“You sing it.”
He levels me with another glare. His broodiness beats out my own. “You’re the one writing it. You know where to come in.”
“If you’d help, you’d know too.”
“I would help, but it’s not my song.”
“Yet.”
“Just sing the fucking song, Jagger. I won’t rat you out to anyone.”
My nostrils flare as I tuck my tongue into my cheek with an annoyed inhale. “Fine.”
We start from the top.
All alone in the dark
I feel the pain, I’m torn apart
I hear your voice in my head
Memories of the things you said
Slipping, sinking, screaming, calling
I’m falling
Barely breathing, hardly feeling
I’m drowning
Alone
Drowning. It’s the only way I can explain the way I feel all the time. Consumed with…everything. The pain of loss. I’ve written a lot of songs over the years. Songs that will never see the light of day. But this song…it’s how I’ve felt for a while now. My shame and regret bleed in melody and rhyme. It’s personal and one of my favorite pieces I’ve done. Probably the best, too.
It’s raw. It’s real. It’s me.
Unfortunately, that means it’s utterly unsellable.
The words pour out as the music flows. When it’s finished, Maverick chucks his drumsticks across my living room, and they bounce off the window.Good thing it’s fucking shatterproof.He throws himself against the sofa again, his head falling back as he scrubs his hands over his face with a loud, annoyed groan.
I set my Martin D-28 aside, grab my empty glass, and stand. My heavy boots thump across the ebony hardwoods as I walk to the kitchen to refill my drink. Removing the lid, I grab the bottle by the neck and pour the amber liquid into my glass until it almost overflows. “If you don’t like the damn song, then contribute.”
I watch as he lifts his head and slowly swivels my way. Daggers may as well be thrown from the incensed eyes. “I don’t hate the song, jackass.”
“I never said hate.” I toss the entire glass of whiskey back and pour another.
Maverick leans forward, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he snatches his empty drink from the table and comes to the kitchen. He sticks his empty tumbler toward me, shaking it so the ice clinks against the glasswith a wordless demand for a refill. Unlike me, he doesn’t throw back the contents in one go. Instead, he leans against my granite island and continues staring me down like I’m the sole reason for his broodiness.
Fun fact, I’m not, but he doesn’t talk about his issues either. Pot meet kettle.
He shakes his head as he takes a sip, another annoyed sound escaping him. “I don’t get you, man.”
I lift a shoulder as I lean against the counter across from him. “Nothing to get.”
“Bullshit.” He takes another sip, his penetrating glare unyielding. “Look, I know we haven’t known each other or been friends long, but I don’t get why the fuck you aren’t the one pitching this song? Hell, why aren’t you recording it?”
“I never intended to pitch anything, remember?” I wave a finger around him. “You’re the artist. I’m just the office boy.”
