I was going to trust him.
I thought of Pepper J and all the other names Mollie had thrown at me and the guys when she was breaking the news to the band. They’d always been agreeable to just about anything thrown at them, and this was no different. As long as they got to play and could make money doing it, they were happy going along for the ride.
They weren’t having to hear what I was hearing.
But I swallowed my pride and decided to trust him, to believe he could help propel my band to the top. I’d heard far too many times of late that I was stubborn, and that obstinance had been a hindrance. I was going to be humble for the first time in my life and rely on someone else. “Okay. Where do we start?”
Chapter Twenty-five
ONE MONTH LATER, the band and I were recording three new songs—one Jerry had written on his own and two he and I had written together. But it hadn’t happened overnight and it hadn’t been easy.
We’d been working on one song together one day and the next morning, he came to the studio and said, “Here’s a song I’ve written for you.” I read the words and they weren’t bad. It had little substance, this song called “Ecstatic,” but I could see how the words could be catchy. The words weren’t the problem.
No. The problem was the music.
“I can’t play this!”
“Why not, Kyle?”
“It’s too…poppy.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is.”
“Look,” he said, his eyes boring into mind, demanding my attention. “You need to trust me, Kyle. You can manipulate it a little and I left the solo space empty so you can do whatever you like. By poppy, I think you’re referring to the catchiness of the tune. So it’s a little crossover—”
“It’s a lot crossover, Jerry, and I’m not gonna do it.”
He was quiet then and he pulled his glasses off. He only wore them when he worked, and that told me he was getting ready to leave. Good riddance. If he thought I was going to play some shit high schoolers would want to hear at their Homecoming dance, he had another think coming. No way in hell was I going to play that stuff.
But before he could even consider leaving, Mollie appeared out of nowhere. I never asked, but I suspected she and Jerry thought I might have that kind of reaction and she was there to “talk some sense” into me. But I refused to be swayed. I wasn’t going to put my name on it, let alone my voice or my axe work.
Mollie didn’t speak a word at first, but then she said, “Kyle, I thought you said you were willing to try something new.”
“Yeah, but not this. No way in hell do I want to sound like a spoiled diva like—” I stopped myself. I could have been getting ready to insult an artist Jerry had worked with, women he’d likely helped turn into stars. I was already cutting off my nose to spite my face, but that would have been jabbing out my eyes too. I was already acting emotional and unreasonable enough.
“You’ll only be a spoiled diva if you choose to be.” She blinked and forced half a smile. “Like now.”
“I am not—” But I was. The open-mindedness I’d promised to espouse the week earlier was nowhere to be found. I was operating purely on gut reaction, on my primitive instincts—and they were failing me. So I stopped talking and sighed. I felt my shoulders relax a little and I said, “I just don’t want to play pop music.”
“You won’t be. It will be pop flavored.”
Jerry smiled and nodded. “There are lots of rock bands who have crossed over into pop—and it’s done them nothing but good. It’s exposed them to brand-new audiences, ones eager to spend lots of money to download that one song, if nothing else. Staind, Aerosmith, Incubus…those are just a few. Want me to go on?”
I gritted my teeth. Yeah, those guys had some great hits that had crossed over and no one had thought any less of them for it, but it still left a bad taste in my mouth. “Those guys didn’t write songs just so they could be played on pop stations. That was just a happy coincidence.”
Jerry raised an eyebrow. “How can you be so sure of that?”
I started to speak and then stopped. I didn’t personally know any of the guys in the bands he’d named, and I had never heard rumors about their writing processes either. Was it possible that they’d intentionally created something that would be palatable to the masses? “I can’t. It just feels like…selling out.”
“Think of it this way—you won’t be selling out; you’ll be selling. Won’t that feel good? And you can still write and sing all the other songs you like, but you’ll be heard farther and wider than ever before. Trust me—you can complain all the way to the bank.”
I scrubbed my face and left my hands covering my eyes, letting it all sink in. Just the thought made me feel dirty and fake, almost like I was having to compromise all my values. But it was just a song, and I was likely overreacting. I sighed and then removed my hands. “Can I take the music home tonight, get a feel for it, play it for the guys, see what they think…and then let you know?”
“Absolutely.”
That night at home, I had flashbacks of playing Liz’s music for the first time—reading the notes, getting a feel for the song the way it was intended, and then intentionally changing it so that it had my flair—making it better. And I did as Jerry had offered, writing a killer screaming solo, so even though the song felt light and airy, people would know when they got there that it was still bad ass.
We met in Brandon’s garage the next day, our favorite practice place these days, and I plugged my guitar in the amp. Before I even started playing, I said, “Two things. One, this bitch was written by Jerry. He thinks it’ll propel us into super stardom. And, second, I, uh, jazzed it up.” While I tuned my strings, I said, “I need to know what you think. For reals. Don’t hold back. If you hate it—if you all hate it—then we stand united and tell him to sell the damn thing to a fucking pop queen.” All three guys gave me varying degrees of “Yeah, sure, okay,” and waited for me to start playing.
