“This is bullshit.” I set my guitar down and pace the confines of the small room.
“Is it the guitar? Are you comfortable with it? I can play it if you want to pick up the bass,” my producer/songwriting partner, Noah, says and sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’ve been playing both my whole life. It’s not the fucking guitar.”
He chews the inside of his cheek and just nods, more than used to the tantrums of frustrated rock stars. “You said your muse was talking to you.”
“It was. Now it’s not.”
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair, the restless energy I’ve felt since the elevator and then the conference room has thoroughly screwed with my concentration.
One was welcome.
The other not so much.
“What gives?” he asks as he pours himself a double and takes a long pull.
“Nothing. Everything. Fuck if I know.”
But I do know. It’s the documentary bullshit and the questions about my dad. It’s the stuff about to be dredged up from the past to make people overlook the crap I’ve done recently.
It’s the damn elevator ride with Bristol. The feel of her body against mine. The hitch of her breath. The want to start something with her, to use her body, to simply get lost in the past for a bit. Solely to drown out the bullshit that won’t seem to quiet anymore.
A temporary fix to a permanently fucked-up situation.
The issues with my dad will remain. Being alienated from Hawke and Gizmo and Rocket won’t change. And I’ll have to walk away no matter how good it feels to be with Bristol again.
There was a reason you walked away from her before. That same reason still holds true now.
You did this to yourself, Jennings. No use bringing her down with you.
“We can take a break,” Noah suggests.
“I don’t want to take a fucking break. I want to figure this out so we can lay it down and move on.”
“So just the music? Have you given up on the lyrics?”
“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.
