A Stolen Melody Duet: A Summer Romance Boxset
Page 5
When he doesn’t respond, I keep going. “We’re just passengers on the road. We’re life’s bitch, and I rarely take detours. Never stop to smell the roses.” I shrug. “Life isn’t stopping for me, so I just keep moving through it. Isn’t that what people call drive? Music is the one good thing. It carries me, and then it catches me when I fall.” I stare into my plate, refusing to meet his eyes. That got a little deep.
“That’s so … sad.”
“Says the lonely rock star.”
“I’m not lonely. Just because I turn in early one night doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I’m surrounded by people. Constantly. How can you possibly call that lonely?”
I give him a look that asks if he’s joking. He’s either got a great poker face or he's in denial. “Wolf—is that really what people call you?”
“That’s my name.”
“Okay, then, Wolf. Being a musician—writing, traveling—it’s the loneliest job ever. It doesn’t matter that you’re surrounded by thousands of people a day. Who knows you? Beyond the music. Who really gets you? Who can you trust and talk to every day? Who spends their days giving back to you what you give to the world?
Besides all that, you’ve got to be in your head most of the time and you miss out on everything else. Don’t tell me you’re not lonely. And don’t tell me your band does it for you. They can’t possibly be your everything. I’m sure it gets lonely as hell without having someone to share your stories with, to bounce lyrics off, to go sightseeing with you, to just get away for a while.”
I’m not so sure I’m talking about Wolf anymore.
“I remember asking a certain someone to go sightseeing with me and she rejected me. If I really am lonely, it’s not my fault.”
I laugh, relieved the tone of the conversation has lightened. “It’s my fault you’re lonely?”
His upper lip curls at one corner. “Well, yeah. I guess so.”
“Huh. I see. Well, then, I’m sorry,” I say dryly.
He’s smirking into his glass now. He thinks he’s won. And I’m finding myself relaxing around him a little more than I’m comfortable with, so maybe he has. Damn it.
We order food and eat in silence as we watch the sports news channel above the bar. Even through the silence, my thoughts are loud, and so is my pounding heart. Wolf is a charmer. Even when he’s just minding his own business, I’m a flurry over his presence. I took this job to get away from trouble. Not to run into more of it. I swallow my last bite and reach for my purse.
“I should get to bed.” I shuffle out of my seat and throw cash on the bar.
His eyes move to my half-empty plate and then to me. He hands me back my money. “I got this, Lyric. I love your name, by the way.”
My hand wraps around his fist to clamp it shut and refuse the money, and I know immediately that wasn’t the best idea. Just the touch of his skin against mine alerts the swarm of flutters in my chest. I yank my hand away and step back. “Keep it for the tip.”
He doesn’t look up, just nods. “Goodnight, Lyric.”
“Goodnight, Wolf.”
Chapter Four
Wolf
After dinner I take my drink to the pool and slip my bare feet into the water. Am I lonely? Lyric asked the question earlier, and I keep coming up with excuses as to why I’m not.
I’m busy constantly. These next two weeks, I'll have more downtime than I’ve had in years. Usually not even a holiday passes without some type of obligation. I’ve gotten good at going with the flow and not asking for time off, because what would I do? Where would I go? I’m seeing the world on tour. I have my fans. My bandmates. My crew. Those guys are my best friends. Lyric’s assumption that I’m lonely is way off. I just happen to love this life and take nothing for granted. Vacation isn’t something I want or need.
A whistle of wind blows through the air, rustling something near me. I look to find a small piece of notebook paper fluttering, wrapped around a nearby chair.
The wind picks it up, and the loose paper is carried through the air until it skips across the cold cement. Right toward me. My first instinct is to reach for it, so I do. And then the words on the page catch my eye. I scan over them. It’s a poem. Or maybe a song.
Guilt sweeps through me as I try not to take in the words even though the few lines I happened to catch are whispering through my mind on repeat. This isn’t mine to read. But then who does it belong to? I look around to see if someone nearby could have dropped it, but there’s no one else outside at this hour.
My eyes tilt down to the sheet in my hands and I allow myself to take in the words. From the first line, I’m sucked in. By the end of the first verse, my heart is beating faster. By the second, I know this isn’t something anyone should leave for someone like me to find. These are lyrics. These words belong to a melody; possibly one that’s unwritten.
Ten minutes later, I’ve reread it a dozen times and have started constructing a flow to the words, hoping a beat will follow.
Pulling my feet from the water, I take the piece of paper with me. It may not belong to me, but it sure as hell does not belong in the trash.
Once safely in my room, I set the mysterious sheet of paper on my dresser and flip on the television, hoping to drown out the words. I can hear the unwritten melody in my head. The chorus, addictive as hell. It’s the same feeling I get when I’ve just written a great fucking hit. The problem is that I didn’t write this. It’s not mine to claim.
Growling, I throw the remote across the bed and walk to my dresser. With a glare, I snatch the words up and pace the room.
I should toss it.
