Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
When it was over, she sobbed some more, dragged her hands down her own face, and…left. We didn’t talk about it again until the next time, though my dad made a point of reiterating how selfish I was when he got home.
Home. It wasn’t home. You were supposed to feel safe and wanted at home. In that house, I felt like a burden, especially once Mum had started drinking and my dad upped and left. I felt like a punishment bestowed on a once-loving couple who’d signed up for a normal kid and couldn’t figure out what they’d done wrong to deserve me.
I owned an apartment in New York that I rarely visited, a villa in Italy and a house in London, too, but they weren’t home, either. They were…spaces. Places to rest. Hide. Still, there was one place I’d felt at home in my life and, lately, I’d started to miss it. I’d started to need it. The music…it wasn’t working anymore. It wasn’t taking the thoughts away.
I was reaching that notch in the never-ending circle…
Remember that game we used to play?
One where I’d guess what you would say
Now I’m sittin’ here in the dark
I wanna go home
I strode into the studio the next day with purpose, stride long, heels bouncy on the cushioned floor. Upon seeing me, Marcel - a good man and the producer of this album - grabbed my hand, pulled me into him, and clapped my back a few times. I’d found it unnerving the first time it’d happened, hadn’t been sure how to respond, but it happened so regularly now I’d come to expect it. “Hugo, my man. Ready to light some shit up today?”
I returned the gesture, clapped his back, too. With time, effort, and a hell of a lot of observation, my social skills had improved with age, yet they remained a conscious endeavour. “As always.” I pulled away before shoving my open notebook into his chest. He smacked it with a palm, stopped it from falling, while I said, “I wanna work on this. Got a melody worked up already but it could do with some tweaking.”
He looked down at the pages, confused, eyes flitting between me and the lyrics. “The album tracks are all set. We’re almost finished,” he said, running a tanned hand through his choppy black hair.
I pulled up a leather swivel chair in front of the mixing boards, took a seat. “I want to add this one.”
A thick sigh made his nostrils flare. I didn’t like the look of it.
“I want it, Marcel.”
“It’s good. I like it.” I sensed a ‘but’…and I was right. “But it’s not commercial. It’s not a single.”
He hadn’t even heard the beat. “I don’t care. It’s important.”
He raised a brow, stared me out. He’d agree, I knew he would. It was why we worked well together, why I collaborated with him so often and why I’d signed onto my current label after too long being pushed around by the management that owned Next Up. I didn’t cope well with orders. Never had. I wanted, needed control. It wasn’t an ego thing. I didn’t feel more important than anyone else. I could only be backed into a corner so many times before a connection severed somewhere inside my mind and the result was, often, terrifying.
“If there’s time at the end of our session today, you can show me what ya got so far. We’ll see if we can work somethin’ out, but this one can’t be a priority, you hearin’ me?”
I’m hearin’ a yes. “Got it,” I said, raising a fist. Fist bumps were Marcel’s thing, I’d learned early on in our friendship.
He didn’t leave me hanging, bumping my fist with his, and then he took up the seat next to me. “So, who is she then, huh? This girl you wanna get home to? Anyone I know?”
I exhaled with a stutter, dropped my gaze to my knees. I don’t even know her. Not anymore. “Nah. No one you know.”
Within minutes, we were joined by the rest of the crew - Dalton, the audio tech, and Nicole, our sound mixer. I stood up then, backed myself into the corner, out of reach. I got on well enough with D and Nic, but we were colleagues more than friends. I wasn’t entirely comfortable around them, didn’t want them in my space.
“Before I forget,” Marcel called as I turned for my happy place – the isolation booth. “There’s a meeting tomorrow. Four o’clock. Big boss is coming in, wants you here.”
My stomach sank so far I felt the itch in my toes. “Sean?”
Marcel nodded, and it ruined my day. Sean Wyatt, the ‘big boss’ was co-owner of my label, WyNot Records, along with his silent partner, Kevin Nottingham. I’d been signed to them for four years and I could count on one hand the number of times I’d been in a room with either one of them. “Why four o’clock?” I asked, frustration tensing my shoulders.