by Mia McAdams
A whistle of wind blows through the air, rustling something near me. I look to find a small piece of notebook paper fluttering, wrapped around a nearby chair.
The wind picks it up, and the loose paper is carried through the air until it skips across the cold cement. Right toward me. My first instinct is to reach for it. And then the words on the page catch my eye. At a closer glance, I realize that it’s a poem. Or maybe a song. I’m already rereading it at least a dozen times, reconstructing the flow of the words in my mind.
I look around to see if someone nearby could have dropped it, but no one but me is outside at this hour. Pulling my feet from the water, I stand and walk to my room, where I set the sheet of paper on my dresser.
After showering and climbing into bed, I flip on the television, hoping to drown out the addictive words that I just assume are lyrics at this point. I can hear the unwritten melody in my head. It’s the same feeling I get when I’ve just written a great fucking hit. The problem is I didn’t write this. It’s not mine to claim.
Eventually, I throw the remote and walk to my dresser. With a glare, I snatch the words up and sit back down.
It’s not like I can actually do anything with these lyrics, but maybe I could use this as a healthy exercise. It’s been a while since I’ve written a great song. The inspiration hasn’t been there. I could edit these lyrics. Put them to music. Maybe then I can get back into the writing groove. Harmless.
I’m up for hours debating, searching online for the lyrics or anything similar. It’s possible someone copied the lyrics of a popular song onto paper. I did that when I was little if I wanted to commit a song to memory.
Results come up empty. My brain is fried. And the lyrics are still reverberating through me as if they’ve already come to life.
I succumb to the craving. And like with my own songs, I take a pen to paper and start editing.
It’s days later when I leave my room. That’s what happens when I write a song—except I didn’t write this one. I edited it and put music to it, but it’s not mine. It belonged to a chair leg before the wind stole it and handed it to me.
Guilt rumbles through me at the thought of claiming it as my own, which is unfortunate. These lyrics are embedded in my soul as if I did write them.
I’m not a cover artist. Even purchasing songs from our producers is something I stay away from. That’s not who I am. I’ve climbed the charts because I enjoy writing and performing original songs. No other song could possibly fit Wolf’s sound. Except this one; this song haunts me.
It’s noon, and I’m meeting the band at the studio we’re renting for the day. We’re having our first practice since our last tour ended, and it’s much needed. The longer a band is together, the bigger the tendency to neglect the work that brought on the fame. I don’t want that to happen to us.
We kick off the tour with a local show in one week, which gives us enough time to go over our set list and a new hit contender I wrote over break.
“It’s too easy,” Hedge complains after we play the new song. It’s not a surprise, unfortunately, my heart wasn’t completely in this one, but Crawley liked it. And Hedge is a perfectionist. He’ll be the first one to tell me something is a piece of shit, and I love him for it. I just don’t have a backup plan this time.
“What’s too easy?” Crawley growls, obviously distracted by whoever is chirping in his ear. It sounds like someone is asking for more money, which isn’t even his problem to deal with.
“The set. We’ve done it a thousand times. Let’s give this crowd something new. Something good.”
“We’ve got ‘Hidden Road,’” I respond halfheartedly, still trying to salvage my poor runt of a song. It’s not a hit. Not even close. We all know it, but the guys have been keeping their mouths shut up until now.
Hedge pierces me with his stare. “Oh yeah? You might be the face of this band, but we have a say, too, and we’re not performing that piece of shit.”
“Whoa.” Derrick steps in. “Calm down, dude.” Then he turns his gaze on me. “Do we have anything else to try? Maybe we should explore other options. We’re not going to win ’em over with ‘Hidden Road.’ Sorry, Wolf.” His apology is unnecessary. I’m right there with him.
Crawley’s face grows red, and he pulls his phone away. We all cover our ears in anticipation. We’ve seen him this irate before. Even beyond our muffled ears we can hear him scream, “Tell those sons of bitches we have a contract! We are one week until show time and they’re going to stick us with an empty stage?”
I groan. A cancellation—that’s what this is about. Crawley specifically requested this band and now they want to get greedy. “Let the tour company deal with that shit and get your head in this studio,” I grumble at him.
Crawley is the best band manager we could have asked for, but sometimes I’m afraid his heart will explode when he’s dealing with a crisis. He takes on too much and is the worst delegator, thinking he can do everything better if he does it himself. Which is probably true, but not great for his mental or physical health.
He glares in my direction, pushes buttons on his phone, and then waits for someone to pick up. Trying to tune him out is impossible when he says Lyric’s name. Something happens in my chest. Shit.
I haven’t seen her since the night we had dinner at the bar. Not by choice. The mystery song quickly became my new obsession. The arrangement I composed has a dark but hopeful tone to it, which is what our sound is about. The writing is simple but plays well to an awesome melody. It could earn us another number one. I can feel it in my bones. For once, something took precedence over women and sex.
The itch I was trying to suppress comes back full force. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the flash drive with “Dangerous Heart” on it. I laid down the demo track yesterday to see how it sounded. I wasn't going to play it for anyone else, knowing I didn’t write the original lyrics myself, but I can’t keep this to myself any longer.