It’s not like I can actually do anything with these lyrics, except maybe get inspired. Looking down again at the words, I clench my jaw and inhale deeply. Maybe I can rewrite it. Use it as inspiration. That’s all.
Harmless.
Relaxing my jaw, I sit back on the bed and lay the paper out flat, smoothing the creases my fingers left. It’s been a while since I’ve written a great song. Something the guys—and I—would be proud to show off on the upcoming tour. I know it’s what everyone wants, and because of that I’m not thinking clearly. But the pressure—it’s insane. And writing isn’t something I can force. At least not good writing.
For hours, I try to talk myself out of giving in to the riptide that has clearly stolen my senses. What in the hell am I even thinking? I should be knocking down every door in this hotel searching for the owner. But no, the most I do is search for the lyrics online to see if it—or at least something similar—already exists. When I was little, the quickest way to commit a song to memory was to copy the lyrics down on paper. It wouldn’t be shocking if the owner of this sheet did the same.
The search comes up empty. Of course. And the lyrics are still reverberating through me as if they’ve already come to life.
So I give in. I succumb to the craving. And like with my own songs, I put pen to paper … and start editing.
It’s a few days later when I finally leave my room. That’s what happens when I write a song—except I didn’t write this one. I edited it and put music to it, but it’s not mine. It belonged to a chair leg before the wind stole it and handed it to me. And editing is a strong word for what actually went down. There wasn’t much I wanted to change.
Guilt rumbles through me at the thought of claiming it as my own, which is unfortunate. These lyrics are embedded in my soul as if I did write them.
I’m not a cover artist. Even purchasing songs from our producers is something I stay away from. That’s not who I am. I’ve climbed the charts because I enjoy writing and performing original songs. No other song could possibly fit Wolf’s sound. Except this one; this song haunts me.
It’s noon, and I’m meeting the band at the studio we’re renting for the day. We’re having our first practice since our last tour ended, and it’s much needed. The longer a band is together, the bigger the tendency to neglect the work that brought on the fame. I don’t want that to happen to us.
“It’s too easy,” Hedge complains after we play the new song. His reaction is not a surprise, unfortunately. My heart wasn’t completely in this one, but Crawley had liked it. Hedge, however, is a perfectionist. He’ll be the first one to tell me something is a piece of shit, and I love him for it. I just don’t have a backup plan this time.
“What’s too easy?” Crawley growls, setting his phone on mute and holding it away from him. We all laugh at the muffled voice of someone screaming at him on the other end of the line. All I can make out is “more money” and “we quit,” which isn’t even his problem to deal with.
“The set list,” Hedge says. “We’ve done it a thousand times. Let’s give this crowd something new. Something good.”
“We’ve got ‘Hidden Agenda,’” I respond halfheartedly, still trying to salvage my poor runt of a song. It’s not a hit. Not even close. We all know it, but the guys have been keeping their mouths shut until now.
Hedge pierces me with his stare. “Oh yeah? You might be the face of this band, but we have a say, too, and we’re not performing that piece of shit.”
“Whoa.” Derrick steps in. “Calm down, dude.” Then he turns his gaze on me. “Do we have anything else to try? Maybe we should explore other options. We’re not going to win ’em over with ‘Hidden Agenda.’ Sorry, Wolf.”
His apology is unnecessary. He’s right, and I’m only hurting the band by trying to make it work. Fuck.
Crawley’s face grows red as he unmutes himself and places his phone back to his ear, ready to unleash on whoever’s twisted his leg hairs. We all cringe in anticipation. We’ve seen him this irate before. “Tell those bloody wankers we have a contract! We are one week until show time, and they think they’re going to stick us with an empty stage?”
I groan. A cancellation—that’s what this is about. Crawley specifically requested this opening band, and now they’re probably getting greedy. Wouldn’t be the first time this has happened to us.
“Let the tour company deal with that shit, and get your head in this studio,” I grumble at him.
Crawley is the best band manager we could have asked for, but sometimes I’m afraid his heart will explode when he’s dealing with a crisis. He takes on too much and is the worst delegator, thinking he can do everything better if he does it himself—which is probably true, but it’s not great for his mental or physical health. Or for his temper.
He glares in my direction, pushes buttons on his phone, and then waits for someone to pick up. I do my best to tune him out, but it becomes impossible when he says Lyric’s name and something happens in my chest. Shit.
I haven’t seen her since the night we had dinner at the bar. Then again, I haven’t seen anyone. The mystery song quickly became my new obsession. The arrangement I composed for it is dark but hopeful, which is what our sound is about. The writing is simple but plays well to Wolf’s natural sound. Heavy bass accompanied by an electric guitar and a whole lot of keyboard. My vocals would carry this one, since it’s an up-tempo ballad. And the drums would hold everything together, filling in all the blanks. It could earn us another number one. I can feel it in my bones. For once, something took precedence over boobs and sex. And boob sex.
The itch I’ve been trying to suppress comes back in full force. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the flash drive with “Dangerous Heart” on it. I laid down the demo track yesterday to hear how it sounded. I wasn't going to play it for anyone else, knowing I didn’t write the original lyrics myself, but I can’t keep this to myself any longer.
