Page 27 of Before Now

My eyes flick to the viewing area where Christian’s on his phone on the other side of the soundproof glass wall. Today’s our first day off since going back on the road, and the label booked us rehearsal space. A not-so-subtle nudge from Mac Records, reminding us they expect us to be in the studio a week after we wrap up in NYC.

We originally had more time between shows these last months of our tour, specifically so we could write. Then a performance of “Haunted” went nuclear at the start of it, and they crammed in stadiums for the last leg. We’ve been on a wild ride the past few years, but it still messes with my head how a rock icon reposted me singing and led to us playing the same stages she did a few months ago.

Sav Loveless—or more likely her team—altered our trajectory into the stratosphere with a fucking tag androck onemoji.

Christian’s pacing outside the glass, crossing back and forth in his rich-boy suit. Each time he passes, it flashes views of a messy auburn bun behind him. His legs and then a tease of a smooth one crossed over the other in an overstuffed chair. Him, then her. Him. Her. My focus shifts and turns his next passes into a dark blur, leaving me with just the fragments of Remi.

Always only pieces of her.

I smother a groan and drag my emo-ass attention back to the notebook open on the table. To my bandmates and my untouched acoustic at my feet. To the tick-tick of an invisible clock. The only shit I should be focused on.

I grab my guitar’s neck to pull it up on the loveseat. The other two cover different parts of the sectional across from me, both in their own worlds. Felix beats away on a practice pad, and Dev’s playing with a bass line.

None of us are committed right now. Maybe wedidneed the day off.

Slouching on the cushions, I will myself to create on demand. After a few seconds, my head rolls to the side. Christian’s off his call, collapsed in a chair and not disrupting my view anymore. Remi flips through a magazine, looking beyond bored with her crossed leg swinging. Other than shooting through the glass, she can’t do much until we leave. She filmed in here before we kicked everyone out. The dark flower scent of her still lingers. Every time it hits me, the world dissolves into thoughts of the other night when it surrounded me. Thoughts of silky skin beneath my palm, my thumb stroking wet lace.

My hands. Your body.

I breathed her in and felt my teeth dent her thigh.

Starving breaths on promise-covered skin.

Her whimper sent blood rushing to my cock, still trained to the sound.

My grip tightens on the fretboard while I watch her. I can’t fucking stop watching her. And soon enough, I’m humming notes I’ve fought off for days. They’ve been spiraling. On the bus the other night before the San Francisco show. I succumb to them, finally listen. Then I feel for them on my guitar, my eyes on Remi the entire time. Once I match the first one, the others fall into place. I hit the end of the melody for a third time, but my fingers keep going, extending it a little longer before muting the strings with my palm.

“Play that again.”

I swing my gaze to the sectional and realize I have Dev’s rapt attention. Felix is sitting up, his sticks not moving anymore. Then he parrots Dev’s, “Play that again.”

I scrunch my face. “Nah.”

“Play.” Felix flings a stick, and I reluctantly slide back to the first note.

Halfway through this time, I actually hear what they do. I don’t even bother looking up when finished, just shift straight back to the beginning. I hear more and feel my way through until the foundation settles. The riff develops naturally, like the entirety already existed and needed me to stop fucking around. Playing it over and over, I build and tweak.

The riff doubles. Dev’s down an octave on his bass, deep and tonal. He varies the bass line as we jam, and I start to add chords.

“Fucking hell,” Felix groans out. He hops off his ass and drops onto the cajón. “The muse is in the room.”

Not quite.

I glance through the glass. Remi’s at the edge of the chair, locked onto us in the rehearsal space. Even from here, I can see the rhythmic pulsing in my veins mirrored by the light in her green eyes. An unrelenting need claws at her to capture the rawness of us creating, the same way it tears music out of me.

With Felix drumming a beat on the box, the three of us sync in a way none of us try to explain. It’s been this way since the beginning when we got together four years ago. A goddamn three-way soul read into an unstoppable creative flow. We work it for a while, shaping and harmonizing the initial melody.

It morphs into a chorus in my head at some point. I feel how the line will evolve for the verses. But I don’t follow the chord progression yet. I’m chasing different notes, layered over what we’re already playing. My lips start moving before sound follows. Mostly la-di-da shit to hear how vocals could fit.

Songs piece together differently with us. We have no code or formula. Sometimes I’ll show up with every part breathing already. We’ll work around lyrics on others. But not many have developed chorus first like “Echo” and “Haunted.” Our wildfire and inferno. “Echo” set us ablaze, and “Haunted” engulfed the world in our flames.

The words aren’t there yet, so I shrug when Felix askswhatwe have. Maybe the song goes nowhere. We could throw the whole thing out before we reach the studio.

I’m still flirting with a lyric melody as I walk down the corridor toward the kitchen. Dev’s facedown on the floor in the viewing room, and Felix is getting high with Christian while we take a preventative “Colt break.”

A couple years ago, the three of us sank into a writing bender—or bender in general. Three days of cigarettes, tequila, coke, and Maui Wowie. We ended with an album’s worth of songs. Christian fell at our feet, money in the bank for him. Colton punched me in the face and took me to the emergency room for severe dehydration. Since then, we take breaks before Colt mandates them.

Bitch aims for the ribs now.

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