I hand the stick to the sound engineer and place myself at the front of the room to speak to my band. “Do me a favor and take a listen to something I just laid down. I think you’ll dig it.”
This gets their attention and the frustration turns to anticipation. Hedge has everyone riled up. The guys are too hard on themselves. We played the West Coast on our last tour, so the East Coast isn’t expecting anything different, but the guys get bored easily.
Apparently so do I because I’m stealing lyrics from the hotel pool.
When the intro pours out of the speakers, Crawley walks back in and collapses on the floor. His eyes are closed and the excess blood is draining from his face. He’s listening. I watch the eyes of everyone in the room, entranced by their reactions. The song is a bit slower than the ones they’re used to, but that’s a good thing. The label has been requesting something slow and catchy, and I’ve promised it to them. It’s just not something I’m great at writing, come to find out.
But this . . . this might just be good.
Two wrongs don’t mend hearts like ours
I give, you take, nothing feels right
Two wrongs can never break our fall
We’re in too deep, losing sleep
Trying to forget what started it all
Angry eyes and brick wall armor
Lessons learned, paths paved, shield unyielding
A heavy weight, you’ll never penetrate
And you won’t be at the end of this story
Stay away, with your dangerous heart
That damaged our love, that damaged me
Crushed to pieces, shredded flowers making art
You’re dangerous, your soul is black
Dangerous heart, and I want none of it back
Can’t rely on second chances
Since the first ripped me apart
You’re not welcome here anymore
Cause there’s no going back to the start
Stay away, with your dangerous heart
You’ve damaged our love
, you’ve damaged me
Crushed to pieces, shredded flowers making art
You’re dangerous, your soul is black
Dangerous heart, I want none of it back
After the last line, the guys are staring at each other, excitement written all over their faces. They heard it. What I heard. A hit. Hedge begins laughing. Crawley’s eyes are wide as he leaps up from the floor as if it’s bitten him. “This is yours?”
I hesitate for a second and wrinkle my face. “Not quite.”
The excitement in the room falls, and I quickly jump to my defense. “I edited the lyrics, barely, and put it to music.”
“Who wrote the words?” Lorraine asks.
My face twists as I reach into my bag and pull out the sheet of paper. “No clue. I found this at the hotel pool, fluttering around and lost.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Stryder says with a grin. “Sounds like you claimed something someone didn’t know what to do with.”
I wince. “Not necessarily. Lost is different than tossed, man. We can’t do anything with this yet. It’s not mine.”
“It sure as shit is yours. Where did you find it, exactly?” Hedge asks.
“It was wrapped around a chair leg, and the wind almost carried it into the pool. I caught it, but no one was there to claim it. Someone could have another version of it somewhere.”
Crawley tells the engineer to play it again, and the guys are silent. Some of their eyes are closed, and I know they’re imaging us up on stage, singing that song to a mesmerized crowd. My blood is pumping adrenaline like a crayon factory. It’s only a rough acoustic version of what could be a badass track, but there’s no denying we’ve got something here. If only we could get past the copyright part of it.
“Can we find the person who wrote this? It’s good, Wolf. Too good to just let it go, but you’re right to be careful,” Derrick says.
Crawley slaps Hedge on the back since he’s the closest, causing Hedge to wince and squirm away. “I have an idea. Shit. I have a fucking brilliant idea.” He’s laughing now and rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist. “We practice it and we play it at our shows—with a disclaimer that the unedited lyrics were found and we’re looking for the owner. We don’t release it for profit until we find the writer. This song will go viral. It’s got to, and whoever wrote it will come forward to claim their share.”
“Shit,” we all say in unison. Sometimes Crawley comes up with ideas like this that remind us all why we hired him in the first place.
“What are you shitheads waiting for? You’ve got a bloody song to learn.” With a laugh and huge smile on his face, Crawley leaves the room, slamming the door on his way out.
Lyric
Terese picks me up from the hotel early in the morning. She’s accompanying me to Wolf’s San Diego show and all the preceding activities for the day. I’m disappointed she won’t get to come on the tour. She’s a cool chick, one who hasn’t screwed me over yet, and it would be nice to hang out with girls other than Stryder’s girlfriend, Misty, and Lorraine. And then there are the groupies. I’ve heard the rumors of how often they frequent Wolf’s tour bus, and I’m trying to mentally prepare myself for that.
We park and walk backstage to claim our badges. We’re in an open-air venue tonight so the only privacy for band and crew lies within a cluster of tents and trailers.
The guys won’t be here for a sound check until early afternoon, so we spend the morning stealing snacks from the VIP tent and perusing the band’s surprisingly short list of demands. There are a couple of special requests I notice, but only because two of the band members have food allergies and it has to be mentioned.
“Lyric,” a voice calls from the other side of the dressing room trailer. I turn to see Doug grinning at us. “They told me you were here. Don’t worry, you’re off duty, so I won’t tell you what to do today,” he says. “If you want to come with me to merchandise, I’m heading over there now. You can meet the team.”
