Sessions at the studio begins in fifty-two minutes, so I get my ass in gear, call down to the front desk so my rented motorcycle will be waiting, and head out.
Fifty-six minutes later, I arrive at the mansion and glower at the symbol of my transgressions. I’m not allowed in the record company’s studio after I trashed it fifteen months ago. But we have new material and Jaeger’s going to market the fuck out of the fact that we’re recording our new album, stateside, and in Houston.
Feedback has been mixed.
Fans love us for using a home studio. It makes us connect to every struggling musician out there. Critics are skeptical, but fuck them. As long as the Phoenicians approve, I thumb my nose at the fucking critics. The band’s response to the successful campaign is muted with their distrust of me.
Walking along the trail to the back of the house and the studio, I notice the blooming flowers and the green azalea bushes, known to me because of my mother. She loved azaleas and incorporated several hybrids so that flowers would be produced from March to nearly October. In the Texas weather, her gardens stayed in bloom.
Funny how I hadn’t even considered visiting my childhood home, though it’s located less than an hour from my current location.
There’s nothing for me there but bad memories.
Turning my attention back to the place I’m at, I reach the studio quickly. The design of this house is more straight-forward than the McCall house, with none of the dips and turns that makes it into a directional nightmare.
Only four or five streets separate the two houses…I’m not very far from Georgiana. I stop dead in my tracks.
She was released from the hospital two days ago. I’ve made Kiln check on her daily via brief calls to the hospital as a concerned brother. Her actual brother should thank me for making him seem interested in his little sister, instead of revealing the neglectful dickhead that he is.
Forcing my feet forward, I rush inside and scowl at the four pairs of irritated eyes training on me. Jaeger’s peevishness dissolves into flat-out anger, and I thrust my fingers through my hair.
His look screams how irresponsible he deems me. And he’s fucking right. I have to get my shit together, forget Georgie and our conversation. But I can’t focus until after Kiln’s calls and I receive his assurance that she’s fine. Because I don’t fucking trust him, I called Abby and asked her to double check after the first day I had Kiln call. He’d told the truth, so I believe his reports. Now, though, I haven’t had an update on her in two days.
No one speaks to me as I roam behind Jaeger’s chair, watching Adam, Maitland, and Quint in the soundproof room. For a home studio, the setup is pro grade and the sound monitors are fucking awesome.
I wish I could say the same for the session. Just like yesterday, Adam’s bass line is fucking awful. Maitland sits amidst his drum kit, but his beat is out of sync, too.
He catches sight of me and abruptly stops, signaling the others to my presence with a flick of his head. Suddenly, it’s silent.
“Get your fucking ass in there,” Jaeger growls.
I grit my teeth. I want to punch the fuck out of him, but I’m on fucking probation. They’ve boxed me in to force me to behave, and it feels as if I’m being buried alive. Starting our sessions at the precise time, biting back my words, bowing to Jaeger’s will, is smothering me and adding to my emptiness.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this shit, but, if I want my band to stay together, I know I must.
Three hours later and we’ve captured…not one fucking track. I don’t stick around to analyze our dwindling days to cut the album and our lack of chemistry.
Rushing to my motorcycle, I again think of Georgie. Thanks to Abby, I know Parnell is off somewhere, Josh is in New York City, and Cassandra is in Aspen.
Georgie is all alone. I’ve fucked my dick raw—I hope—so why not visit her?
Why should you?
Scowling, I answer the questions with another one. What fucking harm can come of my noble intentions to keep her company?
As far as I can tell, nothing. It fucking beats walking a fucking tightrope around the guys.
Georgie
I’m bored out of my head, even though I should be doing make-up work that was prepared and sent home to me from school. Homework is useless shit. I’m a horrible student when I go to school. They can’t expect me to do better at home, trying to figure the lessons out on my own.
Though still weak and tired, more than that, I feel as if my skin is crawling. It’s funny how I didn’t crave alcohol or drugs while I was in the hospital. The moment I walk through the doors of my gilded prison, though, I’m in need of a hit.