Page 15 of Sing for Me
He enjoys everything he does. He's especially giddy about his newfound fame. It's all he's ever wanted: to feel important and adored. And the money—wearecleaning up. But then, I already have more than I'll ever need.
I shower then plant in my room. There's something nagging at my gut. Usually, that means I'm about to figure out the start of a song. But when I sit down at my desk and pull out my pen and paper nothing comes.
This is a recipe for picture perfect inspiration. Windows wide open to blue skies. Clean, empty room. And somebody is playing guitar down the hall. That must be Drew. If he's playing, he's in a good mood.
I close my eyes and push my thoughts out of my head. As much as Tom annoys me, the drummer is right. Women want to fall in love with the broken bad boy. My past speaks for itself. I hit every box on thedamaged rock starchecklist.
If I came forward with all that shit, I'd have women eating out of the palm of my hand.
We'd get tons of press.
Be twice as popular.
But there's no fucking way.
It's funny. I don't want anyone to know about my past. But it's there on the album. And on the one before that. Every single one of our songs, save the one Pete wrote, is about some ugly feeling I pulled from my gut.
My past is there for anyone who wants to look.
But no one does.
They sing the catchy chorus. They compliment the song. They make it into what they want it to mean. And that's fine.
That's my job.
But just once, I wish somebody would reallygetit.
I wish I could drop the bullshit cheeky answers.
I wish someone would understand me.
My shoulders shrug of their own accord. I have everything I want. I'm not getting hung up on the little details.
I close my eyes and channel that feeling in my gut.
Slowly, I coax the song into my pen.
Onto the paper.
I've got three lines down when my door opens.
Drew takes a quick look on my bed, deems it worthy of his ass, and takes a seat. He's got his guitar in his lap.
His dark eyes meet mine. He says nothing. Just nods.
His fingers move over the fretboard as he plays a riff. Then he's moving into a chord progression, the start of one. It's not quite there, but it's got potential.
"It's good," I say.
He half-smiles. "I know."
"We don't need to write another song for six months, easy," I say.
He motions to the pad of paper sitting on my desk.
Fair point. I take another look at the lyrics. They might work with this. "Play it again."
He does.
