They could talk some other time.
Chapter 7
Quentin sat in front of the computer in the control room of his studio, tweaking a song he’d written after his last album. He knew it would never be shared with the world, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t for his audience. Probably most of the songs he’d written since his first solo album would never see the light of day—and he was fine with that. But at least once a week, he massaged several songs that had originally been meant for a second solo album. Why? He couldn’t say, but it brought him some comfort and normalcy while allowing him to practice his new profession.
While he tweaked this particular song, another perpetual work in progress, his mind took a trip down memory lane.
He’d been such a fucking hothead when he’d left Jokers Wilder almost ten years ago. In retrospect, he knew it wasn’t all the fault of Elijah, the frontman, even though the guy had been an egotistical asshole. Quentin had had plenty of ego himself back then. Still, it was probably better for everybody when Quentin jumped ship, even if he had done it in a shitty way.
But that solo album…why the fuck hadn’t Quentin listened to anyone? He’d been so goddamned cocksure of himself—much like what he saw glimpses of in Raine today. Back then, he told himself he knew what the fans wanted—and they’d bought the shit out of that album.
But then the reviews—not just from the critics—came out. How many critics had said his work was “lifeless perfection”? They didn’t always use those particular words, but he could still hear the message. Some critics were harsh and biting (calling the album a “testament to nothing”), while some were kinder and softer (“we expected more from this talented guitarist”), but they all called it soulless or said it was missing “something”—like a heartbeat. The precision, the technical work, they couldn’t deny its beauty. But it was, as Shakespeare had once said, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
And maybe he was a proverbial idiot.
But one critic’s review was louder than the rest of them…and he nailed it on the head. Quentin could remember almost every scathing word, but there were two things he would never be able to forget: “The more a person listens, the more they realize that the album as a whole is like a skeleton with no skin, no heart, no organs…nothing more than bones.” That cut like a knife but then the guy followed it up with a death blow: “Here’s hoping his next album revives the old Russo—or, perhaps, we’ll discover that it was only Elijah Wilder breathing life into his band after all and Russo had only been there for show.”
Even eight years later, that shit hurt. The wound was raw, but probably only because it was true. With his solo album, he’d slaved and mixed and replayed every track to create a masterpiece, something that felt like a testament to all his hard work as a musician—but the error had been that he’d kept every piece of truth inside himself. He hadn’t let his fans in, and that was something Elijah had done well, something Quentin could at least admit to himself nowadays. For a while, though, he’d blamed his failure on the drugs and alcohol, but today he knew it wasn’t that.
It was his fear of letting anyone in, of allowing anyone to see the mess inside.
Sure, with Jokers Wilder, it had been easy enough. Elijah wrote the lyrics and some of the music, but Quentin wrote plenty of licks himself. And, whether it was Elijah’s music or his, he was able to express every single emotion through his guitar. It was safe, because it wasn’t his pain or pleasure, so he could hide behind his guitar easily enough without fear of being seen for who he really was.
Writing words and music for his own band quickly showed him just how vulnerable he was. There was no more hiding—at least that was what he’d thought—but he’d quickly figured out he could play it safe without exposure.
And that was how he’d created an empty yet technically perfect album.
It was also why no one other than his hardcore fans bought it.
He wasn’t about to let Raine do that. It would be so easy to let her record what she’d already written. He knew he could polish it up so that it would sound good—and maybe the public would buy it.
But if he was going to work with her, they were going to do it right. They wouldn’t do what he’d done to himself. The problem was, if Raine now was anything like he’d been back then, she wouldn’t listen to a single word he had to say. Quentin had had people tell him vague things like “something’s not quite right” or “it’s missing…something” without being able to tell him the one thing he already knew and tried to ignore: he hadn’t been honest in any of that work, not the lyrics or even the music. It was the equivalent of a mannequin—it did the job, but it couldn’t talk or walk or laugh or cry.
No. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Raine do that to herself or her fans. In her short career, her two albums had pushed boundaries with the raw lyrics and music, with the openness of it. He hadn’t known that until he’d listened to both of them multiple times before she’d arrived. Words like “The scar on my thigh looks like a smile. It’s one I carved when I thought of you” gave him fucking chills. He’d also read reviews, and the public had gobbled her music up. Her lyrics told him that she’d lived a lot in life already, and, when she was younger, she hadn’t been afraid of letting the world in to view the ugly truth.
What had happened to change that?
More importantly…how could he coax that raw, honest, gritty part of her out of hiding?
He wasn’t sure, but he had an idea. Opening up a document on his computer, he watched the cursor blink over and over and over. Letting a slow breath of air out through his teeth, he forced his fingers onto the keyboard and watched what he wrote appear letter by letter on the screen: Write a lyric that is painfully honest. Just one line.
Maybe if she started small, they could work up to what he was asking.
He knew it would be hard…but how would his first album have been different if someone had asked him that? Instead of the generic, overarching advice from people Quentin hadn’t wanted to trust or listen to, if one person had taken the time to nurture, to make him do something like this…it might have changed everything.
Still, he knew it was going to be hard. As he pondered it more, he realized Raine was hiding something. Maybe it had to do with her meltdown on stage the week before. Whatever the case, it had her in retreat.
And he was asking her to strip down and expose it all for the world.
He wished he didn’t have to. A glimpse of Natalie flashed in his brain as his neck tightened and his eyes grew blurry.
Het let out another slow breath, realizing he wanted to protect Raine from having to do the painful work of making art out of her pain. But it had to be done.
Quentin blinked several times, removing his fingers from the keyboard as if it were hot. Where the hell was that coming from, that urge to protect this young woman he barely knew? Was it that, underneath it all, they seemed to have so much in common? Or was it because he felt like he knew a lot about her from her previous music, work that exposed her soul, felt painful and yet redeeming somehow?
That was what her fans loved about her…that she refused to look away from the ugliness of life. And, as much as he wanted to shelter her from having to do it again, he knew that would be the only way to make this album.
Otherwise, it would be nothing.