After a good night’s sleep, I realized while I played that the song didn’t sound half bad. And as much as I hated to admit it, it had grown on me and—fuck, yes—it was catchy. Okay, it was very catchy…like a fucking cold. Maybe I was sick. But I’d infused this song with me and there was no mistaking that it was Kyle Fucking Summers playing her axe.
When I started singing, I’d planned on letting the words come out angry and bitter and resentful that I even had to do it. I was shocked that I already knew all the words (a testament to Jerry’s insanely amazing writing abilities) and that I was enjoying singing along. It turned out to be fun to sing and infectious. By the time I got to the chorus, Brandon was beating on the drums, helping me keep time.
Can you come out to play
On this cold and rainy day?
I promise to make it worth your while.
I see the way you look at me.
I might be cheap but, honey, I ain’t free.
If I spot you an inch, will you give me a mile?
Ecstatic.
That’s the way I feel when I’m with you.
No one else will ever do.
Ecstatic,
Ecstatic.
Come play with me.
By the time we were done, all three guys were playing along, showing me the potential. And damned if they didn’t help me see the song with brand new eyes.
Hell, yes. We had our first single…and I was now a huge believer in the magic of Jerry Reimer.
* * *
Later, when Jerry and I sat down to write a song together, he asked what theme I would like. “Partying? Unrequited love? Sex? Having fun?” He tilted his head a little. “Sorry—we won’t be writing a song about social issues. Rage Against the Machine and System of a Down sold lots of songs writing protest lyrics—but it’s harder if not impossible to cross over doing that.”
“We’re still talking crossover? Isn’t that what ‘Ecstatic’ is for?”
“You want to have more than on
e hit, right? More than one single? Want to sell your entire album to millions of listeners?”
“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
He nodded and that was enough. Yes, okay, then more than one single it was. “Well?”
Oh. Back to the theme. “I don’t know. Some of my songs that have done best have been the ones that were angry. You know, like let’s meet in the parking lot and I’ll punch your teeth in kind of angry.”
“Do you want to keep writing that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot of what I write is therapeutic.”
It looked like a smile was playing with his lips, but I think that was my imagination. “Then let’s leave those songs for your psychotherapist. Your fans want to be entertained. They want to be taken away for a while to dance and sing and play…not to listen to you whine and complain and vent and bitch and spew.”
And my ire kicked in gear then…but I respected Jerry and what he was doing and I’d promised Mollie too. Still...I couldn’t let his words go by without adding a few of my own. “Maybe pop fans want to listen to insipid lyrics that mean nothing, but metal fans are drawn to the music for more, sometimes for the darkest stuff. We sometimes feel like the music is the only place we belong, and we draw strength from our favorite songs that we listen to over and over.” Did we have entertaining songs too? Hell, yeah…I thought of some of my favorite bands and their songs that I loved, and some of them were just for fun, songs about sex and partying and liquor and drugs. But most bands also had songs of substance, songs that meant something—and not just the politically themed bands Jerry had mentioned moments earlier.
“You’re making my point for me, Kyle. If you want to cross over, you have to switch things up a little. You’re casting a wide net. You’ll catch most of your own fans, but you’re going to catch a lot more.”
I closed my eyes. I’d already gone this far. I just had to keep going. So I nodded and looked at Jerry, letting him know he had my attention and cooperation.
“So what’ll it be?”
Out of all the choices he’d given me, I knew what I wanted to write. I wanted to write a song about CJ, something about how I’d fucked up and lost the one guy who’d ever meant something to me…something about having loved and lost. And, that stormy afternoon, Jerry and I wrote a song, my biggest hit and third single off that album, the ballad called “Regret.”
Chapter Twenty-six
THE BAND AND I spent another few weeks writing a couple more songs and then also making some minor changes to our other existing songs slated for the album following Jerry’s advice. We were getting ready to record with our new label then, and I was getting excited. I now knew that I had something special here and I couldn’t wait to see the world’s reaction.
Our band was solid too. The sound, a little different from my usual thing, was amazing, and the longer we played together, the more harmonious we sounded. I couldn’t wait to hear our songs mixed…and that was on the schedule for the following week.
I got a text from CJ then. Call me when you can.
How the hell could I resist a text like that? I knew he was still dating the older Hollywood gal, but CJ was my friend now, even though my own feelings went deeper than that, and if he asked me to call, I wasn’t going to refuse. So I did shortly after receiving the text.
“What’s up?”
“I wrote a song for you.”
I felt my heartbeat’s pace quicken. It wasn’t the first time he’d written a song about me—that I knew for certain—but why was he telling me now? And what the hell was I supposed to say? Bristly would be best. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I write songs for other people to sing all the time.”
Oh. I’d misunderstood. He’d written a song for me. I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “Sorry. Gotcha. So what’s it about?”
