until then,” he brushed by her, “fuck off.”
“Hey, hey—no you don’t.” She didn’t realize she was chasing him down the hall until her feet started moving.
“What?” He turned at the door, using his shoulder to keep the door propped open so he could blow smoke out the door.
“This is a collaborative effort. I know it’s a stretch for you.”
He looked down at her, blowing a stream of smoke out his nose. “I know you’re new to this, but we have a system.”
“That system is broken.” At Nick’s clenched fingers, she rushed on. “I may not have the chops for lyrics, but I know what doesn’t work.”
Nick inclined his head. “And what makes you an expert? A Michael Bay movie soundtrack? Two songs with us where you got fed your song sheets in an email with other trained monkeys that were hired for the day.”
She took a step back, her fists tightening. She knew he was pissed and frustrated, but she was part of this band now too. Not a hired gun in the studio like she’d been for so many years. Actually, a member.
Rage blindsided her. She didn’t even realize she was curling back her arm to swing at him until she was lifted off her feet and yanked back. She instantly kicked out and struggled.
Nick’s eyebrows shot up, and a wolfish smile flashed as he crossed his arms to lean against the threshold.
“All right there. Let’s calm down.”
Deacon.
She curled her fingers around his forearm and sagged. “I’m fine.”
He set her down and placed a comforting hand over her shoulder. Well, part of it was comforting. She was pretty sure the other half was to keep her from ripping Nick’s throat out with her teeth.
“Where the hell do you think you get off throwing that kind of language around. If Simon said that to Lila, what would you do?”
Nick ashed his cigarette. “Knock his ass out.”
Deacon sighed. “And yet, here you are.”
“She started it,” Nick shot back.
“What are we three year olds?” She snarled out.
“No, because my three-year-old behaves better, for fuck’s sake.” Deacon’s voice boomed.
Nick’s face was mutinous, but he flicked his cigarette away and came back inside, the heavy door slamming at his back. “Look, we’re all tense. Maybe a lunch break will help and we can reconvene at two?” He glanced down at Margo. “If that works for you.”
“You’ll still be an asshole at two o’clock.”
Nick grinned. “Honey, I’ll always be an asshole, but at least it’s the one you know and love.”
“Love is a strong word,” she muttered, but the words had lost their bite. She knew Nick, and yeah she did love him—sort of. Things were still a mess between him and Simon, but he was important to her guy.
Even if he needed a kick in the teeth six out of seven days in the week. And he really was a genius at taking apart songs—not that she’d ever tell him that. He just didn’t know how to share or collaborate. That was the problem they were all having. Nick was too used to having all the control and then dropping the songs off for Deacon to pull apart.
That shit wasn’t going to fly anymore.
Period.
She just didn’t know how to get that across without looking like a jerk. Everyone had their own writing style, and she was cool with that—in every way. She’d worked with Deacon and Gray so much that she’d forgotten how it was to deal with different personalities.
Nick was a different personality.
And Simon was a voided personality at the moment. God help her.
“Fine, we’ll meet back here in a few hours.” She looked down at her phone. It was early for lunch, but then again they’d been working since daybreak. She patted Deacon’s larger-than-life bicep. “Thanks, D.”
“Everyone’s getting tense.”
They both watched Nick stride down to the elevator. Probably off to find Lila in the maze of offices that was Ripper Records.
She tipped her head back. The intricate music feel that Donovan had given the studios was supposed to be soothing and inspirational. Soundproofed walls with wild musical prints stretched over every surface. Here near the rooftop was a graffiti style pattern of illustrations that was a callback to the CBGB days.
Margo loved every part of the studios.
She just wished she loved every part of the process right now.
“Simon is kicking ass.”
She closed her eyes. “I know. Vocally, he sounds better than ever.”
Deacon sighed. “How can he be so perfect in pitch and tone, and all the passion be missing? Might that be your question?”
“Yes!” She turned her attention to him, instead of the layers and layers of ripped posters on the ceiling.
“I know. It’s taken me all day to figure it out, but there it is. He’s playing it safe. Simon’s never played it safe in a vocal booth in his life.”
Margo bounced her head forehead off his rock hard bicep. “How do I fix that?”
Deacon wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dragged her in for one of his teddy bear hugs. Well, if a teddy bear was really muscular instead of full of stuffing. Anyway, Deacon hugs were the very best hugs.
Working with him for the last year had kept her sane.
“You don’t fix it. He’s got to fix it himself. Push him to write a song, and I bet you’ll finally shake something loose.”
