Page 8 of Country Heat

I pull out my Martin D-45 and sit on the bed, strumming a few chords as I hum out some half-formed lyrics.

“That’s good,” Bret says as he goes through his phone. “Is that new?”

I ignore him and keep tinkering, trying to tease out the song. I know from experience that if I don’t seize it immediately, it might leave and never come back.

I have a verse and a chorus cycling through my head when I finally look up a few minutes later. Bret is packing our stuff.

“The car is waiting downstairs,” Bret says, looking thrilled that I’m finally coming up with new material after all this time. “The jet will be ready when we arrive at the airport.”

“Perfect,” I say as I grab the half-empty bottle of Bourbon on the counter. I’m about to take a swig, but instead, I dump it down the sink and toss the empty bottle into the recycling bin.

Bret is staring at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head.

Normally, I’m drained after a show. I usually drink until the voices go away and my eyes close for the night, but instead, I’m vibrating with enough energy to power the entire hotel. The only thing that calms me, focuses me, is the thought of pen on paper, strings under my fingertips, turning this overwhelming obsession into music.

I’ll write a hit song that we can sing together. That will bind Lola to me forever.

And as soon as I get into my recording studio at home, I’ll do exactly that.

By the time my driver pulls onto my Texas ranch, the sun is peeking over the mountains on the horizon. I head straight to the front door and nod in response to the staff’s cheerful good mornings. They leave me alone as I march across the porch and up the stairs to my office. The sun lights up dust motes swirling around my old writing desk. My original beaten-up guitar is on the stand in the corner, calling to me.

I lift it and slide my fingers down the strings. A single chord reverberates through the office. It’s been a long damn time since I felt hungry to write. Usually, it’s like forcing out the same old trite words. But now, they surge out of me with the force of a tidal wave.

I scribble them down, my mind filled with images of Lola. I strum a few strings and the lyrics flow straight onto the page:

Your voice drips honey down my spine,

One taste of you and I’ve lost my mind.

I need your lips on this empty heart,

Burning me up till I’m torn apart.

I work on it until late in the night. Until I know it’s perfect.

Only perfection is worthy of this angel.

I finally put my guitar down after midnight. My fingertips are burning from my guitar strings. I thought the days of sore fingertips were gone. I thought they were tough and calloused. That I would never work them this hard again.

The burning feels good. It’s a nostalgic kind of pain.

I look at the crumpled paper in front of me—lyrics scribbled and crossed out, a mess of black ink.

I hum the song under my breath one more time.

It’s good.

I close my eyes and picture Lola standing in front of me, singing these words in her sweet melodic voice. My knees go weak just thinking about it.

Slide your hands across my skin,

Pull me under, let the sin begin.

A taste so sweet, a body so fine,

Gonna make you moan till you’re mine, all mine.

I can picture her shy blushing cheeks as she reads the raw, lust-filled lyrics for the first time. They’re so erotic. So real.

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