“Just . . . just record and we’ll see what happens.”
“Whatever you say, boss, but give me a few.” He shrugs and stands to stretch his legs. We’ve been going at this for so fucking long that it’s beginning to feel forced.
And “forced” turns out shit music.
My sigh is heavy as I play back the last take. It’s shit. Great. All of this . . . pent-up everything, and I have nothing to show for it.
Emotion used to help me write better. The demons I wrestle with added that edge. But this . . . this is utter garbage.
“The guys were in here the other day,” Noah says casually while the words hit like a rusted dagger to my chest.
I grunt in response. To the world, we’re on a break for individual projects. Not an ill word has been said publicly. It was in private where our words were used like weapons. Where what came out of my mouth fucked up so many things.
“They sounded good. Not the same without you, mind you, but still good. They had some new stuff that’s going to kill it.”
“Good for them.”
Jealousy is a bitter bitch, especially when it’s felt about your best friends.
Then again, what right do I have to even call them that? To assume they still think of me as the same?
“Are you joining them again when you’re done with this album? Or is it too hard going from background to front man then back to the background again?”
I open my mouth to speak and then close it. Hasn’t all of this taught me some things are better left unsaid? Because if they are, then there’s no need to take them back.
A tight smile is all I offer in response and a lift of my chin toward the table and the bottle of Jack. The only vice left that I’ll allow myself. “Pour me one, will you?”
Noah does as I ask without a word and holds the glass out to me. I down it in one long gulp.
I welcome the burn and hope for some clarity as a result before grabbing the neck of my guitar and positioning it on my lap as I take a seat. My fingers begin strumming automatically. A habit ingrained in my every fiber. A way to calm the riot inside. A mechanism to soothe the chaos I’ve lived my whole life with.
My fingers change to plucking the strings and create a melody that I can’t shake from my head. There’s a hard edge to it underlined by a haunting melody. The combination of the two sends chills over my skin, a sure sign that I’m on the right track.
I close my eyes and keep playing, keep experimenting, knowing we’re recording this on our phones so I don’t have to stop to write it all down.
Words come to me. Some I sing aloud, others I hum to be filled in later. I repeat the process.
Over and over.
Again and again.
The problem? When I drown out all the outside noise, when I really try and step into the song, it’s Hawkin’s voice that I hear singing it. It’s his unique grate I expect to hear jump in and take over just like we’ve done countless times before.
We always were a damn good team.
But there is no Hawkin to do that. No Rocket to tell a joke and ease the tension when we get frustrated and start taking swipes at each other. No Gizmo to experiment with some riff totally out of the blue that we’d never think of but that is absolutely fucking perfect for the song we’re building. No Bent to make this experience what I know it can be. What I’ve come to expect it to be.
It’s just me.
It’s just Noah.
Just a lot of loneliness and acceptance that it feels hollow without them.
And a whole shitload of unresolved bullshit that’s unfixable in between.
I mix the chords up. “Fuck.” And then pat the strings to make the sound stop. When I hold my glass out, Noah refills it without saying a word.
I’ve cut back.
I drink less now. For a musician anyway. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a glass of Jack to find out what I feel is missing. The liquid courage might solve a lot, but it’s not going to fix the damage I’ve caused.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vince
One Year Ago
“If you don’t like it anymore, there’s the fucking door.”
I stare at my best friend, the room spinning as I tilt the bottle to my lips, drinking until the last of the Jack is gone. The burn is better than the response I’m afraid I’ll give.
“Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Hawke,” I say through gritted teeth. His chuckle is condescending as fuck. On the other side of the studio, his ass is resting against the front of the soundboard, his arms are crossed, and the shake of his head only serves to piss me off further.
Hawkin Play. Lead singer for our band, Bent. My brother from another mother. The person who knows all my secrets. All-around good guy. And apparently, by the threat he just gave, a newly minted ball-buster.
Fuck that.
I toss the empty bottle into the trash across from me, and the sound of glass hitting the metal ricochets around the room.
“Don’t tell you what to do?” He emits that patronizing, bullshit chuckle of his again that grates on my every nerve. “I don’t have to tell you shit, brother, because it seems you’re content on doing the damage all your fucking self.”
Here we go again.
“Let me guess. Rocket and Gizmo set you up to do this,” I say of our other bandmates. Of our friends. The family I made for myself. The men who hightailed it out of here after our session most likely so Hawkin could read me the damn riot act. “What? Did you have a fucking kumbaya session over how to wrangle Vince and protect Bent’s precious goddamn image?”
“Image?” Hawke shouts, throwing his arms out to the sides. “We’re rock stars. The drinking and drugs are expected. Par for the fucking course. What’s not the norm is being so goddamn high you all but fuck Rocket’s girl.” He looks at me with wide eyes that sure as hell probably match mine. “Jesus Christ. You don’t even remember that, do you?”
“Didn’t we fight about this last week?” I say drolly, trying to rack my brain if what he’s saying is true.
But he’s right. I can’t remember.
I didn’t do that, did I?
“Yep, and we’re going to talk about it again. Shit, Vin, you almost missed our performance on Saturday Night Live because you were off doing who the fuck knows what.”
“I know what I was doing and damn, she was incredible.” It’s a lie. I was high as fuck and lost track of time. But at this point it seems like the lie will fare better for me than the truth.
“Class act. Way to go.”
“Fuck off.”
“You probably wish I would, huh? Then you could circle the drain all by yourself and prove your dad right.”
“Do not mention him again,” I warn.
He sees me. He hears me. But he clearly doesn’t fucking care about the warning because that chuckle is back and so is the disappointed shake of his head.
What he doesn’t know is that I’ve disappointed everyone my whole life, so why start changing that shit now?
“You made us a promise, Vin. You made me one. From the get-go, we agreed that we come first—the band and its best interest does.”
“Your point?”
“That sure as shit doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.”
“Well maybe it’s time for a fucking change, then, huh?”
“Not on my watch.”
“Oh, Jesus. Are you listening to the egotistical bullshit you’re spewing? Not on my watch,” I mimic.
Fuck. I need another drink but turn around to find my second fifth that I put on the table is empty already. Did I do that? Did Hawke pour it out?
“You’re still nothing, Vinnie. Always have been. Always will be. You couldn’t hack it on your own even if you tried, because you sure as hell aren’t good enough with your mediocre talent and lack of drive.”
“Management isn’t happy,” he says softly.
“Screw them. They’re never fucking happy with us, and yet it’s us who’re lining their pockets, so I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think.”
“You’re fucking up, man.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Onstage. In the studio. In public. In private. Not many more places you can.”
“I’m sure I’ll figure out how to.” Sarcasm drips from my words as my best friend stares at me with a disdain I don’t understand.