Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,38
the silent story, and I’m grateful she spares me a speech or critique. I messed up. But maybe that’s the kick I needed. He’s been fighting for me since the day we met. Maybe it’s finally time I fight for him.
The rest of the day is brutal. With Hadley’s help I make it through, but I need to rely on her as my brain more than usual. I’m back to zombie-mode, performing at every phase of my schedule with the stage presence of a stadium show. On the outside I’m Genevieve Fox, but inside I’m a caustic blend of warring identities. Only Oliver would be able to sift through the tornado and help me pull one out, but he’s not here thanks to me. Not surprisingly, the Trojans publicist wouldn’t give out information on Oliver’s location, not even to Genevieve Fox, but she promised to pass along the message. Points for false hope, I guess.
After dropping my stuff at the entrance to my house, I start toward the kitchen for a glass of wine. I’ve just turned the corner toward the kitchen when my gaze freezes on the door to my basement studio. Oliver’s voice comes filtering back, soft and matter-of-fact in that stirring accent.
“You should record them.”
As if it were that easy. I stare at the door. Happiness isn’t about easy.
“I’ll be down in my studio,” I call out to Hadley who is several steps behind me. I glance back just in time to catch the giant grin on her face.
One song in particular has been in my head since Oliver came into my life. I slide onto the bench of my baby grand piano and position my fingers on the keys, trying to work through the lyrics in my head. It never felt right as a sad anthem of a lonely girl. Maybe that’s because it was never supposed to. Maybe it’s been in my head because Oliver is changing it.
Was changing it before I pushed him away.
I swallow the twinge and focus instead on the haunting progression. The original song was in the key of G, but I raise it to A, feeling stronger in the moment. A sudden lead-line emerges through the simple chord rhythms, and I cement the tentative notes with firmer hits on the keys as I repeat the intro several times. What would an electric guitar sound like playing that riff? I glance over at my electric hanging neglected above its amp. I haven’t touched either in over a year. My pedal board is woefully lacking, but I bet I could run some cool midi-effects in production.
I work for several hours, rewriting lyrics, tweaking melodies and chord progressions until I’m satisfied with the basic structure and ready to start recording. It’s late for most people, but I don’t want to risk losing my momentum. Besides, in the world of music and recording, the night’s just getting started for most of us. I text Joel, my most trusted audio engineer, to see what he’s up to.
Working on a secret project. Could use your help. You in?
Joel writes me back a minute later. Hell yeah. When?
How about now?
“That was hot, Gen,” Joel says, leaning back in his chair at the console after I come out of the iso booth. He studies me for a second, his grin widening. “You know, I’ve been working with you for five years and I’ve never seen you like this after a session.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I get it. He’s right. It was hot. Everything felt good, so real and organic. Joel had to finish another project before coming over, but came as soon as he could. We’ve been working for a while, but the late hour is hardly affecting me. I’m on a high. I feel like I could do this for another twelve hours. I don’t remember ever feeling this way in the studio.
“You’re… I don’t know. Locked in. It’s gonna be hard choosing from all these takes. Usually it’s the opposite with you. No offense.” He laughs, and I shoot him a mock glare. “No, seriously, though. Your voice is just extra on this song. Your tone, dynamic. So much to freaking work with. Why is this top secret again?”
“Um, because it’s different?”
“Hell yeah, it’s different. It’s sick.”
“And gonna get me in trouble if White Flame finds out I’m messing around with a new direction on the side. You can’t tell anyone about this, Joel. Promise me.”