Page 5 of Erik

When she sinks back onto the couch, Wes gets up and strolls to the sideboard. After snacking on some cheddar, he swirls and comes to stand in front of me. “You know what else we don’t want?”

Struggling not to roll my eyes, I groan, “What now?”

“We don’t want to sit around all day in the studio.” He spreads his arms wide, encompassing the room with his hands. “Or, in your fancy man cave, like a bunch of losers waiting for your muse to decide to show up again.”

A low buzz in my ears follow the blood galloping through my veins, spreading through my neck and cheeks. It’s got nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with a growing wish to strangle my band mate.

I ball my fists beside my hips on the soft leather. With a deep inhale, I turn to glare at Logan and Nick. “Is that so? You two agree with Wes on this?”

Logan shoves his hands into his front pockets and gives me a deep shrug. Since he doesn’t bother to add words, I guess his body language is all I’ll get as response. If that’s so, it means indifference. Which makes sense because he’s a damn talented lyricist.

“We’ve been using Logan’s songs,” I point out, tilting my head toward the bass player.

“We have,” he finally murmurs something. “But, as per our contract with the recording label, we’ve already included as many of them as we could for the next album. The others must come from your fantastic, amazing, temporarily dried-up well of endless hits.” He didn’t need to snarl for me to get his sarcasm, nevertheless he does.

I peek at Nick. His usual easygoing demeanor, gone. With a creased forehead, he grouses, “Man, it’s been too long since you wrote new lyrics.” He crosses his arms on his chest, admiring the tip of his sneakers covering the feet he’s crossed at the ankles. “Deadline is looming. After the premiere of the biopic, the suits will be all up our asses to release the new album to ride the tide, or some other marketing shit like that.” He snaps his gaze up to meet mine, frustration shining in his deep-set green eyes. “You think will have a fucking song list to offer them by then, at the pace we’re at right now?”

My jaw throbs from clenching my teeth as I drive my nails into the soft cushion under my thighs. Deep breaths aren’t working any longer, so I spring from the sofa, and start pacing the floor behind the sectional. I eyeball my white knuckles, before stopping, and swirling to face them. I push back my shoulders, jutting my chest out and hold their stares. The emotions ranging from frustration to anger that reflect at me fuel my rage.

With a curled lip, I whisper, “I’m fully aware of my responsibilities in this group. I’ve never let you down and won’t do that now. I’ll have the fucking songs ready when I have them.”

I ignore the painful twitching in my limbs while my nostrils flare as I wage a fierce battle of stares with the other band members.

Logan is the first to capitulate. After an exasperated sigh, he exchanges glances with Wes and Nick. “Guys, we’re all feeling edgy with reason. But Erik’s come a long, winding, and dark way.” He pauses, but avoids my eyes before adding, “I say we take it easy on him. Nobody wants Erik to fall off the wagon. Again.”

My head reaches boiling temperatures, adrenaline prickles my skin. “Take your condescending invectives and shove them up your stuck-up ass.”

Long strides take me toward the bottom of the stairs. On the way, I extend an arm and swipe the sideboard clean of bowls and vase. Fucking flowers and snacks cascade to the floor in my wake.

Stomping toward the oak door, I mutter under my breath, “They think I don’t know what’s at stake.” I slap the handrail when I get to the top, and before slamming the door shut behind me. I get little satisfaction from that outburst. Still, it soothes my nerves. I shake my head, whispering, “Writing songs when you’ve got a boulder for a heart used to be easier.”

3

Christine

With sweat trickling down my nose, I turn left on Fillmore, relinquishing a perfect view of Golden Gate Bridge. The light gleams red, so I jog in place, tilting my head back to soak up the late April sun. Grinning, I crank up the volume on the AirPods. Nothing says good morning like Erik Crawford belting his heart out in one’s head.

Limelight glow, leather shine

All a show I put out so fine

Everyone fooled, all but me

They cheer as I sing

Lilting notes mask pain too deep

Yet my heart knows, my soul weeps

The little green man flashes and I sprint to the opposite side of the street, climbing to my front porch, two steps at a time. Arms thrown up in the air, I cross an imaginary finish line, panting, but ecstatic. Another ten-mile morning run completed.

When I step into the entrance hall, I stretch arms and legs as the cool air welcomes me home, decreasing my body temperature on the spot.

I take a deep breath to inhale the smell of caffeine filling the living room and my heart rate spikes at the thought of savoring a mug of latte.

As much as I’d love to keep listening to Muse of Darkness all day, I swipe my cell phone screen open to shut down he music app. While at that, I glance at the email notifications and my stomach drops. I stayed up until one in the morning cleaning my inbox last night. It’s got over two hundred unread messages now and it’s not even seven.

“Hadley will never let me hear the end of this,” I mumble under my breath, depositing the phone and AirPods on an accent table by the burgundy sofa.

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