Boone doesn’t like Cash’s verse, and after another listen, Cash agrees he can do it better and hops back into the booth.
They’re bickering about the remaster when I sneak another look at the score. If their arguing is good for anything, it’s as a distraction and a way to avoid Boone’s undivided attention. Checking hockey scores on a normal day in the studio would never fly.
Saints 4, Spurs 2. 5:00 left in 3rd.
Come on, Miles.
“—you think?”
I only catch the end of Boone’s question. “Sorry, what was that?”
He repeats himself. “The chorus—what do you think?”
“Can you play it again?” My lips tip up in what I hope is adon’t-be-annoyed-with-my-lack-of-focussmile. I mean, neither of them has room to talk at all.
My leg bounces as he replays it at least a dozen times, tweaking things on the boards each time. They all sound the same to me, and I tell him so.
“Yours suits the lyrics better,” Cash admits.
“Yours is catchier,” Boone mutters.
“So, what if…” Cash leans forward. “What if we start with your tempo in the verse, then pick up to mine in the chorus?”
Boone’s brows furrow. “That could work.”
I blink. Did they just… agree?
I slip my phone out again.
FINAL: Saints 5, Spurs 2
“Yes!” I jump out of my seat, fist pumping the air.
Both of them stare at me.
“Sorry.” I’m grinning so wide my face hurts. “The Saints won. They only need three more wins to make the playoffs.”
Cash returns my smile, but Boone spins back to the boards with a shake of his head.
Someone’s stomach growls loudly, and Boone scowls at Cash, as if the nutritional needs of his body are an annoyance. To be fair, his diet is pretty terrible. Coffee is his primary food group, from what I’ve seen.
“What?” Cash shrugs. “Can’t we get a lunch break around here?”
“Go.” Boone stands. “Be back in an hour.”
He disappears before either of us can respond.
Cash’s fingers swipe at his phone. “You hungry? There’s a diner about ten minutes from here. They make a mean burger.”
I hesitate. Miles packed me lunch this morning—like he does most days—and I look forward to the little notes he sneaks inside almost as much as the food
But this is the second time Cash has asked, and after turning him down the first time, I should probably say yes. We’re becoming friends, I think.
“Sure. Let me grab my coat.”
I slip on my lighter jacket, thankful that April has brought temperatures in the fifties with it.
Cash drives a blacked-out Range Rover that smells like expensive cologne and new leather. Country music plays low from the speakers.