I hop up from the couch and pull Terese along. I smile, genuinely happy to see him again. He used to tour with my father, and since my father was my primary guardian for most of my childhood years, Doug has always looked out for me.
“Doug, have you met Terese? She works in local event promotions. She’s my guest tonight.”
He extends his hand. “Afraid we haven’t met.” They shake, and then we’re taking the venue detour through the remaining tents and through the hidden backstage gate. He leads us to the merchandise booth they’re setting up near the entrance. For this venue, since it’s a smaller show than usual, there are only two.
As soon as we get to the booth, he tells us each to pick out a shirt. We decide on the black one with Wolf’s logo plastered across the front of it and slip them on over our tank tops. “Nice,” he says, then introduces us to the crew. “This is Melanie, our merchandise manager. She’s been with the crew for two years and is great with handling the crowd and their money. Her squad, Brad, Stevie, Raquel, and Lacey, will be traveling in bus number two.”
Bus number two is also known as the crew bus with twelve bunks, one bathroom, and a small living area. It’s the bus I thought I'd be on until Doug informed me I was riding with the band. I’ve ridden with bands before so it’s nothing new, but knowing I’ll be sharing a small space with Wolf makes my stomach churn.
Terese and I are following Doug backstage when someone alerts him over his radio that Wolf has just arrived. We approach security, where Doug hands me a radio and places wolf stickers on our badges.
“What are these?” Terese asks.
I laugh. “The All Access badges only get us in the main backstage area, on the side stage, and into VIP. The stickers get us anywhere else we want to go.” I wink at her as her eyes glow with pride. “Haven't you ever been backstage?”
She laughs. “Not with free rein like this at a show like Wolf’s. I handle the smaller events and radio shows mostly.”
“Come on. Let’s say hi to the band.” We walk out to the stage where the roadies are testing the instruments and microphones. Wolf is nowhere to be found yet, so we hang back and wait.
A familiar face approaches us, a pretty blonde in her early twenties like me, all done up. The radio badge gives her away, and my memory chugs to life. “Jenn,” I exclaim with mock enthusiasm. It’s my job to network with the radio personalities since we sometimes need them to help out with local hookups—and I don’t mean the sexual kind. Unfortunately, girls like Jenn get it wrong. I’m not particularly fond of her because of her reputation. I dated a rock star, so I can’t judge too much, but that’s so much different than a quick bang before getting kicked away and forgotten. How can anyone seek that sort of thing out?
Jenn’s smile is warm and bright, making me wonder if her reputation is undeserved. “I can’t believe it’s you, Lyric. Are you on tour with Wolf?”
I nod. “I am, but I’m not working this show. Just hanging out. This is my friend, Terese,” I say, pulling her forward. The girls greet each other. “Doug runs the show tonight. He hands over the reins after that, and we’re off to Raleigh. How are you?”
Jenn waves her arms around, her eyes wide. “Couldn’t be better. This is the show we’ve been waiting for since we heard about it. Wolf has become the hottest thing in San Diego. I can’t wait to see him again.”
The way she says this with a wiggle of her eyebrows confirms my theory about her reputation—and his.
Jenn gives me a mock empathetic look, and I know what she’s about to say. Here it comes. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here. After that last disaster.” She makes a face. “I’m so sorry to hear about that.”
Everyone in the industry knows about my latest breakup. The media and the fans, not so much. Tony made sure to keep a seal on all relationship drama, for fear that it would affect his tour. I complied, because I didn’t want the drama either. Still, it’s totally shitty that my heartbreak was on display for my peers. It’s the one
awful part of being so close to the industry and one of the many awful things about dating a rock star. There is no privacy.
“That’s not going to keep me from the music, Jenn. C’mon, you should know better than that.” I keep up my smile, although it’s the last thing I want to be doing now. She’s just poisoned the conversation.
“Hey.” Her eyes widen as if in afterthought, but I know better. “If you can help me snag an interview with Wolf, I would owe you big time. He wasn’t able to come in to the station today, and his fans would love to hear from him.”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Lyric, we need to go. Sound check is almost ready to start.” Terese tugs me away this time. “Great to meet you, Jenn. Enjoy the show.”
Terese and I walk away and I squeeze her hand in thanks. She squeezes back knowingly. “How much you want to bet Jenn winds up in Wolf’s bus after the show?” she whispers.
I laugh. “She can try, but there won’t be much time for romping. We leave right after he gets off stage. Which reminds me, will you help me transfer my stuff from the car? I want to get it over with.”
The group of buses are parked close to the backstage entrance along with the trucks full of gear. The only way I can tell the difference between the buses is by the slips of paper in each of the windshields. I’m with the band in Bus #1. The rest of the buses, which belong to the new opening act, will meet us in Raleigh.
The transfer is quick and painless, but I’m disappointed I don’t get to see the inside of the bus yet or pick out my bunk. I’ll be the last one who gets a say on where I sleep but I cannot be on the top. When I tried to tell Doug that, he told me I’d have to deal with whatever was left over, but he would put in a word with the driver, Rory, to try and save me a spot.
