Starting From Here (Starting From #3) - Lane Hayes

1

Declan

“What you seek is seeking you.”—Rumi

The streetlight illuminated the early morning fog like a spotlight on a darkened stage. The parking lot was deserted, but it wouldn’t be for long. The city would be wide awake soon with people hustling to work or school, anxious to get a head start on their day. Knowing the lack of activity was temporary made it seem special, although at the moment, it felt eerie.

I shook off the fanciful notion as I let myself into the side entrance of Scratch Records. I’d been running on caffeine and adrenaline for a couple of weeks now. I was bound to be a little loopy at the ass crack of dawn. Three hours of sleep wasn’t going to cut it, but I had to get this song down before it faded from consciousness. The words weren’t a problem—I just needed a beat. Something slow and sexy.

I made my way along the dimly lit corridor, bypassed the contemporary-style reception area, and headed for the narrow hallway leading to the studio. Excuse me…studios, plural. There were two. Ours and theirs. A small lobby area served as a holding zone of sorts. If Zero and Jealousy were better friends, we might hang out there and chill between practices. But we weren’t, so we didn’t.

Whatever. Not something to worry about at five a.m. Or at any time of day, if I could help it.

I pulled my key card from my pocket and opened the door to Jealousy’s studio, flipping on the overhead lights. It was a fairly basic space with vaulted ceilings and bluish-gray walls. The light hardwood floor was covered with a few knock-off Persian rugs for acoustic purposes, but other than the modern gray sofa near the recording studio window, the room was filled with instruments: a row of electric, bass, and rhythm guitars, propped neatly in the rack next to two large amps. Keyboards and a drum kit sat on the opposite side near the engineering equipment.

I kicked my shoes off and picked up my favorite guitar. Stella was a gorgeous amber Yamaha. I’d had her for almost fourteen years now. She’d been with me through tough times. Heartbreak and heartache, fear and longing. I’d played her till my fingers bled, ripping open my chest and pouring my soul into carefully crafted songs I hadn’t shared with the world…yet. That was about to change. I was ready to begin again. And I was hoping that with a bit of bravado, this old girl and I would finally be on our way.

My calloused fingers tripped over the opening chords of the song in my head as I sang a few lines.

“Coming from an old space to find a new way to—fuck.”

I sat on the edge of the sofa to tune my guitar. When I was satisfied Stella was ready, I tried again, coaxing the melody and twisting the cadence of my words to fit the notes. Crafting a song sometimes took me days or weeks. But every once in a while, it poured out of me in a matter of hours.

Halfway through, I decided I needed to hear it amplified. I plugged a cord into the amp closest to me and strummed, wincing at the static sound. I didn’t feel like messing with it, so I plugged into the second amp. It wasn’t much better. It also wasn’t ours. Huh. The sticker affixed to the side had Zero’s logo on it. An oversized Z with a dash through the O. It was clever. Jealousy needed a sexier logo. I’d mention it to Charlie when he got in. In the meantime, I wanted my amp back. And if we had theirs, they probably had ours.

I laid my guitar flat on the sofa, then pulled the amp away from the wall. I rolled it to the door, belatedly realizing there was no point in overexerting myself if I couldn’t actually get into Zero’s studio. So I left the amp in the middle of the room and moved into the sitting area to investigate and—what do you know…

The door was ajar. I pushed it open and immediately regretted it.

There were four members in Zero, which meant I had a fifty-fifty shot of bumping into someone who hated my guts. I secretly thought Justin had thawed a bit over the past few months, but Tegan…not so much. He was as prickly as ever. I noted his tattooed biceps straining an ancient concert tee as he reached for his sticks. A lock of his light-brown