Page 4 of Next Time I Fall (Excess All Areas 2)

But now she was here, in Detroit.

On the first day, her father had given her some rules. No calling him Dad. Just Jimmy. She buried the twinge of hurt. It suited her fine because she didn’t feel comfortable using the word for a guy who’d done nothing more than donate sperm and throw cash at the result on the first of every month.

She locked up the car and shivered her way across the snow-cleared parking lot. Tomorrow was the first day of February, but the weather didn’t show any signs of relenting. Snowflakes clung to her strawberry blonde curls as she pressed her pass against the door of the studio and gained entrance.

“Morning, Jerry,” she said to her dad’s long-time cleaner who was busy mopping the corridor to Studio One.

“Morning, yourself, Cherish. How was the drive?”

No amount of explaining had gotten him to understand the pronunciation of her name.Keh-ris, she’d told him repeatedly, yet it still came out Cherish.

It was sweet. How could she object to being called such a pretty word?

“Almost took out a red truck. I might start taking a cab.”

“Think that might be best for everyone, miss.” Jerry winked at her, and she laughed.

Cerys walked by the deep orange velour sofa. Somebody had obviously hit up the 1970s catalogue for design ideas in the studio. The walls were covered in a textured brown wallpaper that was itchy to the touch. Giant gold frames held black-and-white images of some of the rock royalty her father had worked with. There were even gold, furry cushions and orange pendant lights.

The absence of windows made it feel like nighttime inside twenty-four hours a day. When she’d asked him why, her father said he liked the idea that people would lose track of time while recording. It made Cerys feel claustrophobic and she took breaks outside as often as she could, even though it was freezing. While out there, she’d make notes about her own studio from everything she learned. Now her notebook was full of ideas. The studio could be dark, but the control room she’d spend most of her time in needed at least one window. Doors and corridors needed to be wide enough to accept grand pianos. Making iso rooms the perfect size was a science. Too small and you couldn’t fit drums in. Too big, and it was hard to tame loud guitar amps. Double floating walls were great for isolation. The more acoustically sealed, the better.

Mitchell Cutler, one half of Century Done, a duo from Alabama, walked towards her, rubbing a hand over his face.

Cerys retrieved the keys to her office from her purse. “Did you guys end up pulling an all-nighter?”

“Sure did.” Mitchell’s perfect-for-country twang made her smile.

“How did it go?” Cerys asked, unlocking her office door.

Mitchell grinned and then yawned. “We got it. That’s the album done.”

Cerys whooped and clapped. “Amazing.”

“Yeah. It’s the best one yet. Your dad is amazing.”

“When it comes to music production, he certainly is.” She kept back that as a father he was lousy.

“So, what’s going on the board today?” He tipped his head towards the hallway opposite her broom cupboard of an office.

Cerys looked at the black board hanging on the wall. It used to tell bands which studio they were in, before technology replaced it with a monitor in the reception area. She’d commandeered it for motivational quotes.

“Whatever you do, always give one hundred percent, unless you’re donating blood. Bill Murray apparently said it.”

Mitchell laughed. “Love it. I think my favourite was minds are like parachutes, they only function when open.”

“That’s definitely a favourite. Listen, do you need me to call a cab for you or anything?”

Mitchell shook his head. “We’re good, thanks though. It was great to meet you, Cerys. Thanks for helping keep us organised while we were here. Oh, and for that tip on trying those octave intervals. I’ll keep practicing.”

As the sound of his cowboy boots faded, Cerys pulled out her laptop.

“Cerys,” her father said, resting a shoulder against the doorframe. Jimmy Bexter was still the handsome man he’d been when he’d met her mother, although silver now touched his temples and his beard. He wore jeans and a fitted shirt; clearly he still worked out.

“Hey, Jimmy. Mitchell said it was a good night.”

Jimmy glanced down the hallway. “It was decent. You could tell they were tired. They should have booked an extra week with us instead of rushing to get it done. I’ll put money on us changing the song order because his voice is so variable when he’s tired.”

“Are you headed home now for some rest?”

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