He turned his back to rinse the bowl in the bar sink, and she grabbed her bag, palmed the two packages of saltine crackers he’d given her with the meal, and disappeared them inside. Something for later if she found herself hungry or low on sugar.
After spending more time on the streets than she had, Red looked like a grizzled version of Moses in baggy jeans and a lumber shirt. A former military police officer and recovered alcoholic who lived over a garage and worked in a bar to earn enough cash to keep a roof over his father’s head, he knew the hardship of living paycheck to paycheck while supporting a parent.
He knew she did too. And while he couldn’t offer money or a place to crash for the night, he always had a bowl of something hot to give her along with the advice he doled out for free.
“Well, you make sure he pays you what he owes. He made plenty in tips tonight.”
Yeah, she’d lucked out on being fired on a Friday. The crowd had been in a good holiday mood despite the events in Boston. And with the booze flowing, they’d filled the request jar with crumpled bills, and the Whiskey Walkers had played everything from Journey’s “Small Town Girl” to “Friends in Low Places”by Garth Brooks.
“No worries, he knows my songs are worth every penny.” She grinned, and standing on her chair rail, she leaned over the bar to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the stew. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Anytime,” he replied, giving her a pat on the hand. “Don’t be a stranger now.”
She nodded and hopped down, collecting her coat before waving a final goodbye and making her way past the stage and down the narrow hall to the back room. Although the door had been left open, she knocked on the door frame and waited on the threshold. While she knew the bass player, the other two band members were new and unfamiliar.
His back to the door, Mason did a shoulder check before turning to face her with a grin. “Summer! You’re just the person I wanted to see.” He crossed the short space between them and pulled her in for a hug. “I’ve been missing you.”
She hugged him back and felt a familiar tug at her heart. “Missed you too.” And she had. Once upon a time, they’d spent most of their free time together, writing songs and eating takeout in his one-bedroom apartment over on Pitt Street.
She’d spent so many nights crashed out on his couch; she’d probably left an impression in the lumpy cushions. For a while, she’d hoped to graduate to sleeping in his bed. With him. But that was before he’d started dating Kimberly Walt.
“Guys, this is Summer. The songwriter I was telling you about.” He let her go and made the introductions. “Kurt on drums. Ben playing lead. And you remember Christian on bass.”
“Hey,” she said, offering a wave in greeting.
Niceties completed, he snatched her palm out of the air and pulled her over to the battered sofa. “I’ve been working on something new, but the third verse isn’t coming together the way I’d like it to. Can you have a look?”
He plucked his acoustic from its case and sat down, patting the cushion beside him.
“Alright. Let’s hear it,” she said, getting sucked in and dropping beside him so she could see the music sheets he’d spread out on the coffee table.
While his bandmates came and went, he sang the intro, another variation of the down-on-his-luck redneck Romeo lamenting about his problems until the booze-filled solution turned into the chorus.
In her mind’s eye, she saw the color of every note, her synesthesia kicking into high gear as Mason sang. And by the end of the fourth verse, she knew the song had gone on too long with no end to the hero’s suffering in sight.
“What do you think?” he asked, cutting off the last chorus when Summer picked up his pencil and pulled the sheets toward her.
“It’s good,” she replied. “But what if you cut half of the third verse and all of the fourth.” She scratched off the repetitive lines. “And added a short bridge here.” She jotted down a quick everything’s gonna be alright ending in the margin.
“Yeah, that could help with the flow. Should I lengthen the lead solo to make up the difference?”
“Actually, I’d double the last chorus to really get the crowd going.” She inserted the repeat. “Then shorten the outro to end with a bang.” With a flip of the pencil, she erased the riff that dragged on too long, added a couple of final notes, and played the whole thing out in her head one last time.
“Fuck yeah. That’s brilliant.” Mason threw his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Tell me again why we aren’t writing songs together anymore.”
Summer huffed but swallowed the two-word answer.
Kimberly Walt.
Or Kimber, if you went by the name she used on her social media accounts.
Yeah, Summer had stalked her online. Mason’s girlfriend hadn’t liked her from the get-go. Had been jealous of the time they’d spent together working on his music. She’d caused so much trouble, he’d eventually put an end to their late-night songwriting just to keep her happy.
Not long after, Summer had been hired by the Wagners and moved to the ranch. The only time she heard from Mason nowadays was when he wanted to buy one of her originals for the dirt-cheap price of one hundred dollars.
The last time he’d called, she sold him three songs, and he’d paid her half upfront with a promise to transfer the rest as soon as he had the money. She’d been waiting three and a half months.
She couldn’t wait any longer. Unemployed with less than fifty dollars in her bank account, she needed the cash to make it to Monday.
