Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He rolled into our lives with the last album, wearing a plaid suit, an open three-button vest, and a Bruno Mars concert shirt. He favors slick loafers with no socks so his bony ankles show, scarves that drape down his chest and flat stomach, and more jewelry than the queen, including a watch that costs more than my first three cars combined. I’m not sure how he got stuck with us, but none of us are particularly thrilled with the assignment.
When he came striding into our practice session like a man on a mission earlier, I thought for sure Hope had told someone, news of our identities had gotten out, and Sherwood was here to read us the riot act. I was almost relieved by the idea of being done with it all. All the charades, all the stress, all the drama. None of that has happened, though. It’s been complete radio silence, from Hope and AMM.
“Great? They’re the best fucking thing we’ve ever done,” Sean interrupts, coldly correcting Sherwood as he tosses one of his drumsticks end over end toward the wall. After hitting the soundproofing panel, it falls cleanly into the trash can below. That’s the third stick he’s broken today—not in anger, but because the drumline is that intense and he’s playing that hard.
He’s right. Of course he is. Sean’s right about everything, which only pisses me off more and more.
I’ve funneled all that anger—over losing Hope, at Sean’s interference, at the utter unfairness of life—into the songs that’ve been pouring out of my heart and onto the page. The lyrics are dark and ugly, speaking of hatred and loss and retribution, so of course, AMM loves them.
“Yeah, yeah, agreed.” Sherwood nods along pleasantly, not wanting to upset the talent, a.k.a. Sean. News flash: Sean’s always upset at something. Lately, it’s been me. And between the two of us, other than sniped comments about the music or mutters of “fucking asshole,” we’re not talking.
It’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.
Even if AMM doesn’t know that someone outside this room knows the truth about us, I’m this close to saying fuck it all and walking away. I do this for Sean, and right now, I don’t want to do shit for him except hold his head underwater. Or maybe cheap whiskey, because at least then he’d wake up in hell with a hangover he’d suffer from for eternity.
“There are a couple we’re thinking of scratching from the album, though.” Sherwood cuts his eyes to me, and I already know what he’s about to say. The time in Maple Creek was supposed to be a reset, but instead I came out of it with half a dozen songs, and I’ve written at least ten more since then. Some of them are crap, but most are bangers.
Except one.
“‘Hope’ stays,” I declare. “And Losing Hope is the name of the album. It’s not open for negotiation.”
Sherwood pans back to Sean, hoping for reinforcements. “I know it’s from your heart, but the sound is basically the antithesis of everything Midnight Destruction is about.”
“Like you fucking know what we’re about,” Sean sneers. “You just got here, asshole.” Nope, Sean’s definitely not on Sherwood’s side. Not sure he’s on mine, either, though. He’s probably just being his usual, charming self.
“Okay, okay. How about this? We can do a private, VIP-only pop-up show at the Cobra Room as an album teaser. It’d be like the old days—an intimate club show, no flashy pomp and circumstance, just you and the music and the fans. You can play an entire set, start with the classics to set the vibe and then maybe six or seven of the new ones? Get some audience feedback in real time. We could arrange it for early next week? Maybe Monday?”
I already know my schedule and Sean’s, which amount to a whole lot of mean mugging and cursing at each other, so I look to Trent and he shrugs. “No soccer games on Monday. I’m down.”
Sean and I lock eyes, trying to gauge each other.
“Song stays, no need for a showcase,” Sean declares.
“We’ll do it,” I say at the same time.
I’m not sure if Sean’s trying to back me up in some misguided attempt at an apology or if he truly likes the song and wants it on the album. Or he might just be fucking with Sherwood, or me. With Sean, there’s no telling.
“What the fuck ever,” Sean snaps, hopping up from his drum throne and stomping toward the door.
“On one condition,” I add quickly, and Sean freezes as Sherwood looks at me eagerly. He wants to make this happen. He was probably sent here to coerce us into doing this exact thing, which is why we have an advantage for once. “Tickets are free for the invited guest list and AMM pays for the venue since you’re the ones who need handholding to finish this album. Midnight Destruction’s not paying for shit, and neither are our fans. You’re out the money up front, but you’ll get it back one-hundred-fold in the guerilla-style social media publicity and you know it.”