by Hazel Jacobs
“What did they say?” Tommy asks, talking over the top of them.
There’s a tiny frown between his eyes, just like she expected that there would be. Tommy isn’t precious about his music by any means, but he’s a perfectionist, and this album was done in a rush of creative energy that must have left him doubting. Not to mention some of the songs were really personal—all about loving and losing and warring and grieving. One song was clearly about his anger at Logan, and Logan had sung that without batting an eye. One song was clearly about his love for Logan, which had made the singer tear up while they were recording it.
“They love this album,” Mikayla says. “Seriously, they love it. They’d just like to see the music evolve. You guys don’t want to put out the same type of album over and over again, do you?”
All four of them shook their heads.
“Okay,” Dash says. “So, what? They’re bringing in an oboe player?”
“What about that hard-core violinist on YouTube?” Slate asks excitedly. “Who is it? Lindsey Silver? Something like that? She totally rocks.”
“Not exactly,” Mikayla says.
She glances over at Logan, leaning into his comforting weight. He knows what she has to say, of course, she’d practiced saying it to him in the comfort of their bed, preparing herself for this task. He’d offered to bear the bad news for her. She’d declined. She was the band’s manager after all.
“They were thinking about bringing in a new… voice,” she says finally.
Slate and Dash frown. Then they slowly turn to look at Tommy.
“A new voice?” Tommy asks, pronouncing the word as though he isn’t sure that he’s heard it right.
“Yeah,” says Mikayla.
“So… a new lyricist,” he says.
She swallows. “Yeah.”
“Oh,” he says. He studies his fork for a while. “Well, fuck that sideways.”
“Tommy writes our lyrics!” Slate says indignantly. “He always has. They can’t just bring in someone new now… we’re only famous because of his songs.”
Ordinarily, Tommy would have blushed and ducked his head. But he just points at Slate as though he’s said a profound truth.
Dash joins in, “So now that we’re finally making some money they’re just going to throw out everything that makes us… us?”
“Not everything,” Mikayla says in what she hopes is a placating tone. “Honestly, Tommy, I knew this would upset you, and you’re right to be upset—”
“Who is this guy?” Tommy asks. “Have we heard any of his stuff?”
“No,” Mikayla says slowly. “This is someone new. Never been published.”
“Never—” Tommy actually chokes on the word. “So they’re saddling us with some noob, probably straight out of college, with no credits to his name and expecting him to produce hit songs?”
Mikayla shrugs. “This lyricist came highly recommended.”
Slate leans over and mutters into Dash’s ear, “I smell Daddy’s money.” Dash nods knowingly.
“Look,” Mikayla says, knowing that she’s losing them. “Just meet the lyricist. You never know, you guys might hit it off.”
Tommy and Dash scoff. She tries to discretely check her watch and Slate notices the movement. He narrows his eyes.
“He’s coming here, isn’t he?” he asks her. “To lunch? To meet us?”
Mikayla glares at him annoyed that he’d put it out in the open without giving her a chance to soften the blow first.
Tommy goes red. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the table.
“No, fine, by all means… let’s meet the new kid. See what they learned in Writing 101 that makes them qualified to take my job.”
“This isn’t going to change us,” Logan says. It’s the first thing he’s contributed to the conversation. He squeezes Mikayla’s shoulder as he speaks and gives Tommy a significant look. “You are, and always will be, our lyricist. That’s it. Whoever comes to lunch today will be an assistant or a sounding board, but we’ll never replace our lyricist.”
Tommy’s shoulders unclench a little at his words, but he keeps frowning and doesn’t uncross his arms. Not even when the waitress brings their ice-cream out. He just eats with one hand, elbow tucked in, while the other arm wraps tightly around his chest as if it can do the work of two in showing how annoyed he is.
Mikayla kisses Logan on the chin, ignoring Slate’s pointed “Ew, feelings,” and gives him a smile of thanks. He’s managed to diffuse the situation at least, even though Tommy still looks upset about it. He’s muttering under his breath, loud enough for everyone at the table and probably half the restaurant to hear.
“Probably some glorified poet with a man bun and a goatee. That’s what we’re getting. A fucking goatee.”
Mikayla looks over his shoulder when she sees movement and suppresses a grin. Their lyricist has arrived. She knows the face and the name.
Tommy, oblivious, keeps going, “If he tries to rhyme ‘moon’ and ‘June’ I’m going to fuckin quit, I don’t care what you say. He probably only drinks herbal tea and eats quinoa.”
A mellow, Irish voice speaks up, “Well, in my defense, quinoa is pretty delicious.”
Mikayla couldn’t have planned it better if she tried. Tommy swivels around like he’s been shocked, grabbing the table because his movement nearly overbalances him. Both Dash and Slate’s mouths fall open as they stare at the person standing behind Tommy.
The woman is tall and lean with an elfin chin and wild blonde hair. Her lips rest in the permanent pout of a woman who’s trained herself to ward off unwanted attention, and her light green shirt hangs on her body in a way that’s tight enough to show off her figure and loose enough to seem casual. Mikayla sees a light of humor in her gray eyes, though the rest of her face gives off a standoffish air.
No one speaks for a moment. The men are too busy staring, and Mikayla is trying not to laugh. Then the woman steps up to Tommy, still seated at the table with his half-finished ice-cream, and holds out her hand.
“Sersha Walsh,” she says, in a falsely polite tone. “I’m your new lyricist.
Logan leans over to whisper in Mikayla’s ear, “You’re evil.”
“I couldn’t resist. It’s not my fault Tommy just assumed the lyricist would be a guy.”
Tommy is staring at the woman, apparently halfway between kicking himself and continuing his tirade. He gives her a slow once-over and Mikayla notices the melancholy tilt in his lips slowly give way to bewilderment.
“Oh, fuck,” he says.
Thank you for reading Black Lilith.
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Hazel Jacobs is a passionate fan of romance novels and a crazy fan of rock and roll. Never trained as a writer, she began creative writing as a hobby. That quickly evolved into a mission to pen a novel that brings a new generation of readers into the wild realm of loud music and total passion.
