As much as I’d expected Liam to ignore my phone call, I knew deep down he wouldn’t be so cruel. He’s not the type to leave you hanging when you’re in a bad place.
Sure, he ignored my texts years ago, but I didn’t exactly voice my desire for him to stick around either. Not that he would have chosen me over his European tour. I wouldn’t have wanted him to. Best we could have managed was some long-distance phone sex.
Dropping my backpack onto the floor and kicking it into the corner of the bedroom, I punch in the studio address on my Uber app.
Twenty-five minutes later, I’m standing in the parking lot outside Ascension Records.
The image online only shows the front entrance, but there’s a stunning mural painted on the side wall facing the street. It must be the same artist who did Liam’s tattoos. The imagery and style are identical—hooded figures wielding scythes and swords, winged and clawed demons, and elegant angels tangled up in a flurry of blood and feathers.
I snicker. Does the man realize how loyal he is? Hell, here I am, seven years after we had our fling, and he’s taken me back in with little complaint.
Popping a cigarette from the fresh pack I picked up when the Uber driver had to get gas, I light it up. The woman had apologized profusely for being so absentminded. It was obvious she was having a bad day, so I tipped her extra.
I’m not sure if Liam’s waiting for me. Not that I worry about following his orders much when misbehaving results in more attention from him. I just want the nicotine to hit me before I walk in there.
It’s a bad mental health day. I spent too much time huddled under the blankets of Liam’s spare bed this morning playing a fucked up game of “what if” in my brain. What if I never write a hit again? What if these weird, stroke-like symptoms get worse? What if I sold my house and stayed in Dallas?
What if I asked Stasi on a date?
Damn it, everything feels heavy today. I’m tired. I stayed up late watching Lithos clips on social media. Between my poor attitude and my replacement’s stellar performance in Toronto last night, I doubt I’ll be getting a callback.
It’s for the best. Even if I feel like my strings have been severed and I’m drifting into the void.
I glance down at my right hand. It feels normal today—no tingles—but there’s a slight pressure in my skull threatening to turn into a brutal headache later. I should have bought a bottle of medicine from the gas station.
Stubbing out my cigarette, I push out one last breath tinged with smoke. I’m not sure what Liam thinks he’ll get by summoning me here, but I’ll humor him temporarily. Maybe long enough to prod him about why the hell he’s not dating Stasi.
As I waltz through the front door, bells jingle above me. I’m greeted by two friendly faces behind the front desk. A taller man with short, tight curls and brown skin, and a peppy girl with a beehive of ginger hair atop her head. She bounces over to me.
“I’m guessing you’re Beau. I’m Emma, one of Liam’s sound engineers. And that’s Walter. Hail already left for the day. He likes to FaceTime his boyfriend before lights out across the Atlantic, if you know what I mean.” Emma exaggerates a wink.
I chuckle. Her bubbly personality is contagious.
“Hey, man,” Walter greets with a nod. “How’s it goin’? Badass work with Lithos. That first album? Top shelf.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I reply, pushing down my disappointment.
Is anyone talking about the new album? Do I care at this point? Or would I rather bury it in the past and not let my failures further take root?
“Yeah, you’re perfect for the temp gig.” Emma nods.
Brows lifting, my gaze cuts to Liam as he steps out of his office.What the hell did he tell them?
“Hey, bossman. Since Beau's here, does that mean I finally get a break?” Emma asks.
Liam doesn’t look away from me. “You always get breaks, Emma.”
“Yeah, but I feel guilty taking one and leaving you with loads of work.”
“Get out of here. You too, Walter. It’s after five.”
Emma and Walter collect their belongings and drift out the door, lost in enthusiastic chatter about new artists they’re working with.
When the studio falls quiet, I soak in the interior. The walls are part dark green paint, part exposed brick, warmed by soft golden lighting. There are instruments everywhere, some displayed as artwork, others propped up with cords connected to amps. Liam’s got a grand piano. Not sure I’ve seen anything sexier in my life.
Okay, maybe the two people I had sex with recently.
Something stirs in my chest, urging me to sit down on the plush bench and touch my fingers to the ivory keys. Maybe play a few chords…
