Page 11 of Next Time I Fall (Excess All Areas 2)

Jimmy fixed him with a glare. “You’re lucky because you’ve been able to hold on long enough for this to happen. For someone to see a spark of something no matter the reason. And from what I’ve seen, I think you guys have what it takes to rise to the challenge. But I think we’re going to need to work on the songs. Perhaps add some new ones. And you have four weeks to pull this off. So, I guess my question to you all is: Are you up for what it’s going to take?”

Matt leaned forward and rubbed his hand along his chin. “Yeah. We’re up for it.”

“Good. Here are the high points. We need to add more layers to some of the songs. I get the vibe, but I think we need to elevate them. I hope you are open to playing with tempo, because we aren’t on a death march here. If it sounds like a dirge, people won’t buy it.”

Ben stood up. “They don’t sound like a fucking death march.”

Parker Moseley leaned forward. “Fair enough. But this isn’t the album to get avant-garde on. There should be nothing experimental about your first album. Because sales are what get you a second album and a third album. It needs to feel solid. Tight. Cohesive, as Jimmy said.”

“Exactly,” Jimmy said. “And Matt, I know you wrote most of these with Luke, but here’s the thing. Many bands co-write songs with others. This isn’t about taking away your creative control. This is about making sure every single lyric does exactly what you need it to. That every beat has a rhythm a listener can get behind, a chorus they can’t stop singing, a bridge they can’t stop humming. We want memorable. We want radio play. We want you to get picked because of more than just a short strand of lyrics.”

“Did you like any of it?” Alex asked. Something about the questioning tone in Alex’s voice made him want to get up and smack Jimmy in the face. Sure, he didn’t want to big up Matt’s songwriting skills, but he also didn’t want Alex, the most talented out of all of them, thinking they sucked.

“Course he fucking does,” Jase said. He folded his arms across his chest. “He’s not paid the big bucks by the label just to fuck with our heads.”

“Jase,” Jimmy said. “I was coming to you.”

“I bet you were.”

“The band is talented. I’ll give them that. Their ability to play their instruments is actually way better than I was expecting. But you are brilliant, better than all of them together. Or the worst. No middle ground. And I don’t know why. Some songs sounded like they were coming from the bottom of your soul, torn out by the hand of some unrelenting god. And others ... well, meh. That’s the best I can say about them. I couldn’t tell whether you were unrehearsed, disliked the song, or just had no idea how to connect with it.”

Cerys looked straight at him, tilting her head to one side as if to say, “See?”

And yeah, he saw alright. He saw a record producer who could go fuck himself.

Just as he was about to lean forward, he felt Ben’s hand on his shoulder. “Let him say what he’s got to say.”

Jase shrugged the hand out of the way but remained silent. He couldn’t even bring himself to look over at Cerys. She’d warned him.

“That’s it,” Jimmy said. “You’ve got potential, talent, and presence. You’re inconsistent right now. But we can fix it.Withyou. This is an album you’re going to need to feel comfortable playing a decade from now, so it has to be you. Your sound. Your story. And we can help you get there. So, I’ll ask you again. Are you willing to do the work?”

He watched Matt nod and say something, the words lost to the whooshing sound in his head.

Blood. Anger. Shame. He couldn’t decide.

He hated the feeling of being cornered.

Jase stood and walked out of the studio.

The scrutiny—of his voice, his singing, of his commitment. He didn’t want someone telling him what he already knew, that he wasn’t good enough. That he’d never been good enough. It was like emptying a bottle of vinegar into a wide-open wound.

An agony clean and pure that left him breathless.

There was a small part of him that wanted to look Jimmy in the eye and confess that deep down, he craved to know how to be a better musician, fuck, even a better person. But the other part of him, the part that walked on stage with swagger and fucked the women who fell at his feet afterward, wanted to tell Jimmy to fuck himself.

He slammed the studio’s main doors open and marched out into the frigid cold. Hairs in his nose began to tingle with his first breath. He hadn’t even thought to grab his coat.

“Now what, dumbass?” he muttered.

He needed a ride back to the hotel.

The doors opened, and Jimmy walked through them. “Palmer. You want to screw up your life permanently, that’s on you. But you just bailed on your band. And for what? Because some words I said upset your feelings. Boo-fucking-hoo. You’re making a bad choice. I don’t know what the picture of your life looks like in your head, because we all have one, and it rarely looks like the reality we got. But I know one thing for absolute certain. We don’t get to that place by biting the hand of those trying to help.”

“You know, I’m not really in the mood for—”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t give a shit what you are in the mood for. I’m a one-chance kind of guy. This is the first and last time I’ll chase you out of this studio to deal with your fragile ego. I promise you. Do it again while I’m talking to you, and the whole band will be on the next plane back to Manchester. So, can I continue?”

The idea clawed at his gut. He could imagine the plane ride. The fucking awful silence as they all glared at him for destroying the only shot they had. His brother would never forgive him.

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