“We’ve never written a song together.”
“What?” He looked down at her. “What do you mean you’ve never written a song together. I’ve seen you two in the studio before—on the last album.”
“I was only really involved in the violin parts.” She shrugged. “And since that day on stage, Simon hasn’t really ever wanted to talk shop.”
Deacon sighed. “I’m sorry. That has to be hard.” He hugged her again. “Takes a strong woman to stand with someone that’s closed off what makes them tick.”
For the first time, she had to agree. It really was like Simon had locked away his music. She knew it was still there. She just wished he’d let it out its box again. “I miss it—miss him so much.”
“Maybe it’s time to stop being so nice about it. Maybe the one you really w
anted to deck was Simon.” Deacon kissed her forehead and headed back down the ramp to the elevators, his attention already on his phone.
He was probably talking to Harper, or checking in on Lex. All of the family things that made up the foundation of who Deacon was. Music might be the center of his genetic makeup, but the heart and bones of him were his family.
Simon kept trying to be two separate people.
She smoothed her hand over the door to the studio. The black and white paint and Sex Pistols logo slashed across the door except for the skinny window.
Gray was bent over his acoustic, strumming the bridge of “Staggered”. Simon was in the vocals closet, headphones hugging his ears. His raven black hair was stuck up in all different directions. A sure sign that he’d been taking the headphones off and putting them back on a million times.
He leaned into the microphone shield, his eyes closed.
She slipped inside, the music surrounding her. Just the two layers. Gray’s guitar and Simon’s vocals. Smooth as silk and pitched perfectly, just like Jerry had taught him during all those coaching hours.
The shade, she pulls me in again
I crawl my way into the sun
Heartache, she taunts me again
I break away, turn my back on her
I stumble
I fall
I wait for the ground to meet me once again
I stagger into her arms, I stagger into her arms
Simon opened his eyes, his attention on her as he sang the chorus. It was one of Gray’s songs. The redemption there in every word. It could have been theirs.
Could have been any of theirs.
Why it worked so well for the group as a whole. She picked up her violin and her bow. Layered in her part. A touch of folk under the rock. The tones resonated and blended with Gray’s masterful touch.
The next verse started and Simon’s voice was technically perfect.
So perfect.
And somehow so flat.
She dropped her violin to her side as Gray stopped mid-strum. He clicked on the intercom. “Great stuff. I just got a text that we’re breaking for lunch. Want to head out?”
Simon pulled off the headset with obvious relief. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”
Gray turned to her. “Everything okay?”
“Know me so well.”
He shrugged. “If you didn’t lunge across the table to snap his forehead into the granite I was going to.” Gray set his acoustic in one of the guitar stands scattered all around the large studio.
Couches and club chairs littered the corner, and a huge conference table dominated the space. Deacon and Gray usually manned the board. They were still fighting over a producer to bring in for the final mix, but Margo had a feeling it would be just them.
There were already too many fingers in the pie. There was no way they could agree on a producer too.
“I almost decked him. Seems like a standard Wednesday, right?”
“True that.” He picked up his phone and dashed off a quick text. “Jazz will be in after our lunch break. Dylan started the morning off with projectile vomiting. Babysitter vetoes Exorcist level fun.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“As long as I don’t get it, that’s all that matters.” Gray grinned and stood. “I’ll catch you around two.”
“Sure thing.” She tucked her Stradivarius into its case as Simon came into the room.
“Want to go out for lunch.” He leaned down for a quick kiss. He smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. It was the “I’m fine” smile he’d cultivated over the years. The one that screamed, let’s not get into it.
And honestly, she didn’t have it in her. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.”
All she needed to do was make it through this day. Tomorrow had to be better.
It just had to be.
27
Simon
Simon pinched his nose on the ride into the studio the next morning. The day before had devolved into a round robin writing session. Gray and Jazz wanted to write a lighter song that harkened back to their bar band days.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually felt like that guy.
A few short years felt like a million. Hell, he didn’t even get to act like the bar band Simon. There would be no leaping into the crowd and doing shots with fans at the back of a shitty venue.
There was tea.
There was water.
There was endless vocal warmups.
No play—not if he didn’t want to go off the rails again. Not if he wanted to stay sharp and make it through a tour. He didn’t get to act like that hotheaded idiot anymore.
Why the freaking fuck would he want to sing about it?
“You okay?”
Simon shrunk down into his seat. He didn’t have it in him to drive into the city to the studio—not today. “Yeah, I’m fine. Can we stop at a Starbucks on the way in?”