“Well…it’s not perfect. I can’t get the sound right, but the words are set. And I keep hearing snippets of your band’s new sound—maybe ‘cause you have new band members?—and I think maybe you and I should work on the music together.”
“So you have the words but no tune?”
“Eh…I have a riff in mind, but I don’t know if it’ll work.”
“Okay, so how do we do this? Meet at the studio or—?”
“You could come over to my place if you want or I could go to yours.”
No, we couldn’t go to mine. Since separating from and divorcing my husband, I’d taken Brian’s old philosophy: If I was going to be on the road two-thirds of the year or more, why have a big place? Why have a nice or expensive place? It was money better saved for later on…just like Brian had said.
And, just thinking of Brian made me a little wistful. He and I hadn’t talked in a while and I wondered if that was my fault—maybe it was because I’d been so obsessed with work. I hadn’t reached out to him and it might have been that he was busy too. I’d have to give him a call and see how he was doing.
In the meantime, though, I was juggling a different ex. “My new place is small. I can play my guitar here, but there’s not much room for jamming.”
“You live in a closet?”
“Almost.”
He chuckled and then gave me directions to his new place—in Black Forest. And that was when I realized that even if I had refused to grow up, CJ had, because that would mean he’d bought a house—and not just any house. An expensive house. A really nice house. A house a metalhead should never be allowed in.
The next day as I drove to his home, I wondered the entire time. What the hell was the song about? Why had he been inspired to write a song for me? Especially after all we’d been through?
I was, once again, blinded by my own refusal to see things for what they were…blinded by what had perhaps been there all along, had never left. But as I drove north on I-25 toward the Black Forest exit, I was instead grateful that CJ and I had found a way to remain friends and continue with that aspect of our relationship…because I had truly missed him.
He too had helped create a single for me, just like Jerry had, only that had been years earlier, and it hadn’t just been for me. It had been for all of the Vagabonds. And it had been with me too. Looking back, that seemed like ages ago, even though it wasn’t quite a decade yet. I knew in that time that CJ and I had both grown as musicians and “Dream World” seemed like just that—an old fictional world that had once been my life.
All this reflecting, and as I drove through the pines with Google guiding me through the roads thanks to my phone, I didn’t notice the tears dropping from my eyes onto my cheeks until I drove up CJ’s driveway, parking in front of a two-car garage.
So CJ was heavy in my heart at a time when I should have probably guarded it the fiercest. He was in a relationship and didn’t need me pining openly over him. So I searched in the glovebox for the tissues I knew were in there and wiped my nose, then saw the travesty that my eye makeup had become. I wiped up all the eyeliner and mascara that had smeared under my eyes and made myself look as presentable as possible.
Shit.
No, this was good. Let him remember how shitty I looked without a ton of makeup. It could only help keep the distance between us.
I took a deep breath and then forced myself out of the car. I walked to the back and grabbed my guitar out of the trunk, and as I started walking toward the house—the huge, looming, yet beautiful and simplistic-in-design house—CJ stepped outside and started walking toward me. “Hey, Kyle. Right on time as always.”
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I’ve been dealing with too many divas who think being late is expected on one side and then, on the other, I have to deal with anal people who like to be fifteen minutes early to everything.”
I grinned. “Google told me how early to leave to get here on time.”
“That’s what I mean. On time.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Hell, no. I’m just
not used to it. Come on in.” He held out his hand. “Want me to take that?”
Ah…CJ had also been hanging around girlie girls a little too much, and that shit didn’t fly with me. “What? Do I look too weak to carry my own damn guitar?”
He was smiling but I don’t know that he knew exactly how to take me anymore. Yeah, he’d definitely been hanging around spoiled women. “Actually, you’re looking like you could play the part of a roadie nowadays.”
I suspected he was talking about the definition in my arms. Oh, I could have hugged my trainer right then and there. But I couldn’t resist being a smart ass. “Ah. Guess I should’ve shaved.”
As we got closer to the door and he pulled it open for me, he asked, “Everything okay?
Shit. The eyes, the crying. I knew my light mood, partly put on for him, wasn’t giving me away but damn my eyes. A lie left my lips easily. “Sorry. I look like I just woke up. I think I’m allergic to something—my new makeup or something.” I frowned and shrugged, hoping to just kind of blow it off. “I swear I put on makeup this morning, but now I look like shit.”
“No way. You look beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes as I walked inside the house. “Now I know you’re full of shit.” I looked around—the house was beautiful: Vaulted ceilings and big rooms (at least the one we were standing in) decorated simply but beautifully, crisp white walls accented with oak trim, beige carpet, and a fireplace built in flat stones. I could see the kitchen from the front room as there was a bar between the two, and the surface was covered in polished dark gray granite. Just from what little I could see, I wanted to ask him how much the place had “set him back,” but I wasn’t going to. All I knew was that, even when my dad had taken a fairly well-paying job as a college prof, he couldn’t have afforded something like this. Our two-story house in Winchester had been nothing to sneeze at, but this place—it reeked of money and luxury.
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