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)
“Sounds like you should be seeing someone about that stuff,” he added after a long silence. “The music business is an ocean of triggers for people with those kinds of problems.”
I scoffed, couldn’t help it. “You mean, like, therapy? CBT. Counselling. Right?”
Ezra shrugged. “I’m hired muscle, not a shrink.”
“I’ve done the lot of it. Found it patronising as hell.”
“So, you’re a stubborn bastard as well as autistic then, huh?”
I felt my eyes grow wide, but they soon melted when a chuckle tickled my throat. “Yeah. I suppose I am.” I hadn’t lied though. I’d waited eighteen months for therapy, the whole time convinced someone would finally help me, fix the fucked-up brain inside my skull, only to come face-to-face with a man who asked me a bunch of questions I didn’t have an answer to.
“What does it feel like when you’re angry?”
Anger, you fucking moron. “I dunno.”
“Instead of punching yourself, do you think you could try punching a pillow?”
What part of me punching myself makes you think I can spare the time to make a rational decision like that? “No. Maybe. I’ll try, I guess.”
“Our emotions are on a scale. Sometimes, we like to call it our emotional engine. It’s important to recognise when the speed of your emotional engine is at risk of running too high, so you can implement strategies to slow yourself down. Do you recognise any of the signs when you might be speeding up a little, Hugo?”
I wouldn’t be here if I did, would I? “No. Don’t think so.”
It was pointless, the whole fucking thing. More than a year I’d waited for help thanks to the overwhelmed and underfunded system, and all he could tell me was the fucking obvious. Of course I knew it made more sense to punch a pillow rather than myself, but I wasn’t thinking with sense when I did shit like that. Music was the only thing that had ever helped. Writing out my thoughts, turning them into songs. Picking up a guitar and letting the melodies that sprang from my fingertips distract my mind, take me someplace else.
“I’ve worked with worse,” Ezra said. He seemed quite confident about that.
I didn’t get a chance to let Ezra know how much I’d appreciated our conversation, because my manager, Lewis Snyder, entered the room. No knock, as usual.
“Hugo. We’re flying out to LA tonight. Time to pack up.”
“What?” There went my heart again, thumping, aching. “I asked you to warn me about this stuff. I need a little time.” A day, that’s all. Even a few hours to get my head around the change of scenery, some time to research the place, familiarise myself with what to expect.
“Time? There’s no time in this business. Time costs money and you haven’t made enough of that yet.” Lewis pointed a finger straight at me. “Now, get your ass in that bedroom and pack your shit up.”
He turned to leave, but I called him back. “Wait…I just need to stop on the way, see my friend.”
“You can call ‘em when we land!” was all he said before slamming the door behind him. A second later, he came back. “And before you get any ideas…” He walked so close to me I felt his smoky breath on my face, and then snatched my mobile phone off the arm of the couch. “I’ll keep hold of this.”
“What the fuck? You can’t do that. Lewis! You can’t…” But he’d already gone. Astounded, I looked to Ezra. “What’s he done that for?”
“In case you try and flit from under his nose. It happens.”
My stomach roiled with rage. My own parents hadn’t treated me like that much of a kid when I’d actually been one. “For fuck’s sake,” I spat, storming to the bedroom. This would be the third time I’d left without saying goodbye to Helen, the third time I’d broken my promise, let her down.
I hoped, as I started tossing clothes into a suitcase worth more than my mother’s house, that Helen knew I wasn’t hurting her on purpose.
I just wanted to sing…
I felt incredible locked away in the isolation booth. The padded walls filtered out all annoyances and distractions and allowed me to focus on the music in my ears. I knew, technically, I had a whole team of people around, but they were out there, on the other side. In the booth, I was alone. Just me and my guitar - the most extraordinary instrument I’d ever seen. The sophisticated rosewood and Sitka spruce beauty was my first splurge, the only thing I’d bought so far that pre-Next-Up Hugo wouldn’t have been able to afford without robbing two banks and selling his soul.
I’d just finished singing I Heard You Like to Party, which would be the first single from my debut album, when Lewis called me out of the booth.