At least their tea was drinkable. Mostly.
She pulled off when they approached the green and white sign. Heavenly drive thru awaited.
Tea.
Tea.
Tea, lifeblood in his veins.
Ah, for the days when it was vodka. Definitely didn’t have that option today.
“Size?”
“Definitely Venti,” he muttered and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. Pale yellow fingers of sunlight reached behind the Grand Park. Downtown was busy with commuters and pedestrians all scurrying off to jobs.
Just like him.
Time to go to work.
And for the first time it really felt like work. He scrubbed his palms over his thighs to wick away the sweat before he took the hot tea from Margo. “Thanks.”
His girl didn’t even bother pretending to do the diet anything. Full octane Iced Caramel Macchiato today. A portent to the day?
Possibly.
He sipped at the near scalding tea. He’d done a short round of warmups at the house in the shower. He needed to keep his cords wet and warm for the growl-inducing “Facing the Edge”. He was nervy about climbing into the higher notes, but the darker flavored ones were just as paralyzing.
Things that had always been easy for him felt so far out of damn reach. He didn’t want to let anyone down, but he was holding on by his damn fingernails in that booth.
The top to his tea popped and he relaxed his hold, snapping it back in place. Just one note at a time.
Margo slowed at the parking structure to Ripper Records. It was a huge corporate building that had been piecemealed off into different arms of Donovan Lewis’s company. There was still that part of him that liked to play avenging angel with hard luck cases.
In fact, that was probably half his stable of musicians.
Rebel Rage with the volatile Johnny Cage who made Nick look like a choirboy. Warning Signs that was in flux more than a football team’s roster. Oh, he had a few gems. Brooklyn Dawn was currently ruling the airwaves, and Hammered had turned around a band that was heading for Summer concert matches and the pasture back into top ten on Billboard.
But then there was Oblivion.
The wildcard.
Because of him.
No pressure.
He swung his legs out as Margo parked in their usual spot. He rode the elevator with his hand at the small of her back. He’d needed the contact, but couldn’t summon up enough of his scattered thoughts to hold a conversation.
He just needed her scent, and the silky brush of her skin on his fingertips. She seemed to know it—always seemed to know what he needed, even when he did not.
The elevator opened on the eighth floor. They’d taken over the top two floors of the studio half of the building. Closest to the rooftop for when they needed to jump to their death.
That or Nick needed to go have a smoke.
He didn’t even pretend to quit at this point. Hell, Simon was tempted to take it up simply for the escape from the box.
All of the fun.
Jazz was behind he
r kit when they walked through the studio doors. Her dark hair was braided into a crown with lavender strips showing through at the ends. No more dying hair for preggo girl.
Her little belly was showing thanks to the hot pink yoga shorts and bra-lette she wore when working on intense songs. She was dripping with sweat as she bashed the skins in her sound-tight box.
Deacon had a pair of studio headphones on as he played the bass to match. The equalizer was bouncing out a frenetic rhythm on the steady bassline he created.
Gray had another pair of headphones on, his eyes shut as he tapped out the beats with his wife.
Zen faces on all of them.
Well, except Nick. He was crouched in the corner, his hands over the foam ear guards. No inflection, no response, not even a movement. When the song ended, Nick inched up the wall and made a whirling sign with his finger.
He spotted Simon and pointed at him.
Looked like no other warmup today. Simon grabbed his iPad off the charger station and brought it into the booth.
“Morning, Simon. One time through?” Deacon asked through the speakers in the vocal booth.
“Yeah.” That was how he started every session. The instrumental only as he absorbed the lyrics. Then he had Deacon kick up the bass to keep him in the right key of the song. It was too easy to get lost in the guitars, violin, and drums.
The backing vocals kicked him hard. Jazz and Margo jumped out of the instrumental guitar licks. He knew both of them had vocal chops of their own, but isolated it was a little jarring.
He nodded at Deacon to run the song again. His leg bounced as he closed his eyes and mouthed the words. He didn’t like reading cold off the iPad when singing. All the songs were stuffed in his brain.
When the girls came in again he felt the rise of the lyric—it needed to be more. He’d have to punch it there. Reaching for one of his less than attainable octaves.
Fuck.
The strings quieted, and the guitars whined into an echo, and then the bass quieted as the song ended.
It looped around and he opened his eyes. He missed his cue. He held his hand up. “Again?”
“Sure.” Deacon started the song over again.