I hand the stick to the sound engineer and then turn to face my band. “Look, guys. Do me a favor and take a listen to something. I think you’ll dig it.”
This gets their attention, and their frustration turns to anticipation. Hedge has everyone riled up about needing a new song. I can’t disagree, but the guys are too hard on themselves. We always planned to play the same set list on both our West Coast and East Coast tours. The East Coast isn’t expecting anything different, but the guys get bored easily.
Apparently so do I because I’m stealing lyrics from the hotel pool.
When the intro pours from the speakers, Crawley walks back in and takes a spot on the floor, lying down and folding his hands behind his head. His eyes are closed and the excess blood is draining from his face. He’s listening. I watch the eyes of everyone in the room, anxiously waiting for their reactions—and kind of dreading them.
What if they hate it? Then I’ve wasted three days of my life obsessing over shit disguised as an opportunity for greatness. But what if they love it? It’s not like we can fucking do anything with it.
The song is a bit slower than the ones they’re used to, but that’s a good thing. The label has been requesting something slow and catchy, and I’ve promised it to them. It’s just not something I’m great at writing, come to find out.
But this … this just might be it.
* * *
Two wrongs don’t mend hearts like ours
I give, you take, nothing feels right
Two wrongs can never break our fall
We’re in too deep, losing sleep
Trying to forget what started it all
* * *
Angry eyes and brick wall armor
Lessons learned, paths paved, shield unyielding
A heavy weight, you’ll never penetrate
And you won’t be at the end of this story
* * *
Stay away with your dangerous heart
That damaged our love, that damaged me
Crushed to pieces, shredded flowers making art
You’re dangerous, your soul is black
Dangerous heart, and I want none of it back
* * *
Can’t rely on second chances
Since the first ripped me apart
You’re not welcome here anymore
’Cause there’s no going back to the start
* * *
Stay away with your dangerous heart
You’ve damaged our love, you’ve damaged me
Crushed to pieces, shredded flowers making art
You’re dangerous, your soul is black
Dangerous heart, I want none of it back
* * *
After the last line, the guys are staring at each other, excitement written all over their faces. They heard it. What I heard. A hit.
Hedge begins laughing. Crawley’s eyes are wide as he leaps up from the floor as if it’s bitten him. “This is yours?”
I hesitate for a second and wrinkle my nose. “Not quite.”
The excitement in the room falls, and I quickly jump to my own defense. “I edited the lyrics, barely, and put it to music.”
“Who wrote the original?” Lorraine asks.
My face twists as I reach into my bag and pull out the sheet of paper. “No clue. I found this at the hotel pool, fluttering around and lost.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Stryder says with a grin. “Sounds like you claimed something someone else didn’t know what to do with.”
I wince. “Not necessarily. Lost is different than tossed, man. We can’t do anything with this yet. It’s not mine.”
“It sure as shit is yours. Where did you find it, exactly?” Hedge asks.
“It was wrapped around a chair leg, and the wind almost carried it into the pool. I caught it, but no one was there to claim it. But I don’t know, man, someone could have another version of it somewhere.”
Crawley tells the engineer to play it again, and the guys are silent. Some of their eyes are closed, and I know they’re imagining us up on stage, singing “Dangerous Heart” to a mesmerized crowd. Meanwhile, my blood is pumping adrenaline like I’ve just taken the stage. It’s only a rough acoustic version of what could be a badass track, but there’s no denying we’
ve got something here. If only we could get past the whole copyright issue.
“Can we find the person who wrote this? It’s good, Wolf. Too good to just let it go, but you’re right to be careful,” Derrick says.
Then Crawley slaps Hedge on the back since he’s the closest, causing Hedge to wince and squirm away. “I have an idea. Shit! I have a fucking brilliant idea.” He’s laughing and rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist. “We practice it and we play it at our shows—with a disclaimer that the unedited lyrics were found, and we’re looking for the original writer. We don’t release it for profit until we find them. This song will go viral. It’s got to, and whoever wrote it will come forward to claim their share.”
“Shit,” we all say in unison. Sometimes Crawley comes up with ideas like this that remind us all why we hired him in the first place.
“Well, what are you shitheads waiting for? You’ve got a bloody song to learn.” With another laugh and huge smile on his face, Crawley leaves the room, slamming the door on his way out.
Chapter Five
Lyric
Terese picks me up from the hotel early in the morning. She’s accompanying me to Wolf’s San Diego show and all the preceding activities for the day. I’m disappointed she won’t get to come on the tour. She’s the one cool chick I know who hasn’t screwed me over yet. So far it looks like I’ll be hanging with Lorraine and Stryder’s girlfriend, Misty, a lot since we’ll be sharing a tour bus. From what I can tell so far, we’ll get along just fine.
And then there are the groupies. I’ve heard the rumors of how often they frequent Wolf’s tour bus, and I’m trying to mentally prepare myself for that. The tags he gets on social media are telling enough, although it’s obvious he’s careful of his public image. He’s far from innocent, but he’s smart.