Page 72 of Deliverance

The realization that a day at the studio lies ahead of me makes my brain hurt even more.

You can do it! You just have to get that animal that lives in you on board.

Memories of yesterday’s debacle at The Spot come back slowly, some foggier than others, and it’s in the shower that I remember I drunk-called Drew from the Uber last night.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

If there was any chance of us reconciling, it ceased to exist the moment I dialed her number.

Get it together, man, my inner voice urges as I slap both palms against the cabin wall and shove my head under the stream of hot water.It’s just like Leo said. Women are impossible to understand.

With that thought at the forefront of my mind, I leave for the studio. The only two people there are Luca and Julian. I find them in the lounge, eating breakfast. No sign of Leo or Toby. Or the rest of his crew. Although I don’t expect to see Stevie and Jacob around while I’m tracking my parts.

“Anyone else coming?” I ask, wandering over to the table lined with food. The rich aroma of expensive, freshly brewed coffee mingles with the sweet scent of hazelnut creamer.

“Leo should be here by lunch,” Luca explains.

I pour myself a cup and the three of us go over details.

We start without Leo or the suits from Red Eye, who, according to Ian, are supposed to stop by today to make sure things look good.

In other words to make sure no one is burning through the label’s money.

After a couple of stretching exercises, I enter the booth and settle in front of my kit. My heart thunders inside my rib cage. My pulse kicks into a sprint.Here we go. Closing my eyes, I force yesterday’s bullshit out of my head and channel the animal. It doesn’t need much convincing. It comes running like a rabid dog, filling every part of me with that familiar buzz, heating my blood and whispering words only I understand.

Behind the kit, time always flies. Flies so fast, the world pauses. There’s just me and the beat.

I work on my parts until my palms blister and the rivers of sweat coating my back and chest turn into salt.

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the door to the control room swings open and Toby walks in. He’s followed by two dudes, both young, one with a camera strapped across his neck. Luca raises his hand by way of a greeting but doesn’t bother to give them more attention. His face is screwed in concentration, eyes on the console, fingers hovering over the faders.

Halfway through the track and coming on to the harder part, I only get a quick glimpse of the newcomers. The invisible cords of tunnel vision strapped around me like shackles push me over the edge.

Faster,the animal growls. My feet pick up the pace and I feel my entire body drawing bow-string tight. The low pitch of the kick drum reverberates through the hot air within the soundproof walls, absorbing everything else. The people behind the glass, tattered memories of last night, the infinite ache in my heart and soul.

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

At the finish line, I give it my all, and when the song ends, every bit of me is on fire.

The comedown is intense. It nearly rips my mind to shreds.

Julian tosses me a bottle of water and a clean towel and I exit the booth to acknowledge the newly arrived group. Adrenaline still surges beneath my skin.

“You’re a madman, Shaw.” Dude number one goes straight for the kill and extends his hand for a shake.

“Thanks.” I take it. “I’ve got great material to work with.”

I swear to God, Toby blushes behind all that hair. “Mitch is from artist relations,” he explains, nodding toward one of the young guys, who’s standing next to him.

Mitch is average height with a freckled baby-face and long, slicked back hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and he’s wearing a pair of cargo shorts, socks, and sneakers. Red Eye Records is the only label that still lets its employees dress like MiniMart cashiers.

Weird, but I like that. I like that a lot.

It’s a pleasant change from seeing suited up guys with business degrees who know nothing about making music.

“Sorry, man.” I gesture at the drenched front of my T-shirt.

“Just another day at the office, huh?” Mitch grins.

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